Pretty girls on the street remind me of you: the way you walk, hips-swaying, the way you stand, bored and waiting. Nowhere in sight and everywhere I look, you’re a gesture, a phrase, a blur at the edge of my nearsighted vision. Sometimes, I’m afraid to blink until I do, and then it’s you— your body beneath mine, your fingers inside me. I watch you come, and then you go. I’ve mapped whole lifetimes on your bare, immodest back, and not once, have I asked you to look at my face. The seconds tick, tick, ticking by, a half-hour, nonth months, or maybe ten minutes— you wear time like a second skin, like the layer of flesh where I begin and end, my hands, searching that soft tableau, the firm muscles beneath, for evidence of what you haven’t said: That I am a vital organ, that the thumping beat of me inside your chest is a universal echo, the come lately sound of some primordial pulse. Forget about walking or running away. I will always be the one left, grieving and useless. I will always be the one left-- a remnant of you. All rights reserved by Ami Mattison

Why you always staring at me? Wide-eyed and stupid, like I’m the freak. All up in face, asking whack questions— like, what’s your race? What do you do? What are you?— like it’s some kind of cop show, and I’m the whore, pimping me for info behind closed doors. Or out on the street some kid’s calling me names: Lesbian! Lesbian! I’m like, shit, kid, where I come from that’s downright polite. I’m a dyke, you asshole, get it right. Or I’m in an office with a questionnaire, drawing a tiny ‘x’ in a tiny, tiny square ‘cause in this capitalist scene, you need a gender, name, and age for the privilege of earning minimum wage. Is it a boy? Is it a girl? Is it black? Is it white? I’m the lack in you imagination that just can’t quite comprehend the difference you see or don’t, which is the reason why you won’t look at me. Look at me. I’m not a freak. I’m just another body orbiting this utterly bleak planet we share where half the population is obsessed with hair, where skin and its colors are grounds for wars, where religions hate cunts, faggots, and whores, where men justify revenge and violence, while women sit by in approval and silence. Well, listen up. Come nearer. I am not your fucking mirror. I’m not the white bone fragments of your middle class guilt. I’m not heir to the evil kingdom that Satan’s built. I’m not some cryptic code for you to break. I’m not another dollar for you make. I’m flesh, blood, muscle and bone. I’m a clenched jaw and lethal mind that’s razor-sharp honed I’m space and movement and the need to breathe. And I’m holding, holding on by the skin of my teeth. So I know what you’re thinking when you’re looking at me. Just beneath that polished smile is hostility. But that’s okay, I can roll with that ‘cause, really--no, really--I’m not here for you to look at. All rights reserved by Ami Mattison

She got metal at her fingertips and sound bytes in her ears. She got talk shows on her TV and rats’ nests in her hair. She got a fat, lumpy body and skinny bones too. She says she don’t take shit but credit will do She runs with wild animals in packs at night She gets drunk on cheap beer, big breasts and moonlight She’ll hump your leg, bite your lips, and suck your cock too She’s your worst nightmare; she’s the me of you. The me of you don’t’ say no. The me of you say “go, go, go.” The me of you, do you feel the pain? The me of you, pumping hard through your vein. Hot, wet salt in an open wound, blinding sun on a desert tomb, She’s mean and spinning like earth’s rotation. A Sinner, she’s doomed to eternal damnation. She cheats and lies and steals from old ladies. She’s selfish, and smart, and ain’t birthin’ no babies. She’ll kick your ass, leave you and laugh at you too. She’s the slasher in every gore flick, she’s the me of you. The me of you say “gimme gimme gimme.” The me of you say “show something, thrill me.” The me of you, do you feel the pain? The me of you, coming down like acid rain. She’ll sidle beside you and ignore your intro. She’ll chide and deride you and then you’ll know. She’s a permanent fixture in your master plan. She’s a strange and potent mixture, half-bitch and half-man. She’s an itch you just can’t scratch. She’s the lotto you just can’t match. She’s the error you can’t undo. She’s an accidental trigger; she’s the me of you. The me of you say “Take me, take me.” The me of you say “come on, baby, make me.” The me of you, do you feel the pain? The me of you, you can’t flush it down the drain. You can’t escape her. Don’t even try. Shut up, stop crying, and enjoy the ride. There’s no use in fighting. She’s insane crazy glue. Do you feel her inside you? She’s the me of you. The me of you, she’s a knife to your neck. The me of you, she’s a mile-long train wreck. The me of you, do you feel the pain? The me of you, she’s a gun upside your brain? The me of you, do you see her coming? The me of you, do you feel her coming? The me of you, uh uh The me of you, uh uh uh The me of you, uh uh uh uh uh All rights reserved by Ami Mattison

