in their fucking faces, we are the women they have made
scream when they choose, when they like it; do you like it
now? We’re all the same, cunt is cunt is cunt, w e’re facsimiles
o f the ones they done it to, or we are the ones they done it to,
and I can’t tell him from him from him; we set fires, to their
stores, to them when they come outside from the Roman
circuses, inside they are set on fire metaphorically, the pimp
uses the woman to make them burn, she’s torn to pieces and
they get hot, outside we introduce the literal; burn, darling,
using girls is hot; we smash bums and we are ready for Mr.
Wall Street who will follow any piece o f ass down any dark
street; now he’s got a problem; it is very important for women
to kill men. We surge through the sex dungeons where our
kind are kept, the butcher shops where our kind are sold; we
break them loose; Am nesty International will not help us, the
United Nations will not help us, the World Court will not
help us; so at night, ghosts, we convene; to spread justice,
which stands in for law, which has always been merciless,
which is, by its nature, cruel. T hey don’t stop themselves, do
they? T hey get scared, even the bouncers at the rape em poriums, it’s inspiring, they ain’t used to mobs o f girls who surge and kick and smash; let alone that we are almost ethereal, so
ghostly, so frail and fucked out, near to death. Y ou see one o f
the big ones afraid and it will inspire you for a thousand years.
A girl alone or any mass o f girls; kicking, pushing, shoving;
you can tear their prisons down where they keep women
caged in; you must, mustn’t you? I have spent some years
searching for words, writing, wanting to write, and I have
spent some years now, writing a plan, a map with words, a
drawing with songs, a geography o f us here, them there, with
lyrics for how to move, us through them, us over them, us
past them; I published the military plan in haiku— Listen/
Huey killed/M e too— and it was widely understood; among
the raped; who do not exist; except in my mind; because they
are not proven to exist; and it is not proven to happen; but still;
we convene. I map out a plan, which I communicate through
gesture, graphs and charts and poems and a dance I do alone
after dark; a stark and violent dance; on his face; the raped will
hear me. They don’t stop themselves, do they? I enunciate a
fundamental political principle; I write it down, in secret; I
enunciate a plan; Stop them. I have looked for words. I have
read books. I have tried to say some simple things that
happened, with borrowed words, or old words, with sad
words, words tacked together shamefully without art. I have
sobbed for wanting words; because o f wanting to say the
simplest things; what he did and what it was, or what it was
like, as if it would matter if it could be said, or said right; I have
sobbed to him saying stop; I have begged person-to-person;
stop. Walt was a poet o f abundance; he had a surfeit o f words;
