*CURSE*

*CURSE*! you know, picasso's painting can be fixed. there are brilliant, dedicated, talented folks who have masterful techniques to restore paintings. but somehow it is thought that this is some sort of tragedy. really? why is this a *CURSE* news item? it's shocking, why? because the *CURSE* market deems the painting less valuable. because cause someone bought it for millions of dollars and now it can't be sold. the market *CURSE* devalues art by commodifying it in the first place.

*CURSE* those bumper stickers that declare "freedom isn't free". really? oh, okay. well it might surprise you that i agree. i do. freedom takes *CURSE* tax dollars. the freedom for you to drive that *CURSE* gas guzzler (with commercial plates), with gas at a reasonable $2.75 per gallon, on roads that traverse seemingly endlessly... is paid in part by my "sacrificing" a portion of my brilliant, dedicated, talented work to my country. *CURSE* your hypocrisy.

*CURSE* I'm slow writer.

jennifer

curse

Curse you for almost hitting my frickin car when I have the right of way. Curse you for tail-gating and almost running into my frickin car. Curse you for hitting my frickin car on the freeway at what must’ve been 60 miles an hour. Curse you for the slow-mo what-the-f-ness of getting rammed into and having no idea what the frick was going on for what seemed like minutes, while alone in the car on the freeway, with things flying from behind, glass breaking, doors jamming, air bags popping, horns blaring, sirens starting, traffic stopping, cars scattering like billiard balls. Curse you for making me a spectacle as I crawled out of what was left of my frickin car, hoping it wasn’t about to burst into flames. Curse you for making me borrow the cell phone of the driver of the vehicle immediately behind me, who was yelling hysterically about how she was hurt. Curse you for giving me whiplash. Curse you for killing my car. Curse you for the years of driving in the meantime during which I curse every driver that gets close to me. Curse you.

--Julie Carter

[curse]

Dark hair, native soil where the blood of slaves, the blood of ancestors mingles with the dirt. The blood of hanged men. The milk of mothers, of chicken's blood and red dust on the ground. What is it when a woman bleeds? I've bled once too many times, a conception ill-conceived, an idea half-formed, the fear is that I can't do it again. The fear is that I'm cursed. It's just who I am. Fuck.

That kind of curse.

The pain of being a woman, of always being on a cycle. Spinning. Blood as thick as thieves. The night came and you were stolen away from me. Quiet as cat's feet, clawing me from the inside. A stream, the hearse, another lullaby in verse. What could be worse? To endure this course, this curse of course. Where intercourse could mean divorce. Or devotion.

I'm stuck. Not stuck. I'm fluid. The fluid of ages, of women's wiseblood, the genetic manifestation of all those mothers and fathers. The being inside me who never became. Who was and who then wasn't. What was the agreement? Where do any of us ever start, or end?

[resolve]

A carpet cleaner, a New Year, a new clear spot. Fists balled, breath held, heavy sighs and the eyes close. All kinds of music, all kinds of love, all kinds of light and dark. The scripted voice on the radio, the natural voice of my son calling the balloon on the ceiling a cloud, enjoying the cadence.

I hear songs and stories of death. Songs and rhythms of life. Tide at my toes. Cold wind under my shirt. Cold wind in my lungs. Cold fingers and a Chinese satin shirt. These are the scenes from the first day. The lights get too hot. The polarities, the axis, it all dissolves when my eyes close. And reappears upon waking. Upon opening. Upon a spontaneous kiss from my son.

Weaving across the playground, waving his arms in an imaginary tunnel. Songs half sung. Traditional food. The tradition of coffee first thing. First things. A handstand at age two. Calling cartoons "raccoon." First trip to the ocean. First time on a horse. First music put together. First puzzle solved. First fright. A picture of a lion in a book. The death of a friend against the stark backdrop of my son's joy. My first forays into Real Life.

Even auspicious beginnings must come to an end.  Where is the deep contemplation, the somber reflection, the warm clear pool, the dimples and the bright blue eyes that can only be here for so long. Even the lotuses are dried up and gone this week. Out of this winter, out of 01 01 10, I resolve to resonate. I resolve to bloom. I resolve to sing a complete song, not just half-recalled verses and choruses. I resolve to teach and be taught. To write. To make it right. To love.