Alexis Krasilovsky is the videopoet of Some Women Writers Kill Themselves: Selected Videopoems and Poems (Rafael Film, 2007) which includes videopoems, three chapbooks of poetry (Some Women Writers Kill Themselves, Some Men, and Abuse of Privacy), and new poems. She is the writer and director of several films and videos: End of the Art World, starring Andy Warhol; Blood, reviewed in the L.A. Times as “in its stream-of-consciousness way, more powerful than Martin Scorsese’s ‘Taxi Driver’”; “Exile,” aired nationally on PBS; and the award-wining What Memphis Needs, screened in the Museum of Modern Art’s “Between Word and Image.” Her poetry has appeared in Agada, Southern Exposure, San Francisco Bay Guardian, Community Properties and other periodicals. She is also the writer/director of the feature-length documentary Women Behind the Camera (2007) based on her book of the same title (Praeger, 1997). The website is www.womenbehindthecamera.com
She has read her poems widely in New York and California. Alexis Krasilovsky was born in Alaska and raised in Chappaqua, New York. Educated at Smith, Yale and California Institute of the Arts, she is now a screenwriting professor at California State University Northridge, and lives in Los Angeles with her son.
Blood sisters on Avenue B!
Blood on the wheat!
We’ll perform our rites
instead of clitoridectomies,
drinking ourselves into the sky
while our blood falls
who shot us and wounded us,
who made us type their resumes,
who went to lunch without us,
who hated all minorities,
who called our dreams nightmares,
who told us to confide in them,
who asked if we were lesbians,
who screamed that we were witches
and that all women artists conspired against them.
Unfold to the voodoo drums!
We’ll pound nails into the night
and pull thorns out of the eyes
of the men who could not cry,
who jacked off to Playboy,
who poured champagne down our throats,
who posed us in see-through chiffon
for unprintable holograms,
who drank, shot up, and waited
for the next dimension,
who dragged themselves to work,
who saw psychiatrists,
who called us crazy.
I am a speculum
exulting in your body
like a second hand on a watch
on a wrist of a man
you left behind.
I’ve seen your womb shake in rage
and my stiff arms remember
how you curled around a perfect love
I’m with you in the womb
where unborn children
call you names:
plastic, crooked pain.
I’m with you in the womb.
How are you going to get out
When the blood roars towards you?
From SOME WOMEN WRITERS KILL THEMSELVES (1983)