Judy’s right; “This is just an act” is dangerous.
Rather, it denies a danger. “This is just
a blog,” less (and more) so. I am trying to reconcile
performativity and deception by wiggling my tongue
around in my mouth and watching my one dark eye pull
in and out of my chosen background: a stock photo
of roman ruins. “This is just a body.” If I work it just right
my throat is also a corinthian column, my acne washed out
scrubgrass, pixel of flower pixel of skin ad bounded infinitum.
Like a truffle hog, I thrust my head about in search of coincidence
and pleasure, finding better capital in the form
of fungi. My body comes like this now, not a thing
but its angles. I can’t name what I lack, but then
Aktionhose:genitalpanik comes to me, thank god,
by screen, while I curl in my skin, afraid again. This loneliness demands
better material, a landscape to walk by and through, swinging
its limbs into the cool night, its infinitely diminishing distances
and so I make one out of vision, spit, and a cursor blinking in each
pupil. The screen blowing out in haloes where I touch,
I put my hand to her hair her gun her pussy and wonder
what to wear. I close my eyes and see myself with clarity, as an endorsement
of your writing skills on linkedin; as a punnet of cherries floating
four feet above ground; as a flock of bodies in a Kurosawa, thudding
not screaming; as the last received text in my inbox, “I don’t know. Everything
is bad right now. Not tomorrow.”



Mattea Falk is an undergraduate Literature student at American University. She is completely over(-invested in) discussions of the self.