Giannina Braschi - United States of Banana

— Open your mouthtrap, wider. Bite my finger and I’ll scream: Ouch!

Your smile is cheesy like your thoughts. It stinks of nothingness — of empty vacuum cleaners — of dirty dishes soaking in sudsy water — of nightmares — of dilettantes.

— Cleanliness is next to godliness because the godly don’t stink. They hide the evidence better. Their files are in order — behind their teeth. There is no evidence of dirty deeds. The files are missing from their teeth.

I hate cleanliness because it reminds me of denial. You like to wash away the evidence. But I like things that are evident. I like what is seen as is . And sparkling, white teeth are not what they seem. When a mouth has been eating cheese, it should smell of cheese. I should be able to see the cheese between its teeth. I don’t like to hide the evidence in order to come clean. If I were clean I would not have to come clean. I would just come clean as is —with my yellow teeth smelling of what I’ve just eaten. How will you know what I am like — if I don’t show you what I like or what I am because I’m always brushing and flossing so my teeth don’t stink of the cheese I’ve been eating all these years — and you don’t even know that I like cheese — because I don’t let you know what I like or what I don’t. I don’t like people when they pull out their teeth and wear dentures. When they talk, they slur like drunkards. I like drunkards when they slur the monotony of time as their teeth rot inside their skulls. What I like of skulls is that they have teeth — rotten teeth — and that they stink. Look. I need to know how you stink so that I’ll know if your mortality matches mine. Open your mouth, wider, so that I can see the rotten mouthtrap inside — the mice running around backstage — the prompters — mouthing the script — the extras working as spies — the newspaperman with the scandal of the day — coming from behind the scene — like a bandit — to break the composure of those white teeth that are trembling when they break the news on their lips — and that work like moles — and that stink — because they show that their shadow of a doubt is falling out like false teeth. And so what if they stink. I have nothing against the smell of rot but something against what hides the smell of something rotten in the United States of America.

Iwas a smoker and a spender. And I miss it. I miss my three packs of cigarettes a day and my shopping sprees through Bendel, Bergdorf, and Saks. I flew through those stores on a snort of cocaine — on a sniff of a roar of the bull of Broadway — charging expenditures that sounded like splenditures — splendid hours spent in shopping sprees — eyeing and buying the reverence of objects that bowed to me in silence. With each new sofa to fuck on, a new lover to fuck with, to feel young and fresh and sassy, to fill the hole of experience — and to feel new every day. As I get old, I get new. I’m a collector of la buona fortuna, la buona vita . Spending time, spending money — buying good taste on sale — buying prestige at full price — and buying power at all costs — to keep the eyes of the world on my extravaganzas — avoiding eye contact with the poor and thirsty. I have my own hunger and desires that keep flaring up like red neon lights. And how do I fill the hole in my stomach when I have the urge to buy and I have no money to pay my credit cards. Like a repentant sinner who won’t repent, I’ll spend more money and time shopping for the new and sassy — distracting the mind — consuming the time. The sweater. The skirt. The shirt. The gloves. The hats. The events to come where I’ll play a role without a character inside — just the jingle of pennies inside my piggybank. I have claimed bankruptcy 20,000 times. Each time with more conviction — less guilt — and less shame. I claim bankruptcy and stash my loot in Puerto Rico — at my mother’s house — all my possessions are safe there. I claim I have no money — and my claim is just and right — I am doing the right thing for my soul — my soul needs leisure — my soul needs rocking chairs — caresses — my soul needs childhood — the red slippers and plush pajamas that make me believe in Santa Claus — so I claim bankruptcy. I need objective correlatives of leisure to fulfill my duty as an intriguer of the imagination.

I am unreliable — is that what you are trying to get at? Nobody relies on me financially speaking. But my shoulders are broad and open when it comes to a problem. Think of me as a dog. Why are you asking me if someone depends on me? Would you ask that question to a dog? When you come home from work I wag my tail and give you my paw and say:

— How are you? How was your day? Did they fire you yet? Do we have to move? Who insulted you this time? I’m hungry. I’ve been locked up all day.

— Why haven’t you eaten?

— Because you didn’t leave me any food.

You walk in the door like a chicken with the head cut off. You don’t know what you’re doing. You might know what you’re doing. Of course you know what you’re doing. You’re walking. What you don’t know is where you’re going. But at least you’re walking. As the head of the chicken with the head cut off I can’t walk. I am lying on the floor — half dead — watching you walk like a chicken with its head cut off. I want to lend you my eyes — so you can know where you’re going — but now we are two separate entities. You can walk with your head cut off — and I can watch you walking — but I can’t tell you where you should go. And I was used to being your boss. But you never wanted to be bossed around. And now I’m dying because I have nobody to boss around. And to think that I never knew I was bossing anybody around because I did it as part of my whole being. But you resented my bossing. You feel liberated without my head. And now that you have no head of state you brag:

— The head means nothing. I am much more important than you. You can’t walk. I can walk without you. I can still work without you. I just can’t think or squawk without you.

There’s a mole here and there’s a rat. The mole works in the basement and the rat works in the attic. I work in between. The mole and the rat are married. The mole informs the rat and the rat informs the boss of everything that happens at work at 5:00 p.m. sharp when the boss sends a limousine to take the mole and the rat back to Brooklyn. On their way home, they call the boss to inform him of every move I make during the day. Their job is to create instability on all floors except the basement and the attic because that is where they work. They keep the pressure on me — and I keep dreaming of tarantulas biting my feet — blood spilling and teeth falling. What am I supposed to do?

— Look for another job.

— The market is shaky.

— You have no time to complain. Run for your life.

I saw a head rolling. With no news of what was to happen. Just like that. In front of the entire staff. They didn’t give any warning that the head would roll. The head just rolled, and blood was spilt. And the head that had cut other heads had to wonder: was this karmic payback for the heads I cut? Some rejoiced. Others were sad. Ding-dong. The wicked witch is dead! Who will be the next? Head honchos. Prepare your résumés. Your head will be next.

— I am a headhunter. I hunt heads for another institution.

— And do you think I want to work for another institution?

— Stay there and they’ll slit your throat.

— I know they want my head.

— On a platter. But I’ve come to save your neck.