So I've been doing--
I've been writing a poem for--
oh, this is a--
I don't want to think about how long it
is-- since 2006, since the invasion of Baghdad--
the third anniversary of the invasion of Baghdad.
And-- because I just don't want to be yet another American who
forgets we're at war.
I want to be reminded every day.
So I get up--
I stopped cutting my hair on that morning.
And when I made this decision to have something to remind me--
I have two cousins serving in Afghanistan currently.
It's very complicated for a lot of reasons, but--
so look at the latest body counts.
I include the drone attacks that are unbelievable that
are going on all across--
I don't need to tell you.
I know you know this, but--
so I look at the latest body count
and I measure my hair by inches for war dead.
And this poem is--
it's between 1,800 and 1,900 pages now.
And it just is horrifying.
I hate it.
And so it makes you crazy, though,
because you're working on this for years and it's horrible
and you hate it and you just hate your hair
and you want-- you have dreams about your hair catching fire
and it's like you just let it burn.
You know?
It just feels good, just burns into your head.
You just don't care in the dream.
And why not?
That's your hair and your dream.
But anyway, it's disturbing.
And I have begun to do quite a few--
My new book that's coming out in September
is called Ecodeviance: (soma)tics
for the Future Wilderness and this
is the first poem in the new book.
And I'm just going to read it.
I had been engaging with the public to write the poems now.
So, yeah.
So this is called "MIA Escalator" for Jen Benka
and Carol Mirakove.
"I rode several of my favorite escalators
in Philadelphia, taking notes up and down the vantages.
At the top and bottom of the ride I would show photographs
of myself to strangers and ask, 'excuse me,
have you seen this person?'
Sometimes there was confusion, 'isn't that you?'
I would reply, 'No, many people think I look like her,
but have you seen her?'
I feel very fortunate to have been born before the ultrasound
machine.
My generation was the last generation
to have a male and female name waiting
at the other end of the birth canal.
My generation is the last to have
our mothers touch their bellies talking
to us as male and female.
Pink or blue?
Both pink and blue, 'have you seen this person?'
I enjoyed my conversations with strangers
and made at least one new friend,
a handsome man who knew I was the person in the photograph.
That person, I am that person and agreed.
The ultrasound machine gives the parents
the ability to talk to the unborn by their gender,
taking the intersexed nine-month conversation away
from the child.
The opportunities limit us in our new world.
Encourage parents to not know, encourage
parents to allow anticipation on either end.
Escalators are a nice ride, slowly rising and falling,
writing while riding, notes for the poem,
meeting new people at either end, 'excuse me, excuse me?'
My escalator notes became a poem."