"My girlfriend visits Naples.
Every bus ride, she's shaken down for money.
Men rub against her beautiful thighs.
And if she turns away for five minutes, her bags are gone.
This bullshit kills me.
These fucking Italians think they can get away with murder.
This is how terrifying people can
start to sound when things become personal.
Crossing the street is another nightmare.
Traffic never stops.
You take your life in your hands.
In the south, they'll kill for a pomegranate."
Apologies to all the Italians in the audience,
among them my friends.
This one is set in Northern California
where I was a student.
"Was my best self the painter of my youth?
A pretty lousy untrained sensibility.
A couple dozen naked figures materialized
in the rainforests of Northern California in an upstairs room.
What's-her-name and what's-her-name posing
for free.
I wasn't a good person.
I cheated on my boyfriend.
I lied to my parents saying I was married.
I loved someone who was herself married.
Minor offenses of the bourgeoisie.
I skipped school, I grew pot.
It rained and rained.
It was unbelievable to fell the precious Redwood
to live in a Redwood house.