Even tonight and I need to take a walk and clear



my head about this poem about why I can’t



go out without changing my clothes my shoes



my body posture my gender identity my age



my status as a woman alone in the evening/



alone on the streets/alone not being the point/



the point being that I can’t do what I want



to do with my own body because I am the wrong



sex the wrong age the wrong skin and



suppose it was not here in the city but down on the beach/



or far into the woods and I wanted to go



there by myself thinking about God/or thinking



about children or thinking about the world/all of it



disclosed by the stars and the silence:



I could not go and I could not think and I could not



stay there



alone



as I need to be



alone because I can’t do what I want to do with my own



body and



who in the hell set things up



like this



and in France they say if the guy penetrates



but does not ejaculate then he did not rape me



and if after stabbing him if after screams if



after begging the bastard and if even after smashing



a hammer to his head if even after that if he



and his buddies fuck me after that



then I consented and there was



no rape because finally you understand finally



they fucked me over because I was wrong I was



wrong again to be me being me where I was/wrong



to be who I am



which is exactly like South Africa



penetrating into Namibia penetrating into



Angola and does that mean I mean how do you know if



Pretoria ejaculates what will the evidence look like the



proof of the monster jackboot ejaculation on Blackland



and if



after Namibia and if after Angola and if after Zimbabwe



and if after all of my kinsmen and women resist even to



self-immolation of the villages and if after that



we lose nevertheless what will the big boys say will they



claim my consent:



Do You Follow Me: We are the wrong people of



the wrong skin on the wrong continent and what



in the hell is everybody being reasonable about



and according to the Times this week



back in 1966 the C.I.A. decided that they had this problem



and the problem was a man named Nkrumah so they



killed him and before that it was Patrice Lumumba



and before that it was my father on the campus



of my Ivy League school and my father afraid



to walk into the cafeteria because he said he



was wrong the wrong age the wrong skin the wrong



gender identity and he was paying my tuition and



before that



it was my father saying I was wrong saying that



I should have been a boy because he wanted one/a



boy and that I should have been lighter skinned and



that I should have had straighter hair and that



I should not be so boy crazy but instead I should



just be one/a boy and before that



it was my mother pleading plastic surgery for



my nose and braces for my teeth and telling me



to let the books loose to let them loose in other



words



I am very familiar with the problems of the C.I.A.



and the problems of South Africa and the problems



of Exxon Corporation and the problems of white



America in general and the problems of the teachers



and the preachers and the F.B.I. and the social



workers and my particular Mom and Dad/I am very



familiar with the problems because the problems



turn out to be



me



I am the history of rape



I am the history of the rejection of who I am



I am the history of the terrorized incarceration of



myself



I am the history of battery assault and limitless



armies against whatever I want to do with my mind



and my body and my soul and



whether it’s about walking out at night



or whether it’s about the love that I feel or



whether it’s about the sanctity of my vagina or



the sanctity of my national boundaries



or the sanctity of my leaders or the sanctity



of each and every desire



that I know from my personal and idiosyncratic



and indisputably single and singular heart



I have been raped



be-



cause I have been wrong the wrong sex the wrong age



the wrong skin the wrong nose the wrong hair the



wrong need the wrong dream the wrong geographic



the wrong sartorial I



I have been the meaning of rape



I have been the problem everyone seeks to



eliminate by forced



penetration with or without the evidence of slime and/



but let this be unmistakable this poem



is not consent I do not consent



to my mother to my father to the teachers to



the F.B.I. to South Africa to Bedford-Stuy



to Park Avenue to American Airlines to the hardon



idlers on the corners to the sneaky creeps in



cars



I am not wrong: Wrong is not my name



My name is my own my own my own



and I can’t tell you who the hell set things up like this



but I can tell you that from now on my resistance



my simple and daily and nightly self-determination



may very well cost you your life





