Once upon a time, I used to love tasting
the crispy skin of animals. Pig. Fish. Turkey.
Peking duck still makes my mouth water.
Scars remember, remind I used to eat myself alive.
Palimpsest of sinning and unoriginal sin,
vellum of om and um, cannibal of soul, I am.
My skin is a country of ad hoc, make-do tattoo,
a pretty pattern of stain, damaged by the sun.
Real life will forever struggle with unreeling evil.
The color of my skin is a crime scene.
Human skin burns, to protest napalm.
Eat what you kill, the singer sings, and I listen.
I listen as I've grown comfortable in my own skin.
Tasty memories, now that I am happy as a vegan.
I bite a honeycrisp and juice drips on my chin.
This is the text for MEDIA DADA'S MANIFESTO, a video poem by Mike Hazard. It's a true story.
My mother went to Target the other day and when she came home she told my four-year-old daughter where she'd been. "Well, you can't go there any more," said Sonia. My mother asked why not? "Because they bombed all the targets."
I am more and more convinced that war begets war. When we build armaments and fight other nations, we build hostilities. We negate what we pretend to teach our children: Thou shalt not kill.
Think of it. This war must be sanitized. If you and I knew the truth, we might want to stop. I do want it to stop. Stop bombing the targets, whatever they may be.