I am the vocal cords of Nina Simone. I am the Easy-Bake Oven of Sybil. I am the once-engorged clitoris of Eva Braun. I am Marilyn Monroe's last discarded brown-glass bottle of peroxide. I am just the left sneaker of a pair of torn and bloody Keds. I am the only Tylenol in the bottle not coated in cyanide. I am the waking earthquake beneath the Adirondack fault line. I am Saddam's bad dream from last night, the one about the bombs and Allah's penis. I am the tissue still twisted around Grace Zabriskie's finger. I am your memory of the blood splashing. I am the microscopic creature in the large intestine of the Rhesus monkey that thought that the smooth, warm, pink flesh poking in and out at me might be a nice place to live; I swam through its defence of sticky white just to inhabit mankind, and mankind, I love you.

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