Liv Mammone
VENUS DE MILO ANSWERS A TUMBLR FEMINIST
Destroying historic buildings to make a few people happy is stupid. Period. ADA supporters are no better than the Taliban destroying the Buddha statues in Afghanistan.
—tumblr user on why she “hates” the Americans with Disabilities Act
Sweet child,
it’s not your fault.
The scope of your creation did not take as long
as the journey of a worm
up the small of my back.
I watched the slow crumble of my own pointer under such a quilt of dirt
that I can still speak in the syntax of spiders.
Centuries later, I am still fluent in aphid.
You have not yet lain so shattered
that things begin crawling in your eyelashes.
You know nothing of age.
Once I was righted,
I learned a new music in French
and composed in time with a sea I listened to but never saw.
My rescuers did the best with what they had.
You can’t know all the million ways one must be moved, the changes
we make on our migrations through the world;
just as I cannot know now
where my missing limbs are.
Or if I ever had them.
I live in a place made of stairs now.
These rooms called museum
are all belly and spinal column and all day
breathing people move like schools of fish. At night,
those of us that are whole take tours and talk
with others on different floors and those suspended on walls.
But, for me, balance is a memory.
The others speak of a moving room
that can lower one out into open air.
And I wish to stroll the bank of that river
my torso heard from inside her crate.
I wish to buy a shawl and drape it
over these shoulders that
unfinish so, as if they were a forgotten thought.
But heavy is the descent and my swaying step is leaden.
I cannot afford another broken nose, dear.
My beauty is all I have.
As a woman, you understand.
Little heart,
your respect for what has passed is commendable,
but stone feels no pain.
What is built is meant to change;
to crack and hollow out.
A room’s only wish is to hold
the echo of voices--
would you rob it of more?
Would you rob me of more gazes to meet;
of the chance to stare back at
bodies that mirror mine?
Destroying historic buildings to make a few people happy is stupid. Period. ADA supporters are no better than the Taliban destroying the Buddha statues in Afghanistan.
—tumblr user on why she “hates” the Americans with Disabilities Act
Sweet child,
it’s not your fault.
The scope of your creation did not take as long
as the journey of a worm
up the small of my back.
I watched the slow crumble of my own pointer under such a quilt of dirt
that I can still speak in the syntax of spiders.
Centuries later, I am still fluent in aphid.
You have not yet lain so shattered
that things begin crawling in your eyelashes.
You know nothing of age.
Once I was righted,
I learned a new music in French
and composed in time with a sea I listened to but never saw.
My rescuers did the best with what they had.
You can’t know all the million ways one must be moved, the changes
we make on our migrations through the world;
just as I cannot know now
where my missing limbs are.
Or if I ever had them.
I live in a place made of stairs now.
These rooms called museum
are all belly and spinal column and all day
breathing people move like schools of fish. At night,
those of us that are whole take tours and talk
with others on different floors and those suspended on walls.
But, for me, balance is a memory.
The others speak of a moving room
that can lower one out into open air.
And I wish to stroll the bank of that river
my torso heard from inside her crate.
I wish to buy a shawl and drape it
over these shoulders that
unfinish so, as if they were a forgotten thought.
But heavy is the descent and my swaying step is leaden.
I cannot afford another broken nose, dear.
My beauty is all I have.
As a woman, you understand.
Little heart,
your respect for what has passed is commendable,
but stone feels no pain.
What is built is meant to change;
to crack and hollow out.
A room’s only wish is to hold
the echo of voices--
would you rob it of more?
Would you rob me of more gazes to meet;
of the chance to stare back at
bodies that mirror mine?
ELEGY FOR JAMES DARMODY
from Boardwalk Empire
Atlantic City won’t sleep tonight, Jimmy. It heard the bullet ricochet in its gut.
You don’t know me but I am looking for you in the history books on my shelves
and in my sweat-slick fingerprints. You don’t know me
but tonight we have matching red veins in our eyes and I am looking for you
in the speakeasies and the basements of the synagogues. Jimmy,
your eyes still blue as gas flames. Modern blue. Machine blue.
