Writing / Poetry / Performance Texts


Invoice #29, 2011

Sometimes other people are right about your health or your fears. When I woke up three days ago I had noticed a small incision at the bottom of my chin; almost as if something had come out in a vertical fashion. I stayed elated in my bed for a while thinking about the pain that continued to reside and the way in which my chin could have held or birthed something. I put my finger against it and could feel the incision transitioning backwards to connect within the space beneath my gums, through the connective tissue separating and forming a lip. When I got out of bed, I moved forward into the bathroom where I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair had not been this long since I was a teenager.

I inherited catastrophic behavior from my mother, and since a lot of my time is spent dealing with my face and having other gazes, I stepped coarsely off my errand schedule to address the disparity that I had forced upon myself. My feet clenched the rubber mat as I pushed through the rotating door. I caught a glance in the mirror– I was wearing a doubtfit, and forgot all my bobby pins at home. My nails had grown exponentially from the supplements I had began last week. When I dropped my arms into my black purse, I snagged my index finger against my pashmina scarf which shocked into a radiating zing, up through my bicep and into my neck. It almost felt as though the broken nail had directly linked to the nerves just beneath my chin. My tongue summersaulted forward to discover a metallic sensation. As I built awareness of the protrusions shifting their shapes and densities, an almost synchronized a graduation into frenetic posture slipped into my legs. I coughed to wake myself from the sensation and took a deep breath, walking briskly to the front desk of the Duane Reade.

“Excuse me, can I please get the key to the restroom?”

I began visualizing the Anicent Tibetan Medical Illustrations I had seen at The Museum of Natural History. The effort and precision placed into the line quality and color choices seemed increasingly easy to utilize as a method to understand my physicality and ailments. My eyes addressed my gaping mouth as my thumb and index finger stretched down my bottom lip, revealing irritation. It almost felt as though my chin was altering it’s shape, or developing a new bone beneath it’s centre. My mind illustrated the microbiological filth on my fingers. I walked outside silently with my mouth shut tight.

Right as it began to rain in the Floral District of Manhattan, I found a glass alcove in between an alley and two large metallic stairwells. I sat down with my journal and wrote a poem:

Tape it before it resents you

As if almost always she has done fair jobs of re-representing your femininity

Dawn on the other spaces that adhere you

Forge liberties in your birthright, the ridges of your bronzer and concealer

Push through foil, exclaimer ain’t back

I like you, but I don’t see past the virility you mistook for my personality

Next time the bees come to sting,

I can walk faster then any hatred that comes by my way

Next time the fire goes out

I’m walking away from that drawing like a forceps

Next time I get cerebral palsy

I won’t have a foreskin to berate the nihilist force of scandalous strategy

Videotape it before it resents you

It wont follow you to sleep without proper quotation

Before the Ha Ha mis-takes you for a iconoclastic mechanism

Show him your interpretations

Show him the tip of the chain that you broke

Carry a ginger knife with you for your insecurities, to site your resources when you have none

A woman’s face is painted by nature

But things just ain’t moving to heal the cruxes.

Ultimately, it’s a compelling reversal of accepted ideas.

I bought some vitamin water and realized my breasts had grown at least a full cup size since I last was in Walgreens. The eldest woman working there could hardly spot me while I reached to the top shelf in the Pharmaceutical Aisle. I slipped and a huge bottle of Robitussin fell and hit hard against my chin. I dismounted the milk-crate and my three fingertips dispersed a teaspoon of blood. My pacing increased intermittently when I answered my cell phone that night, still bleeding a little bit. It was Carolyn calling to read me my horoscope.

“Something inside of you is about to come out.”

