“You came out talking.”
I hold my breath against this metal world, this chewy phlegm and snot-dripping contraption, close tight my eyes against the green-gowned monster and think: “What the fuck! Deceiving womb!” Sweat and salty tears now on my cheeks — why is she crying? Narcissist. I was the one ripped into a rotting cell that tasted of — is that excrement? — birthed into man’s horrendous hall, his macabre theater of death and religion. And she’s crying? I scream. (Was that the “talking” you heard?)
*
Note:
Coming home from college for the first time, I told my mother what I’d learned in my philosophy class: “Your fifteen minutes of passion condemned me to death.”
Her response: “Sounds like your philosophy teacher needs to work on his stamina.”
Greg Beckman 