performance art piece, untitled

February 21, 2007

They say that God is love. So it’s not so odd that when you love someone they become your God. she says she has this dream where she is swallowed by the water, and becomes its daughter and mother, the other, but she’s trailing flame and I know she’s gonna sizzle before she fizzles out like a candle flame and Alice is still wondering what one looks like after it has gone out, because she can’t remember ever having seen such a thing, but I caught a glimpse once of the place where all the fire goes after burning for the engine that keeps the world turning. Spinoza called it the uncaused, the heart of things that is no-heart, no-mind, the no-string that tangles and unwinds. Seek and you shall find.

She says hey, luna, I’m tripping, the moon’s fallen in water and can’t swim if he’s the prettiest thing in the night sky does that give me the right to put a face to an icon I need for my story and drown him? But that was how it was then, I didn’t know where I ended or if that’s where she’d begin telling tales she’d seen reflected in a hall of mirrors, the priests tell the sinners that blood floats on water, fools feast on mud before they’re slaughtered again but this dirt tastes sweet, I wandered hours with that girl, for a week of proving God is seven, or is she buying whisky from the seven eleven to take to Brighton Beach where the wind screams need? But we’re free of that aren’t we? We are dead seeds.

They hurt you real bad as a child, opened you up for fun and tore your insides, left you wild and prone to rages I was looking to be the co-dependent player on your stages. We were born in a time that was just getting strange Kurt Cobain got commodified and died but they could still feed his screams to the masses like the Blood of Christ, and maybe I listened too long cause after a short while I was asking you where did you sleep last night and was it in the pines, pierced with those savage needles of light? We drank every evening, danced in graveyards like Tori, and were sorry it was never enough, had to break the tough skin and get in to the heart between us to swim in open night.

We walk into the lake, a pact like suicide but whiter, and the water is making womb fish for us to ride out of sight.

And her eyes are coral white and wide as the sun dies in the last of its light, for seven lifetimes we’ve been meeting like this too late to catch the last train to our wake and the devas are glowing in the distance and whispering quietly so as not to alarm us Tolkien said dark elves never left middle earth for heaven because they loved the stars too much to miss seeing them for a second, though after that second we’d touch like that painting by Michaelangelo that I think says it all, to give up means a hand passing a dagger made of sand into your magicians hand so he’ll sleight it into doves and fly laughing from the cracking hourglass like Buddha, as universal brothers, we thieve in wonder and split fat fruit bloody through our fingers, blistered from hot sugar and milk and honey and that’s the way the money goes weasel, now pop for me. I paid for this and will pay more in time.

There is nothing here. The walls are pale and the mother is watching bright birds fly from their prisons of flesh. We pass through a prism, mesh and bind and split. It is not our time.

I am born again without you, far far away.

Dawn is grey here. Greyer than anywhere. She is melting into cloud faces and giggling in birdsong. She is gone.


2 Responses to “performance art piece, untitled”

  1. dream listener said

    sapho says, what you love is beautiful.

  2. Yes, I love that poem; it’s one of my favourites.

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