The next morning I woke up with a partial penis. I laughed a little at first, undulating my hips slightly as I felt the skeletal abstractions of my pelvis. I had remembered this endearing thematic sensibility from the week before when I dreamt of becoming a man. In my dream, my parents had sold their $400,000 condo to open up a Guns and Ammunition store slightly north of the Hamptons. I wore a Realtree® Print Freakum dress with Gun-Metal Jeffery Campbell wedges. My hair had been pulled into six braids with the largest folding over my forehead. When I entered in the store, I walked in slow motion to the echoing of lens flares and a thin layer of fog that traced beneath me and behind me. The glass counter-top in the back of the blue florescent-lit store was the FOREVER 21 Section, or XXI® as it was bedazzled on the lucite case. I hopped atop and I remember feeling a slightly different genitalia as my mounting completed. People mistook my cheerful faciality, but my deeper motives seemed to persevere though my eyes. People could see my discovery through the way my eyelids fluttered. Someone shouted something about breaking down the back door. I took a deep breath as I glanced back at the wall beneath me, I woke up.

One week later I was healed. I pierced my ears at Claires on the way to the airport, and realized two of my make-up brushes had been stolen out of my bag when I was in Walgreens. I dry-swallowed a Kolonopin as I strained to pull out my old leather bag with my extensions in it. Tonight I am going to Miami to meet with the Kardashian sisters. Khloe will be collaborating with me on a piece called “BLOOD SISTERS”, a audio-visual diptych illustrating the caustic paralysis and masculine staggery of the E! Hollywood Entertainment Network.


LUMI is a girl group from the Nietzsche Foundation Program in Sinister Sisterhood, where all four of them were raised and fought against their parents until they were allowed to smoke in the house. Without speaking, LUMI desecrates the group and baptizes their godless hair colors, inviting the ghost of the Femme Sect Four to take over their bodies. When getting ready to go out, they construct a ready-made beam portrait from their psychic decoupage family tree and predict their own death that evening; to be hit by a car after taking a break from steroids. When the four bodies lay unconscious on the shore of Appropriation Village, they immediate dissolve into evidence, where they are then invited to omit their confessionals, and be seen by the public in a Grey Gallery, where nothing fits or feels right.

Paleontologist Gina has been recollecting the histories of gay philanthropy, giving herself the life decision to always wake up hungry. After surfacing amidst the top soil of the belated television production legacy OMOH, she retaliates her efforts to seminalize queer history, to focus on the biologically engendered body of Chartreuse, the first transgendered vigilante to employ the black street market into becoming an embassy of power. As Gina sets off an atomic drip from within her exquisite corpse study hall, she discovers an Illiteracy Artist Grant, rewarding her with enough money to focus herself into re-incarnating Chartreuse. Her amiable sensitivity in the radically violent skin of Chartreuse delineates her historical practice, disrupting the new-found power of The 7th Matriarchy and returns water flow to it’s original stasis of annihilation.

Kara Headroom is an alienated third-world generation phenotype photographer, taking superior advantage over ethnographic stimulants by excavating their downfall. Her recent obsession and video research annihilation is based around Diphus Bopsh, who has been the precursor to a sociological heir to the throne. Cara, her semi-addicted daughter inside her womb is seeking to find portrait time in the midst of her mothers efforts, be it through nutrition, neutrality, or stealing. Once Kara exploits the energy fields in which her nemesis is selling (via text message), Cara will inherit her own talk show and penalize both her mother and predecessors with an austere, patronizing tone of voice. For the first time in sixteen generations, daughters will control the world of mutilation.

Diphus Bopsh can’t listen anymore, and for the latest song of his Sahara Desert Opera, he emits sounds that are purely inbred from the lengths in which his biological history has began to degrade. From beneath his temperament of displeasure, he gilts the audience with a golden curse: a ruby. The ruby is not only the formulaic decision of his physical person-hood, but also the means in which he plans to kill himself, by swallowing it during his fanatic dreamboat venture into the Disallowance Rembrandt Society, which structures Diphus’ lifestyle in a post-apocalyptic way. Between the poor physiological disconnection between his emotional poverty and physical absurdity, he is about to be hospitalized, and simultaneously will be sentenced to devalue his own artistic, musical history.