Wendy-O Matik: California Poets Part 7, Four Poems
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Wendy O-Matik
July 1st, 2024
California Poets: Part VII
Wendy-O Matik
Four Poems
The Clueless Ones
Cows circle in open fields,
conspiring about what to do to support the ecosystem.
Seagulls perch on steep rocky cliffs,
strategizing for the revolution.
Aphids congregate on the underside of crisp, green dino kale,
imagining their role in the uprising.
Salamanders settle onto sun-baked rocks,
educating their young on the importance of sustainability.
200-year-old elder blowfish meet with coral reef
in the warm waters of the Indian Ocean
and babble on incessantly,
brainstorming creative ways to save their shared habitat.
External parasites join forces with gorillas
under darkened forest canopies of western Africa,
debating tactics and procedural details, and
plotting ways to conserve and redistribute resources fairly.
Giant river otters of South America
network with crabs, shellfish, crayfish, frogs, and rodents,
scheming to rescue endangered species and cleaning up their waterways.
Mass migratory species stave off hibernation
in order to prepare for the impending global crisis,
while helping other more vulnerable animals along the way.
In the quiet early morning hours,
you can hear a frolicking chorus of crickets and cicadas
buzzing in a universal non-human language saying,
“All for one, and one for all,” as if they too had been read
The Three Musketeers in their youth.
There is an intuitive sense among them all
That no one is to be left behind.
Only humans
graze absentmindedly
or prefer to stand in line
for the latest sale at Wal-Mart,
with little regard or interest or worry
in saving themselves or the planet
from the inevitable onslaught
of injustice
intolerance
and predictable extinction.
White Wash
While sleep escapes her,
she lists her confessions.
I was conceived in part because of race
this was 1966
I was delivered in a white-walled hospital on white bed sheets
beside the spirit of thousands of white babies before me
amidst white doctors
and white nurses
while people of other races
held the janitorial jobs—
scrubbing toilets, dumping garbage
serving food, doing laundry
I grew up in a predominantly
white neighborhood
because white privilege bleached the streets
in the image of their choosing.
I went to schools packed with a predominantly
all-white student body with all-white teachers
and all-white administrators and all-white textbooks,
transcribing a dominant Eurocentric colonialist perspective
whose white privilege excluded the accomplishments
and contributions of people of color
because they were taught to do so.
White employers hire me
based on my privilege of white reflection.
I gain entry into places because of my white status—
universities, clubs, bars, jobs, organizations of the elite
summer camp, student exchange program
Because of my whiteness
I am excluded and protected
from gangs, juvie, prison, military service, racial profiling
and other lower socio-economic traps.
I am permitted unlimited access to
free drugs, parties, neighborhoods,
stores, and gated communities
without suspicion or second-guessing of my right to be there.
Because I am a gold card-carrying white person
with detailed, specified entitlements,
society serves me, and my white brothers and sisters,
without questions
respectively and accordingly.
I am alive and here today
in this white-washed apartment
owned by my white landlord
holding this job, savings account,
car, clothes, and all the rest
thanks to my sweet little white ass.
And believe me,
when I tell you,
that I never forget it,
nor the heavy accountability
that comes with it.
Adrift
I’ve become unmoored.
With no anchor to an attachment,
this life sinks and stifles at its own peril
Drifting
to pointless erosion.
Without a secure connection,
all meaning evaporates
all purpose voided
Blanketed in starkness
a new perspective emerges
made of fear and endangerment.
For 19 years
it’s always been the same dream.
I’m on a small, one-seater,
battered wooden row boat
far from shore with no current.
I am adrift and without oars,
shrouded in a dense heavy fog.
I am gripping a thick coarse rope
which is stealing swiftly through my hands,
shredding my palms raw.
When I look at my hands, the blood is dry.
The ribbons of my old world
my former life
my previous coveted identity
have been yanked away.
I can never have them back again.
Forever over.
In our current modern day reality
the disruption between the couple
is abandoned, forsaken
no reconciliation can happen
no room for error
But in the movies
and in each and every one of our fantasies
the lost partner
at the last minute is pitted against a fate
worse than hell itself
Countless lives are at stake
Countless measures are taken into calculation
And suddenly there is room for error
One partner imagines their life
is held only in balance by the other
who is reeling 50.2 miles out of bounds
derailing somewhere near a heavily populated area
with enough toxic substances onboard
to obliterate a small town of 650,000 people.
And the partner thinks... maybe...
this whole argument
this whole messy bullshit of an affair
Could have gone down entirely different... maybe...
In my fantasy
he has a change of heart
he sees an insular light of loss and forgiveness
and wants only connection.
She
of course in reality
never receives his new lost message.
This reversal of rejection never gets relayed.
This true act of heroic devotion is averted.
After 19 years of separation
I live in a mass grave of broken hearts.
It’s a different kind of modern day holocaust.
I’ve become a refugee of despondent dreams
I’m a shipwreck of failed relationship
after relationship
after relationship
after relationship
after relationship,
to show for after nearly two decades of effort.
Singlehood is nothing to brag about.
You become a survivor
but in the end
you know you won’t survive.
I have come to learn that aging
makes me cling more.
Singlehood brings fear of isolation,
my own fragility capsizing any hope.
So I’ve stopped watching romance movies
unless it promises that
someone dies
and love perishes.
A film simply must
mirror reality
if I’m to imagine any possibility of a life
beyond this smothering loneliness.
Origin
the binary gender dilemma is not an easy one
I stumble over inadequate words
and pronouns
and the intention behind their secret agendas.
Because I am biologically woman,
I am a walking assumption
the moment I step outside the safety of my door.
Because society defines me
by my cunt
by my tits
by my uterus
by the number of children I can
or cannot conceive,
I have felt the pressures of social conformity
narrowing my choices in life.
Because I feel comfortable mentally and emotionally
with the fluidity of gender
within myself,
I am less boxed in than most.
With fearless lovers of mine,
We are an amalgamation of woman and man
man and man
woman and woman
all at the same time
We toss out our gender along with our egos
and role play in the unknown
We forget our gender
We dismantle our preconceived notions of the sexes
We fuck our sexually limiting categories
We suck and kick and bite and cry
our way through to distortion
blurring the paradigm
to fit our fantasy.
Which brings me back to the
revolution of bodies and minds
the physics of our empowerment
virgin touches the whore
brown eats out black eats out red eats out white eats out yellow
cellular meets molecular
type A+ sucks type O
planetary dark matter bumps into galactic anti-matter
intuition tops cognition
hormones fucking hormones
fucking single celled amoebas
the origin of all living things
In my fantasy
I cannot determine where my cock
becomes your cock
I cannot distinguish your fist from my pussy
From the primordial scream of our loving making
I am not concerned about our division of sex
our uncommon ground
our differences
I am sealing our fate in my ejaculation
because as a biological woman
I can
And because I am man enough to meet you half way
around the linguistic burden that we all share,
the borders of he-she-they-it
I lift up this final teardrop of our human essence
in reverence for the time to come
when you and I
cannot see or feel the separation
only the bloodline that runs in both our veins
as one.
Author Bio:
Wendy-O Matik is a poet, writer, activist, and the author of Love Like Rage and Redefining Our Relationships. Back in the 90s, she could be found doing spoken word in the Bay Area punk scene and touring with various bands through the US, Canada, U.K, Australia, and New Zealand. Today, she lives on an organic farm in Santa Rosa, CA, where she has coauthored 11 mindfulness meditation books and still dabbles in poetry from time to time.