Genelle Chaconas is genderfluid, queer, feminist, an abuse survivor, over 30, periodically unemployed, and proud. They earned their BA in Creative Writing from CSUS (2009) and their MFA in Writing and Poetics from Naropa University (2015). They were diagnosed with depression at the age 11 and prescribed the anti-depressant Prozac, which they used until the age of 17. They were never informed of the possible side effects on patients of that age. They survived a physically, psychologically and emotionally abusive relationship with one parent which sometimes turned violent and traumatic.They still cope with these realities today. They are convinced that trauma changes the way we tell our own stories.
You find the television where it landed on the soft ooze thaw April field fifty yards beyond the statue garden. It is impossibly untouched what you mean to say is unbroken. This is after a cluster bomb hit the roof of the foreign embassy which itself is the ill amber yellow cholera illness growth the air is a glistening season the flavor of asbestos and the weather leaves the embassy a gouged crater like a carcass of whistle clean glisten white. The endless bluster blizzards of files flow down like a wave of nuclear pollen. Natives scour in hunting packs for passport B sides unpaid stubble classifieds criminal records credit cards bank account run away with swaths of glisten copper old silver fittings stamps stains molds all the heavy metals of a surrogate overthrow played out like a mock hide and seek. And you are reminded of what you were once told crossing the permeable border to this nation. In a destruction culture nothing is sacred. You answered what culture is not a destruction culture. You find this television surrounded by palm sized mushrooms. It is the season for them. You’ve heard of such things, of the twinge whorl curls of dynamism let down safe and sound in the hawk stomach of vector and furor. And do not know if you feel more amazed it is not broken or it is not gutted already. Surely it has copper wire inside. An odd layer of rot has crawled under its glossy blackface like a gnurl furnace of green. You cannot imagine what it is. What illness could possess its face in less than an hour after the bombing? What could have infected it so fast? It is small, portable, fits behind the motorbike you hijacked the days before the last lesser purge. You found it sprawled without its rider jackknifed. The deep furrow treads lasting half a mile into the brush. It drove through the flash fire without its rider. That was two days ago. They call them deinfestations as though the spray of night fire whistle blooms like fourth of July are routine chlorine sprays. And now roaches are indeed plentiful. The days have borders you cannot name anymore. No one at the rooming house questions your whereabouts and won’t answer for them. Your letters pour in five times a day. Contradictions marked action necessary contents classified respond immediately in the bold block letters used to summoned you to the Federal Bureau. Twenty a day or more. Only the intricate webs of your surveillance, offering, palavering, pandering and demanding. As though all ways are some inviolable taking. None of them are any more credible than any other. All of them could turn you in. You sometimes wonder if you are the same digestion track as everyone else. That the chain of food is literal. And you are one of the many morsels of caloric information on its route. And wonder if it feeds some larger organ of entity. The slithering map of the original indebted from the poker game grows in every direction now. It widens and lengthens through the swollen flesh of the country. But also thickens into a wasp nest of jungle fungal foliage spoil. It seems to grow out of the vellum. Your records burned. Your body you see reflected in the pensive square of this television screen carries no gravity. Today you ride the motorbike through the ramshackle overturn streets like upside down bridges. The walled covered roads like the yawns of empty stomachs. Or the wheeze of a long dead hide. Something being tread beneath a tire. You have asked yourself the name of this sound that you’ve heard rattle out before death. And it is as though you drive a fresh paved path. None of the bumps churns and hustles in the concrete overturn you. Once you saw a parade of the bulletproofed tanks overturn from one curl in the road. There was no sound to this film. A newsreel spun on one of the many homegrown theaters the natives nourish all nights during the sweltering summers. You sat on your rattan awning creaking with disrepair and watched. Outdoor propaganda festivals took place every night. The greasy grey faces of the enemy El Presidentes morph into the soggy maws of dogs and demon pigs. And when your own flickered to boos and cries of long live the rebellion, you cheered along with them. Now all the grand screens have been gutted rotted or burned. The smokestack skies gurgle through the gaps. Sitting on the same rattan awning as the napalm dawns that shiver through the Molotov festival dusks. A through each held a new private newsreel in its opened carcass. The smoke that shivers through the midnight oil air like a furious pelt. This is not an invasion. Another convulsion of the territory from within. Nothing about your position has changed except its structure. Except the membrane of under fur that has spread over you. The lostness of you that grows from every cell undifferentiated as cancer. As though you have invited an anonymous lover into your bones. Or rather a thief has entered the house of your mind. You’ve seen this happen to corpses before. The slow stretching mass fabric that emits from the mouths. But no one can explain to you what this means. It happens at least once every six months. And if you keep your head down and mind the business, whatever business you are in, you’re left to your device. But if you haven’t got your head down far enough, well. Every native draws his one long rusty fingernail reserved for makeshift paraphernalia across his throat with a snicker. You’ve never plugged it in. It’s been on the floor all day, dim, moldy, smooth as a rippleless night. The snow static screeches. Ask yourself which of these kamikaze electrons dying on the stratosphere you are. And then you hear it. Thin, dry, and feeble. A signal is leaking through.