Girl, you got my heart pounding, You got my mind rounding the corner like a fast car burning asphalt, tires squealing, peeling the road You got the top down, and the wind is blowin’. Girl, you got me flowin’ like the music on the radio. You’re driving real fast, the way I like it, and I must be psychic ‘cause the moment we connect I think: we’re gonna wreck. Girl, I think it’s critical like a serious condition of the heart ‘cause you’re a vital part of my recovery, and suddenly girl, its an emergency! I’m strapped down and moving steady towards the light. You’re on top of me, straddling my hips. You’re pumping, hitting, thumping, spitting telling me I gotta live. I close my eyes, and hope I make it. Nope, you can’t save it. Girl, you might as well take it. I’m history. But then, you’re kissing me, nice and slow, and I’m drinking-in your warm flow, and as my heart beats twice in a row and my lungs breath and grow, I think: Girl, my need for you will never end ‘cause I’m gonna ride again in your fast car. All rights reserved by Ami Mattison

One people’s dream is another’s devastation. One people’s dream is another’s devastation. I woke up this morning, grieving a nation, powerless to prevent its destination towards war. I woke up this morning to American destruction, to military violence and the political construction of peace through war. Imagine this: The US declares war against Iraq, and I board a plane for Philadelphia. The US launches missiles through the Iraqi night sky, and I fly to Philadelphia Philadelphia, the birthplace of a dream of freedom and democracy. Philadelphia, the womb of a dream of excess and hypocrisy. I’m more likely to be raped in the streets of Philadelphia than I am to be physically injured or killed in war. In America, in North America, I’m more likely to be hit in the head with a baseball bat for being queer , and colored, and a girl than I am to experience weapons of mass destruction raining hellfire down on my city, on my home, on the topical landscape of who I am. In America, in North America, it’s theoretically possible, but statistically improbable that I will ever be forced to escape the scene of military combat, forced to abandon my home with less than a day’s supply of food, to traverse difficult and dangerous terrain, across deserts and mountains, going god knows where, hoping god know who will help me. In America, in North America I’m more likely to be forced from my home by my family and my friends, abandoned by those who say they love me the most because I’ve dared to assert control over who I am, over my own personal survival. In America, in North America I’m more likely to kill myself in self-hatred, hopelessness or grief than I am to die as a casualty in a war between nations. This is my oppression, and this is my privilege. This is my oppression, and this is my privilege. I woke up this morning with my hands tied, eyes wide open to the continental divide down the center of me. I woke up this morning in the haze of a dream that evolved into a cut-throat scream: I am American! Forgive me if I feel no patriotism. Forgive me, I’ve forgotten the words to The Pledge. Forgive me if I respond with radicalism. Forgive me, I stand too close to this edge. Below me, a Starbucks and cars on one side, blown ruins and death on the other. Above me, fireworks, like the fourth of July, a rocket- and missile-lit cover: My own private heaven and another’s hell. This capitalist, white supremacist, woman-hating, queer-baiting, poverty-making society worships a christian god in false, puritanical piety, and equates freedom with war, barters democracy like a whore going down on the gun of global domination, giving head for the rise of a single nation. One nation’s dream is another’s devastation. One nation’s dream is another’s devastation. I could never love this dream enough, and all I wanna do is wake up. Wake up. All rights reserved by Ami Mattison

One dollar. Two dollars. Three dollars. Four dollars. Five billion dollars. Welcome. Welcome to the dream. Welcome. Welcome to the scheme of remote, corporate control— where global domination is the goal, where reality’s on TV, where banality’s cheap but not free. Intellectuality is short on demand, and capitalist fallacies rule the land. Where the rich just get richer, where the poor are just out of luck, where free enterprise colors the picture, you could buy a house or you could buy a fuck. It’s my world because I bought it. It’s my world, and I like this way. It’s my world ‘cause I’m a greedy bloodsucker. It’s my world ‘cause I’m the one who gets paid. Money flutters when I walk by. Money’s made at my command. Money appears at the snap of my fingers through the cheap labor you supply and I demand. I sell war, so you can drive your big-ass cars and your SUVs, for more oil and cheaper gas prices, for freedom and democracy. I build bombs, so you can enjoy a life free of terroristic threats. And if you buy that lie, then I got some cheap land, and I’ll throw in a free corvette. But don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. Don’t hate me because I’m rich. Don’t hate me because I’m smarter than you. Don’t hate me. Just be my bitch. So, I’ve got five houses with a paradise view. So, I don’t deserve my fame. So, I make the rules, and then I break them. Don’t hate the player. Hate the game. Tell me, what’s the cost of your blood? How low’s the price tag on your soul? I’ll buy you at fair market value, pay a dollar an hour ‘til you grow old. ‘Cause you know you gotta buy more things, and stock up on some DVDs, pay the rent and the bills and then blow it, so you can eat more meat at Mickey D’s. Or you can lose it to a dime-and-nickel trickle or buy tickets for the lottery. Just consume the capitalist promise of freedom through upward mobility. You don’t need it, but you want it. You don’t need it, so buy it today. You don’t need it, but you want it. It’s the great American way. And I bet you’ve worked hard. I bet you’ve earned it. You deserve all the money that you make. Because you work hard, because you’ve earned it, you deserve the right to be enslaved. And why change it? Why fight it when it’s oh-so-comfortable this way? Why shift it? Why resist it when there’s so much money to be made? I like the way you think. I dig your attitude. Without you, I’d have no power. I like your logic. I dig your mental groove ‘cause sheep are so easy to devour. So fill up. Consume. Fill the void and placate the urge. Shop and buy until you die. Salvation’s cheap. So gorge and purge. And bow down to your master. Bow down to the one you adore. Bow down to your master. Bow down like a two-dollar whore. And bow down to your boss. Bow down to the one you want to be. Bow down to the almighty dollar. Bow down to your economic need. Bow down and shut up, and work your fingers to the bone. Bow down and shut up, And leave the system alone. Bow down and shut up, and work your fingers to the bone Bow down and shut up. All rights reserved by Ami Mattison