Ocean filled with bourbon blue. Still shining shot glass mirrors.
The mud will not penetrate that gaze no matter where they weigh you down.
Ain’t America a dirty place, Jimmy? Isn’t it all just one huge trench we’re climbing over,
leaving our boot prints on one another’s cheeks?
Maybe you were right to leave but tonight the city by the sea won’t sleep.
Tonight the bear in your mad king father’s house will dance while your mother cradles her scream like a
sleeping infant; tonight the moose on the wall will moan; the falcon will beat the dust from its wings;
the leopard will unhinge its jaw and gash the waxed mahogany. Tonight
we are all out looking for you, dancing the razor edge of the American Dream. Did you ever miss and nick
your fingers, Jimmy? Are your hands used to cooling blood yet?
What will your murderers do with the knife in your boot? Whose fist will it fit now?
What will they do? Tonight I am sleepless, looking for you, looking to see if they’ll pour
any out on the floor for your memory in New York or Chicago--
Would they waste the hooch to toast you, Jimmy? Or would you not let them?
Will every blade in Philadelphia scrape together to say kaddish?
And the man that killed you, what will he do?
In the dark tonight he will hear the rain and, drink, and admit you were loved, Jimmy.
Tonight the fog over Jersey tastes of money, and cigarette smoke and your mouth.
Tonight every bottle you couldn’t push shatters on its own.
Tonight the bells at Princeton sing: To the lost! To the lost!
Tonight your brother’s false eye will crack open looking for its own tears.
Tonight I am out wandering America looking for you, Jimmy because Atlantic City won’t sleep until its
son comes home.
Tonight the city won’t sleep,
we won’t sleep,
I won’t sleep.
But I think you will.
from Boardwalk Empire
Atlantic City won’t sleep tonight, Jimmy. It heard the bullet ricochet in its gut.
You don’t know me but I am looking for you in the history books on my shelves
and in my sweat-slick fingerprints. You don’t know me
but tonight we have matching red veins in our eyes and I am looking for you
in the speakeasies and the basements of the synagogues. Jimmy,
your eyes still blue as gas flames. Modern blue. Machine blue.
Ocean filled with bourbon blue. Still shining shot glass mirrors.
The mud will not penetrate that gaze no matter where they weigh you down.
Ain’t America a dirty place, Jimmy? Isn’t it all just one huge trench we’re climbing over,
leaving our boot prints on one another’s cheeks?
Maybe you were right to leave but tonight the city by the sea won’t sleep.
Tonight the bear in your mad king father’s house will dance while your mother cradles her scream like a
sleeping infant; tonight the moose on the wall will moan; the falcon will beat the dust from its wings;
the leopard will unhinge its jaw and gash the waxed mahogany. Tonight
we are all out looking for you, dancing the razor edge of the American Dream. Did you ever miss and nick
your fingers, Jimmy? Are your hands used to cooling blood yet?
What will your murderers do with the knife in your boot? Whose fist will it fit now?
What will they do? Tonight I am sleepless, looking for you, looking to see if they’ll pour
any out on the floor for your memory in New York or Chicago--
Would they waste the hooch to toast you, Jimmy? Or would you not let them?
Will every blade in Philadelphia scrape together to say kaddish?
And the man that killed you, what will he do?
In the dark tonight he will hear the rain and, drink, and admit you were loved, Jimmy.
Tonight the fog over Jersey tastes of money, and cigarette smoke and your mouth.
Tonight every bottle you couldn’t push shatters on its own.
Tonight the bells at Princeton sing: To the lost! To the lost!
Tonight your brother’s false eye will crack open looking for its own tears.
Tonight I am out wandering America looking for you, Jimmy because Atlantic City won’t sleep until its
son comes home.
Tonight the city won’t sleep,
we won’t sleep,
I won’t sleep.
But I think you will.
