The Frida Kahlo Exhibit at the SF MoMA

Or, "This is No Life Sorry"

Look at me! I said, look at me!

I am choked by thorns and butterflies dance in my hair. Do you see me now? Yes, here I am smoking a cigarette, contemplating life. Yes, she too is me: lying in bed, contemplating the death of the unborn. Contemplating. What is left of my womanhood? Here I am on the border--the great divide of what was and what will be. I am. At. The. Center.

I am of what is broken and whole. I am of rage and remorse. Do you fear me? Can you know the pain I've suffered? Of being bound in steel. Of having lived/loved/lost. Of comprehension. Of the bereft. Beyond the pretense of care? Of life that was and life that cannot be. Of pain that lives. In. Color. I am. At. The. Center.

Life is a dish simmered/stewed/stirred--salted, sweetened, soured, bittered--spiced for flavor and your dining pleasure. And like a glutton, Time sinks its prodigious teeth. And feeds, and feeds. Nipping. Here. There. Nipping. And at the center. Is. Me.

Always. The. Center. Looking at you.