Some people call me crazy and they sneer with such derision But it’s just because they’re jealous of my x-ray vision ‘cause I see ‘em when they lie and when they cheat and when they steal from the mouths of little babies just to cut another deal so they can buy another home, vacation in Hawaii where they stole the lands from natives who resist and fight the mighty whitey violence and the Haole need for greed more power to my people, take the land and take the lead. And bigots don’t believe me when I brag that I can tell With my super sensor nose the stanky odor of their smell Like rotten eggs and bacon in a frying pan from hell Their prejudice is poison and it forces me to yell With my awesome iron lungs about their racist sexist ways How homophobic view reflects their smallness and conveys That they would kill us in a second, they’d rather see us dead More power to my people, watch your back and watch your head And I hope that you believe me when I tell you I can leap In a single mile-long jump over the massive corporate heap Of global scams and red tape waste and the lie of capitalism That supports the rich folk welfare and the government classism So that single moms and children bear the brunt of the blame For the tax payers’ burden and the poverty it claims When the rich hardly work and make a billion trillion bucks More power to my people, take the money from those fucks Did I mention that I’m strong, I’ve got super human strength To endure this oppression I would go to any length but I don’t believe in violence and injustice rolls with time so I fight it with my rhythm and my super awesome rhyme A single look from me and haters run the other way But they can’t escape the fury of my heated words that say you’re mean, you’re greedy, you’re the problem not solution More power to my people, we say start the revolution More power to my people, we say anger’s a solution More power to my people, we say no faith’s a delusion More power to my people we say art’s an evolution More power to my people we say join the revolution All rights reserved by Ami Mattison

Poetry for the people in the house. I say, poetry for the people in the house. One more time: Poetry for the people in the house The problem they say is gonna stay, stay right here between you and me, the common scheme between human breed and greed, a people separate and divided where justice is united with disbelief where freedom is a misbelief, an impossible oddity and consumer commodity, and its gonna stay, they say, unchanging between you and me. Well, I beg to disagree with a historical reality that views all of you and all of me through the death-lens of banality for a determining finality of no justice and no peace ever. And the people say “Peace and justice and liberty!” My people want peace and justice and liberty. Make no mistake, we don’t breath the same air; our similarities are rare. We don’t cough the same crud, our veins don’t pump the same blood. Our arms move different sinews, and I don’t even know you. But I feel your breathing, I sense your seething, I hear your meanings, I move with your leanings. And I speak of a passion that has no end, no rations that runs wide and furrows deep to awaken the animal from its primal sleep, like a poetry for the people who dream uncommon dreams like the voices of a people who speak a cacophony against the social means through which some of us are made precious while others don’t survive upon the fertile soil made grounds for violence where power is built upon our lies. We take half-measured steps. We approximate what we can, but belief is the revolution. We are the people, you and me. We are the power, behind the beat. We devise the destruction. We create the construction. We generate the deduction. We can imagine and make happen the production of peace, and justice and liberty for the people, peace and justice and liberty for my people, peace and justice and liberty for all people. I’m neither stupid nor naïve, but I most certainly do believe in the sweat and guts of people who aspire to achieve and assert their right to conceive of precisely what is unchanging between you and me: the universal pulse between word and deed, the common vein of human need, for belief and believing in the live birth of rhythm, sound and meaning the squalling noise of our being. It’s the poetry of the people in the house Do you feel it now? It’s the poetry of my people in the house Do you hear it now? It’s the poetry of all people in the house I’ll speak it louder now More poetry for the people in the house More poetry for the people in the house More poetry for the people in the house All rights reserved by Ami Mattison