TOXEMIA


My heart needs to be bled
and yours needs to be bleached. 
Our hands need something dead in them
like tongues or books full of flat flowers. 
Our prayers together create blood in the walls.
In the drips I see you in the bathtub vomiting
pages of dictionaries, shutting me out. 
I see a plastic set of veins coming out of my legs
and every day your voice splits me open like an axe. 
And for these veins in my hands I would trade you
today & yesterday; I would trade you the Iraq War
all the Senators & the dead meat on your plate.

Every time someone buys me a birthday present,
I realize they don't know me at all
and it is a brightly-wrapped reminder
of failure of heart & bone, of eyes half closed,
the bibliophile's metronome.

It is strange that we make things
and then we break things
and then we fix our broken things and feel joy. 
It is strange that we drink milk meant for calves
and we invent Tuesdays & Thursdays & nuclear war.
It is strange that you eat candy out of the trash
and somehow convince yourself that you are okay.

Climbing on top of me is a dark blur and a smile
appears in one of its gaping endless holes.

Inanition is heaven.  Money becomes a foreign object
much like forceps or hair clips or pieces of metal stuck
inside different parts of you for different reasons.
It becomes some thing you have that is not particularly pretty
that you can use to acquire prettier things.  It becomes you.
It becomes your smile and whatever kisses befall your lips.

I regret not being there to tuck you in tonight,
not being able to kiss your hands that have fixed
so many things.  Just give me one more weekend
to poison my blood.  One more day to inhale anything
black.  One more minute to say goodbye goodbye
goodbye to your sweet face.  Let me become a dog
and die by chocolate.  Your hardness is left in me,

dries up like a riverbed, cracks, and is forgotten.
The love you left in my mouth has metastasized and I swallow
every gift you gave me so I can call you to complain
of a stomach ache.  It is too easy to turn corn
or rice into some kind of drug, one you can mass produce,

& make billions.  May begins again as if it hasn't left you
so many times before and green Xs multiply like army ants. 
The contents of our cabinets become those of my gut,
and I come away knowing what they say is true: there is always
tomorrow.  And every unicorn bleeds black.  Every president
has his or her handicap.  All the buildings in the world
will eventually fall down.  And it is better to burn than to disappear.




                 
Andrea Jane Kato was born in the great state of California and was raised Buddhist by a gypsy-like artist mother (deceased) and an emotionally repressed Japanese farmer who currently grows pineapples in Hawaii.  She is a Capricorn, Dragon, INTJ, HSP, Atheist, singer/songwriter,  abstract painter/artist, iPhone photographer who likes yoga, fasting, and smoking.  She has been published in magazines such as My Favorite Bullet, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Beat, Ditch, Pomegranate, ReadThis Magazine, and Alternativereel.



The Blue Jew Yorker
was an on-line journal. A once assembly of art and writing by Jewish and non-Jewish artists and authors. A virtual periodical that held images and text, both
singular to the creator’s free expression, and in totality, an aggregate of creativity that
vivified the elusive cultural space of Jew York. This anarchy of exilarchs in speech is past and has been deposited in an appropriate chronological container. An old location gloriously reproduces as a new foundation!

The Blue Jew Yorker is still pretty much that, except now the dividing will of its Jewish signifier has been emptied of its tribal contents but still vigorously remains within the boundaries of its three letter form: J E W. This novel adjectival vessel draws in and extrapolates the historical spectre of the idealized and devalued wanderer, while portending to be nothing more than an urban description of the color blue with multiple rural exceptions.

In This New Way, TBJY displays one creative work on its home page for a period of a few weeks and then after that, another. Each work is designated as an issue of the magazine, and is reverently archived when its spotlight moment is done.




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