THE GRAVEROBBER
from Repo! The Genetic Opera
His is a mouth stained in Faustian wine. Faux Smile like an iris wild--no, no more like nightshade. Purple flower blooms a bruise. Poisonous fruit no good for little girls. No little girls left in all the world the underworld all the girls here only bits of doll parts. There is no scent to them except plastic—which has replaced flesh-- maybe smell the blood if you’re lucky. No perfume here ‘cause every flower’s died so only plastic (Tick tick tick, you’re spiralin’ now. Here) let the Graverobber help you down. Let him set you aglow, set you flyin-like-a-stone high. Y’know the shade of the drug like the blue of his eye. His Zy will keep you coming back—so it’s okay if the first hit’s free. Soon the crook of his finger is all you need. Promises encased in glass held between fingernails painted black. He’s the back alley high priest bastard son showman ring master. The wanted one, the haunted one using crushed streetlights to dye the tangles in his hair. How did he get here? A city in constant apocalypse offers all its color to him—why? White painted face to forsake fear he was born here. Submarket puppeteer making doll part people dance listen to the clatter of their bones in his hand! But never mistake him for their end. The bodies that mortar this world are his kin. And as for the dead-still-walking he has what they need to feel alive—to keep the date with the knife. They slit their chests and sell designer hearts. They beg for his stuff, for his touch, for his gun.‘Cause his flesh is real and his scars are unsewn. And though he too is dying he feels every instant. He runs every instant. Screams in the graveyards and still gets away. He’s a black eyed myth as old as the earth he’s covered in dirt. Washed clean by the acid rain. He’s gets what’s his he’s got what’s yours he’s got your cure at the tip of the needle. So come on, come on, you’re wondering how. Your skin’s crawling now. He's comin', he's comin' you're spiraling now. Let The Graverobber help you down.
from Repo! The Genetic Opera
His is a mouth stained in Faustian wine. Faux Smile like an iris wild--no, no more like nightshade. Purple flower blooms a bruise. Poisonous fruit no good for little girls. No little girls left in all the world the underworld all the girls here only bits of doll parts. There is no scent to them except plastic—which has replaced flesh-- maybe smell the blood if you’re lucky. No perfume here ‘cause every flower’s died so only plastic (Tick tick tick, you’re spiralin’ now. Here) let the Graverobber help you down. Let him set you aglow, set you flyin-like-a-stone high. Y’know the shade of the drug like the blue of his eye. His Zy will keep you coming back—so it’s okay if the first hit’s free. Soon the crook of his finger is all you need. Promises encased in glass held between fingernails painted black. He’s the back alley high priest bastard son showman ring master. The wanted one, the haunted one using crushed streetlights to dye the tangles in his hair. How did he get here? A city in constant apocalypse offers all its color to him—why? White painted face to forsake fear he was born here. Submarket puppeteer making doll part people dance listen to the clatter of their bones in his hand! But never mistake him for their end. The bodies that mortar this world are his kin. And as for the dead-still-walking he has what they need to feel alive—to keep the date with the knife. They slit their chests and sell designer hearts. They beg for his stuff, for his touch, for his gun.‘Cause his flesh is real and his scars are unsewn. And though he too is dying he feels every instant. He runs every instant. Screams in the graveyards and still gets away. He’s a black eyed myth as old as the earth he’s covered in dirt. Washed clean by the acid rain. He’s gets what’s his he’s got what’s yours he’s got your cure at the tip of the needle. So come on, come on, you’re wondering how. Your skin’s crawling now. He's comin', he's comin' you're spiraling now. Let The Graverobber help you down.
ABOUT LIV MAMMONE: I am a bisexual, disabled poet who hopes to, one day, to be a novelist and media critic as I navigate these choppy post-MFA waters. I work as a publicist for Artists Without Walls; having previously worked as an editor for PineRock Productions and American Book and I've taught creative writing at Queens College and Hofstra University. Previously, my work has appeared in wordgathering, Wicked Banshee, and the Medical Journal of Australia. I live on Long Island with my parents, brother, geriatric dachshund, and family of cats, where I fangirl a lot.