rings

The apartment’s a mess. Among the clutter are my lover’s spent birth control; on the kitchen sink, on the hearth next to the Buddha, on the stack of magazines, under the ashtray, in the underwear drawer, one even made it into the laptop case. They’re the kind that ring the cervix and release hormone from inside the cunt. No daily pill to remember, etc. She’s the first woman I’ve ever dated that doesn’t have a nasty period, no psycho shit at the end of her cycle. I gotta say, it’s nice, so I kind of like the rings lying about, like a celebration. I figure I’d make some type of artwork with them so I asked her to save ‘em. Little plastic rings that spend a month up her cunt then clutter the pad. In a few more months I’ll frame ‘em up like Olympic rings, a tribute to women.

When I got married we bought rings, fell for the whole deal. Had them made from platinum, hers with a diamond. Mine now sits in a box in the bathroom with the toiletries, a symbol of ideals buried under hygiene products. I had it out today and looked at it for a long while. Rolled it around my palm, scanned the scuffs by fingertip and kind of marveled at the sheer weight of it. There’s enough platinum in that fucker to make hundreds of prints. I decided that’s what I’d do. Grind it down as needed, mix emulsion, print portraits, mark it’s dissolution over years then sell the work to collecting institutions or give them away to those who can appreciate the effort. All of it.