Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Elizabeth Hassler: as depression is a breakfastfood,


as depression is a breakfastfood,
ee cummings doesn't scan correctly.
sometimes she chokes
---not like christy brown;
more figuratively.
shit. citing grammar rebels and spastic poets
will send tremors through her body
of work.
hypomania for lunch, on weekdays,
and she has only recently stopped reading other
people's suicide notes
for de(s)sert. lately
she eats cake instead.
boundaries
have new texture
on her teeth, but
even amidst all this self-discovery
she is still a really real depressed person
(goddammit).
other unfortunate facts:
she didn't draw herself
childhood trauma
in art therapy.
she eats really real depression,
or sometimes cereal,
for breakfast.
isn't cereal tragic
when a spastic eats it? they
choke, you know.
a graphic on the internet told her
she has four of the ten
impairments
commonly associated with cerebral palsy
---that makes her real,
yes? really
medicalized. real and really
to be fixed.
the next day,
a declaration of rights
listed bipolar as cognitive impairment:
the whims of statistics, and
that makes her unreal.
people don't listen
unless she uses big words,
people use "brilliance"
as a bargaining chip,
so she eats the dictionary
at all square meals. she wants words
that don't exist.
she wants intimacies
unspoken. when she wants
to die, which is a sharp want
nestled among her desires some hours
(it signifies
a gap in her meals: sometimes
for months without a plan),
it isn't because
she's a crippled girl.
also, it isn't because she hates her depression
or thinks life is pain---body
aches and misfired nerves
mean more to her about aliveness
than desperation
---or is really going to kill herself
in actuality (she's not,
like, impulsive,
and even if her
inertia wasn't generally productive of stasis she has promised
to Live For The Cause).
she should probably
eat lamotrigine with breakfast
now, and again.
she's writing this
to clean up breakfast dishes.
she wants the kind of life
not predicated on awareness:
can you see her?
is it safe?
can you hold her here?
queerness is the safe place
for her body, her spasming skins.
when i say that i attempt
these love letters to her body,
i mean the verse-writing
form that wanted to die today
after breakfast and needs to live
just so long and long enough.
                      --Elizabeth Hassler

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