Hurry Up Please It's Time Analysis

What is death, I ask.What is life, you ask.I give them both my buttocks,my two wheels rolling off toward Nirvana.They are neat as a wallet,opening and closing on their coins,the quarters, the nickels,straight into the crapper.Why shouldn't I pull down my pantsand moon the executioneras well as paste raisins on my breasts?Why shouldn't I pull down my pantsand show my little cunny to Tomand Albert? They wee-wee funny.I wee-wee like a squaw.I have ink but no pen, stillI dream that I can piss in God's eye.I dream I'm a boy with a zipper.It's so practical, la de dah.The trouble with being a woman, Skeezix,is being a little girl in the first place.Not all the books of the world will change that.I have swallowed an orange, being woman.You have swallowed a ruler, being man.Yet waiting to die we are the same thing.Jehovah pleasures himself with his axebefore we are both overthrown.Skeezix, you are me. La de dah.You grow a beard but our drool is identical.Forgive us, Father, for we know not.Today is November 14th, 1972.I live in Weston, Mass., Middlesex County,U.S.A., and it rains steadilyin the pond like white puppy eyes.The pond is waiting for its skin.the pond is waiting for its leather.The pond is waiting for December and its Novocain.It begins:Interrogator:What can you say of your last seven days?Anne:They were tired.Interrogator:One day is enough to perfect a man.Anne:I watered and fed the plant.*My undertaker waits for me.he is probably twenty-three now,learning his trade.He'll stitch up the gren,he'll fasten the bones downlest they fly away.I am flying today.I am not tired today.I am a motor.I am cramming in the sugar.I am running up the hallways.I am squeezing out the milk.I am dissecting the dictionary.I am God, la de dah.Peanut butter is the American food.We all eat it, being patriotic.Ms. Dog is out fighting the dollars,rolling in a field of bucks.You've got it made if you take the wafer,take some wine,take some bucks,the green papery song of the office.What a jello she could make with it,the fives, the tens, the twenties,all in a goo to feed the baby.Andrew Jackson as an hors d'oeuvre,la de dah.I wish I were the U.S. Mint,turning it all out,turtle greenand monk black.Who's that at the podiumin black and white,blurting into the mike?Ms. Dog.Is she spilling her guts?You bet.Otherwise they cough...The day is slipping away, why am Iout here, what do they want?I am sorrowful in November...(no they don't want that,they want bee stings).Toot, toot, tootsy don't cry.Toot, toot, tootsy good-bye.If you don't get a letter thenyou'll know I'm in jail...Remember that, Skeezix,our first song?Who's thinking those things?Ms. Dog! She's out fighting the dollars.Milk is the American drink.Oh queens of sorrows,oh water lady,place me in your cupand pull over the cloudsso no one can see.She don't want no dollars.She done want a mama.The white of the white.Anne says:This is the rainy season.I am sorrowful in November.The kettle is whistling.I must butter the toast.And give it jam too.My kitchen is a heart.I must feed it oxygen once in a whileand mother the mother.*Say the woman is forty-four.Say she is five seven-and-a-half.Say her hair is stick color.Say her eyes are chameleon.Would you put her in a sack and bury her,suck her down into the dumb dirt?Some would.If not, time will.Ms. Dog, how much time you got left?Ms. Dog, when you gonna feel that cold nose?You better get straight with the Makercuz it's coming, it's a coming!The cup of coffee is growing and growingand they're gonna stick your little doll's headinto it and your lungs a gonna get paidand your clothes a gonna melt.Hear that, Ms. Dog!You of the songs,you of the classroom,you of the pocketa-pocketa,you hungry mother,you spleen baby!Them angels gonna be cut down like wheat.Them songs gonna be sliced with a razor.Them kitchens gonna get a boulder in the belly.Them phones gonna be torn out at the root.There's power in the Lord, baby,and he's gonna turn off the moon.He's gonna nail you up in a closetand there'll be no more Atlantic,no more dreams, no more seeds.One noon as you walk out to the mailboxHe'll snatch you up --a wopman beside the road like a red mitten.There's a sack over my head.I can't see. I'm blind.The sea collapses.The sun is a bone.Hi-ho the derry-o,we all fall down.If I were a fisherman I could comprehend.They fish right through the doorand pull eyes from the fire.They rock upon the daybreakand amputate the waters.They are beating the sea,they are hurting it,delving down into the inscrutable salt.*When mother left the roomand left me in the big blackand sent away my kittyto be fried in the campsand took away my blanketto wash the me out of itI lay in the soiled cold and prayed.It was a little jail in whichI was never slapped with kisses.I was the engine that couldn't.Cold wigs blew on the trees outsideand car lights flew like roosterson the ceiling.Cradle, you are a grave place.Interrogator:What color is the devil?Anne:Black and blue.Interrogator:What goes up the chimney?Anne:Fat Lazarus in his red suit.Forgive us, Father, for we know not.Ms. Dog prefers to sunbathe nude.Let the indifferent sky look on.So what!Let Mrs. Sewal pull the curtain back,from her second story.So what!Let United Parcel Service see my parcel.La de dah.Sun, you hammer of yellow,you hat on fire,you honeysuckle mama,pour your blonde on me!Let me laugh for an entire hourat your supreme being, your Cadillac stuff,because I've come a long wayfrom Brussels sprouts.I've come a long way to peel off my clothesand lay me down in the grass.Once only my palms showed.Once I hung around in my woolly tank suit,drying my hair in those little meatball curls.Now I am clothed in gold air withone dozen halos glistening on my skin.I am a fortunate lady.I've gotten out of my pouchand my teeth are gladand my heart, that witness,beats well at the thought.Oh body, be glad.You are good goods.*Middle-class lady,you make me smile.You dig a holeand come out with a sunburn.If someone hands you a glass of wateryou start constructing a sailboat.If someone hands you a candy wrapper,you take it to the book binder.Pocketa-pocketa.Once upon a time Ms. Dog was sixty-six.She had white hair and wrinkles deep as splinters.her portrait was nailed up like Christand she said of it:That's when I was forty-two,down in Rockport with a hat on for the sun,and Barbara drew a line drawing.We were, at that moment, drinking vodkaand ginger beer and there was a chill in the air,although it was July, and she gave me her sweaterto bundle up in. The next summer Skeezix tiedstrings in that hat when we were fishing in Maine.(It had gone into the lake twice.)Of such moments is happiness made.Forgive us, Father, for we know not.Once upon a time we were all born,popped out like jelly rollsforgetting our fishdom,the pleasuring seas,the country of comfort,spanked into the oxygens of death,Good morning life, we say when we wake,hail mary coffee toastand we Americans take juice,a liquid sun going down.Good morning life.To wake up is to be born.To brush your teeth is to be alive.To make a bowel movement is also desireable.La de dah,it's all routine.Often there are warsyet the shops keep openand sausages are still fried.People rub someone.People copulateentering each other's blood,tying each other's tendons in knots,transplanting their lives into the bed.It doesn't matter if there are wars,the business of life continuesunless you're the one that gets it.Mama, they say, as their intestinesleak out. Even without warslife is dangerous.Boats spring leaks.Cigarettes explode.The snow could be radioactive.Cancer could ooze out of the radio.Who knows?Ms. Dog stands on the shoreand the sea keeps rocking inand she wants to talk to God.Interrogator:Why talk to God?Anne:It's better than playing bridge.*Learning to talk is a complex business.My daughter's first word was

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