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s$
$ .d""b. .d""b. HOE E'ZINE #1002
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$ $ $ $ $ss$ "Red"
$ $ $ $ $ or, a response to AIDS' "Random Thoughts on HOE"
$ $ $ $ $ $ by Rhea [1/22/00]
[-- $ $ $ $ $ $ -- ------------------------------------------- --]
$ $ "TssT" "TssT"
once upon a time there was a generic beginning that smelled like stale
gingerbread houses and rotting bean stalks and once upon a time I stood
up and stretched my legs and realized there was nothing beneath me! But
it was ok!
But it wasn't ok, AIDS, because once upon a different time I read, "The
Disney technique of turning an entertainment success into an effective
tool for marketing consumer goods was not an isolated event." I laughed;
I cried; I sighed; I said, "Oh, why do 'cry' and 'sigh' have to rhyme!"
and I stood up and stretched my legs and said,
"HEY AIDS!
You shall not press down upon the brow of female attempts to write this
crown of thorns;
You shall not crucify womankind upon a cross of RED!"
Many other entertainers and producers took note and did the same.
Then you were banging your shoe,
Saying, "We will bury you!"
But we knew, we knew.
But Kruschev's dead! There's nothing left in his head, not even red.
We knew, we knew!
So I stood up and stretched my legs and said,
"Why, I do believe I'd rather be dead than red.
Yes I can't help feeling that I'd rather be dead
Than red."
And then I don't know how it happened; it just boiled up inside me;
and soon I started chanting, although it terrified me,
but I knew, I knew, that I'd
Rather be dead than red!
Rather be dead than red!
Rather be dead than
Rather be dead than
Rather be dead than
Rather be dead
Rather be dead
Rather be
Rather be
Rather be
RATHER BE DEAD THAN RED, AIDS!
And of course I want to be loved -- every doe does! But at what price?
What will I pay to pay attention to the tension of L O V E
-- that essential melange of the desire to reproduce (sexsexsexsexsexsexsex
sexsexsexsexsexsexsexsexsexsexsexsexsex) and boredom and wistful
inhalations of the stale perfume of red, red roses (singing, "Red, the
blood of angry men.") and other silly romantic fancies and the other day,
AIDS, yes, the other day I was in a restaurant and a black man who worked
there came to the table, saw my empty glass, and said, "Do you want a
refill?" And I nodded, of course, and he said, "Diet Coke?" And I nodded,
but how did he know it was Diet Coke? I couldn't understand it. It was
like he had SEEN INTO MY SOUL and oh oh oh I wanted to have a wild,
passionate affair with him, a wild passionate affair over the empty grave
of the dead white male!!!!!!!!!!!!! But first I knew I had to take up
free form poetry and then, of course, the world flashed red and oh I
knew, I knew that I wasn't pretty enough! The world wasn't nice enough!
No one liked me enough!
(And the days are not full enough,
And the nights are not full enough,
And life slips by like a field mouse,
not shaking the grass.)
And I wasn't happy enough! And I wasn't fulfilled enough! And I was not
rich enough! And I was not loved enough! Oh, pity me! Pity me! Pity
me, cloudy night skies that half-cover the pale lonely moon because no
one will ever say to me, "It is the east, and Rhea is the sun!" because
we all know Rhea is a moon -- one of Saturn's moon, no less, and we all
know what happened to Saturn and oh, pity me! PITY ME!
I was driving today, and when the stop light turned red I stopped, of
course. Stop lights are complete and blissful order; I always know that
the chaos in humanity can be controlled when stop lights regulate the
traffic so effortlessly, blinking red and green without a blink.
Buy me a Mickey Mouse watch! Buy me a Little Mermaid T-Shirt! Buy me a
Pocahontas lunch box!
Red like the second hand on the clock. Always ticking, ticking my life
away and YOURS TOO AND KRUSCHEV'S TOO and Ezra Pound's too and William
Jennings Bryan's too, despite his Fundamentalist views, and what will
happen to me when the stop light stops? Red like eyes too long awake,
red like sexsexsexsexsexsexsexsexsexsexsexsexsexsexsexsexsexsexsexsex,
red like the A+ on a paper well-written, red like wine, red like the
ribbons they give us to wear to mourn the deaths caused by AIDS,
and oh, if I could write, I would be so happy, but because I can't,
please.
pity me.
there is no passion here.
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[ (c) HOE E'ZINE -- http://www.hoe.nu HOE #1002, BY RHEA - 01/22/00 ]