[if you marry your confession, you can live alone inside it. no priest behind the window. no wife or husband. the walls glitter with eyes and all of them are yours, a palimpsest of witness. how many does it take to see this through? the hardest confession i ever made was i don’t love you. i have confessed inside a car, velour under my thighs, windows up. i have confessed in a polished oak alcove. i’ve confessed on a couch ten minutes before slamming the door. once i confessed in a red vinyl booth, the paper napkin in my lap stained with vinegar. in bed. in arms. in handcuffs. it’s the state of being enclosed that compels you: like womb, like ring, like mausoleum. here to stay is a threat in one box, in another a promise. the lighting’s the same: from the ceiling, the future hangs to interrogate you. every confession unties a lie and says, begin. listen: the hardest confession i never made was i love you, and this is the one i live in. no wife or husband. to marry your confession, you don’t have to love it, but you’ll learn to.] …
Rochelle Hurt
[all my exes agree i’m too sensitive. inside i’m keeping track of slights on one long receipt, a diaristic indulgence. ask me your score and i’ll open my legs. vulnerability is in. Schneemann made this at thirty-six, which was my first question because i’m still unlearning that youth is worth for women. i wanted to measure myself against her flesh, and her stance invites it. to have a stance at all is to be called a cunt so why not serve yourself. all this focus on the body, these primitive techniques—it’s what they use against us: this video has been removed for violating YouTube’s Terms of Service. the American public is very sensitive. but certain films argue for their context. interpreted too literally, my body is my context. gender scores the surface. Schneemann called herself the cunt mascot on the men’s art team. her boyfriend took the pictures of this performance as she pulled the scroll from her vagina—why does this feel disappointing? sometimes i take my body off but then somebody puts it back on for me. holds out the sleeves so gentlemanly. we are fond of you. you are charming. in the pocket is my long receipt but i don’t whip it out immediately. my cunt is cluttered with problems i’d like you to see. ask me your score and i’ll sit on your face. see if you can find your name.] …
[as jumping from a plane. easier—a bridge. as tripping on a shoelace. as blinking your eyes. as breathing. as talking to ghosts. as dreaming. …
War with wood frame. War with original glass panes. War with a cupola. Custom warwork. War of lost deeds and cement crumbs. War with roots eating foundation. Two-story war in historic war district. Shabby chic war. War with wraparound porch. War you’ll just love. Guided war with warm cookies and business cards. It’s a dream war. So easy, the war does your bidding for you. But war’s interest fluctuates. How’s your warfolio? No problem: warclosure, what luck. Now it’s a war of your very own. A war to call home. War as piss post. War as security. Warheritance for your children, born and unborn. A war you can die in—all windows, no door. …
War as social formula. War spread through word of warmouth. Then it’s war on repeat: war one more time. War, come and hit me. War as pop litany. War under copyright. Room for war sampling. Everyone loves that familiar warbeat: I know all the words to this war. War worm squirms in the ear, infectious. Can you name that tune—anything but fear. It’s just a war, baby. A very very good war. This war’s off the charts. Check Google: What’s my war rating? Bad news: war’s played out. Now war’s a bore. So take a commercial break, then back to more. …