Giannina Braschi - United States of Banana

— The businessman.

— Who?

— The man who was petite. The man who was bourgeois. The man who was the center of the class, the class called petite bourgeoisie — the dealer of dirty deeds — dirty deeds exist to wash them out — and come clean — like my uncle always says with the smile of the villain on his face. And that is what I see behind these metal bars — the smile of the villain — the ghostly smile of the villain — and the Arab’s greasy beard — that as a ghostly apparition is here inclined on the smile of the villain — emerging from a cloud of mushroom and fear.

— When those two towers fell — I felt a dentist had pulled out my two front teeth. I could not laugh anymore. And I have the smile of a smiling damned villain. But I also felt the hole in my mouth became a garage, and entering that garage were terrorists in trucks full of explosives and French diplomats — to fuck us more with other nations — to run over our dead bodies.

— Bury the one — bury the other — bury the twins — Muslim and American — Arab and Jew. Don’t be unilateral. See the other’s point of view. You are the whipper, cowboy. You whip and whip and whip — and attack, attack, and attack. Don’t you know how to cover your ass? The attacker is never prepared to cover his ass. And to be fucked up the ass. But you will be fucked up the ass because you have fucked up the others too many times. Nobody knows you better than the one that you abuse. And I can talk. I know you well.

— You thought legs are not important — but now that liberty has no legs — it can’t walk. And you thought legs mean labor — and you can find cheap labor in Mexico and in China. So you broke Lady Liberty’s legs off — looking for cheap labor — and you found terrorists with explosives. You went for cheap — for-getting that cheapness is cutting liberty off at the knees. Now we cannot walk. What do you want us to do? Find cheap legs in other countries that will walk for us? You always thought if they want to walk — it’s because they’re poor. We go by cars and jets. But you forgot that fuel is a luxury and that it would end. Oil is coming to an end — and now we have no legs to walk.

— I thought the brain could rule over the legs. And I thought the brain was white and the legs were yellow or brown. And I thought I could rule with my brain — and even if I cut my legs off — I would find cheap legs in other parts of the world. But now I am a mutilated body. I lost my legs in Korea. I lost my arms in Vietnam. I lost my head in Kuwait. I lost my torso in the World Trade Center.

You think my brain is a piggybank. The only thing you do is throw some coins inside the piggybank of my brain. I hear the coins drop, drop, drop — but there is no water — they drown the stage in tears seven times salt. Even for an eggshell. My brain is a piggybank. Drop your coins and feel happy because you’re contributing to my economy. Fundraiser, you are raising funds to kill my soul every day a little more. And when I tell you how I feel because all I have left are my feelings, you say:

— Good for you! You still have feelings! How fortunate you are to be capable of feeling!

But the question is:

— What am I feeling?

I am feeling cold hard cash falling flat like damp weather, like something cold when I crave something hot. It is always a disappointment to expect sun or vegetation and receive damp coins dropping — cent by cent — through the ceiling — as if they were drops of water. But there is no irrigation — only swarms of cockroaches — patches of mold — and holes being filled with senseless cents. It’s like this — you are in your house expecting a furniture delivery or a TV set and a penny falls on your head.

— Use it as you please.

— What will it get me? It can’t buy me love or beef.

— Deposit it in the bank.

— In whose name?

— Mine, of course. You don’t have a name because you don’t have capital. You are living here by the grace of those coins that I deposit in your head every day.

— I don’t need your pocket change. I need ideas.

— Ideas come with change. Ingratiate yourself with reality. You’re in debt. You owe me your life. I am making you rich. You don’t know how lucky you are.

I wish I knew. I can hardly breathe but copper and nickel — and every day I eat the same chocolate coins at Starbucks, Kinko’s, Staples. What a snoring age is this. I could make a Xerox in Starbucks coffee shop — and go for a coffee in Kinko’s copy shop — it’s all copycat commerce — the sameness is for sale — for bargaining — for usury — for the yawning of American poetry. Inspiration is the energy that breezes forward. The wish that keeps hope alive. Yawning draws backward. Déjà vu. Feardom. Not Freedom. Keep hope alive. Keep clicking. Maybe you’ll click your way to the core of freedom. Click your mouse — click your remote control — and feel totally remote, distant, with an air conditioner blowing in your face. The marketers keep inventing desires, necessities for you and for me. I need this. I need that. I need. I need. It’s the need of a smoking fit. If you don’t smoke that cigarette now, you’ll die — when in reality you die because you succumb to the rage and rattle of the needy greed that keeps you busy needing more and more things. Is this the American Dream — the greedy need — and the grim reality of the need that is never satisfied because it is red and tasty like candy — but it has no funds to support the greed. This is Chinese torture.

— I didn’t bore a hole in your head. It was already there when I dropped the first red cent.

— But now it’s really becoming a big hole — so big that the Twin Towers fell in it — and I hardly felt it — because I was so accustomed to the dropping of coins — that what difference does it make to have coins, or towers, or torsos, or pages of the Daily News , or tremors, or rain.

— Be grateful.

— Gratitude is your business, fundraiser. What am I supposed to do with 1¢, 20¢, 50¢ at the end of the day? I can hardly pay for my coffee cake. And by the logic of the absurd, you insist and actually believe that you’re making me rich because you keep shaking my piggybank and counting the same coins over and over again. And besides, there were foreign coins in there that counted for nothing. They were immigrants like me. I immigrated with another speech, with another currency, to this economy where so many piggies are so happy being piggies that all they really want is to become cash machines — turning coins into dollars — and when you mention the almighty dollar:

— Oh, my God —they squeal with excitement— dollars — dollars — mine — mine — mine!

But dollars, in my opinion, are too mute. I don’t hear them singing and dancing like jingle bells. And sound to me is very important because when coins drop I hear them dropping — but dollars are too bland — made of paper — washed-out green — the color of envy.

What is your obsession with brushing your teeth — and flossing your gums? Every time I knock on your door you are cleaning your teeth — and showing them to me as if I wanted to see them. I don’t want to see your teeth. It’s as if you’re saying:

— Look at my teeth. They are as white as snow-white. And yours are yellow. Mine are sparkling clean. Spotless. Yes ma’am. I am a yes-man. I obey. I polish my shoes until they are squeaky clean — until there is no shadow of a doubt — on my teeth or my feet. I bathe twice a day so they don’t smell. I have no smell.