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Poem	If only out of vanity I have wondered what kind of woman I will be when I am well past the summer of my raging youth Will I still be raising revolutionary flags and making impassioned speeches that stir up anger in the hearts of pseudo-liberals dressed in navy-blue conservative wear In those years when I am grateful I still have a good sturdy bladder that does not leak undigested prune juice onto diapers—no longer adorable will I be more grateful for that than for any forward movement in any current political cause and will it have been worth it then Will it have been worth the long hours of not sleeping that produced little more than reams of badly written verses that catapulted me into literary spasms but did not even whet the appetite of the three O’ clock crowd in the least respected of the New York poetry cafes Will I wish then that I had taken that job working at the bank or the one to watch that old lady drool all over her soft boiled eggs as she tells me how she was a raving beauty in the sixties how she could have had any man she wanted but she chose the one least likely to succeed and that’s why when the son of a bitch died she had to move into this place because it was government subsidized Will I tell my young attendant how slender I was then and paint for her pictures of the young me more beautiful than I ever was if only to make her forget the shriveled paper skin the stained but even dental plates and the faint smell of urine that tends to linger in places built especially for revolutionaries whose causes have been won or forgotten Will I still be lesbian then or will the church or family finally convince me to marry some man with a smaller dick than the one my woman uses to afford me violent and multiple orgasms Will the staff smile at me humor my eccentricities to my face but laugh at me in their private resting rooms saying she must have been something in her day Most days I don’t know what I will be like then but everyday—I know what I want to be now I want to be that voice that makes Guilani so scared he hires two (butch) black bodyguards I want to write the poem that The New York Times cannot print because it might start some kind of black or lesbian or even a white revolution I want to go to secret meetings and under the guise of female friendship I want to bed the women of those young and eager revolutionaries with too much zeal for their cause and too little passion for the women who follow them from city to city all the while waiting in separate rooms I want to be forty years old and weigh three hundred pounds and ride a motorcycle in the wintertime with four hell raising children and a one hundred ten pound female lover who writes poetry about my life and my children and loves me like no one has ever loved me before I want to be the girl your parents will use as a bad example of a lady I want to be the dyke who likes to fuck men I want to be the politician who never lies I want to be the girl who never cries I want to go down in history in a chapter marked miscellaneous because the writers could find no other way to categorize me In this world where classification is key I want to erase the straight lines So I can be me
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