As the Silence is Exhumed

i am preparing a workshop on class. i am writing an article on queer radicalism. i am changing apartments. i am riding the bus. and then...and then his phone call never comes, and then a bill arrives, and then there is laughter laced with violence from the back of the bus. i choke on my words. the agenda evaporates. there isn't enough money, enoug time, enough confidence, enough strength to defend my dignity. there is little between me and oblivion except the histories of survival and transformation that i remember; my prayers against disappearing. i continue living, "metabolizing hatred like bread," my suffering fine tuned to reveal the aspects of the world i must change. who has words for it?

what can i say about class? about gender and the law of value? the dark nonconformity of my body shudders before the page. for every word i write there is an invader's voice in me that says that my word must be erased and that i too must be--inevitably will be--undone in my attempt to speak.

i clutch my version of Sister Outsider like a talisman and perform another exorcism. the voice that negates me retreats into silence. the lease, the threat, the humiliation, and the inadequacy of my wages do not change. they do not go anywhere.

what can i tell you about the homoerotic and the law of accumulation without unhinging my mind? nothing at all. i risk losing everything in telling you. and in order to be told what i know you too must risk everything.