(a succession of dream)
DESCRIPTION
a Short Imagery StoryTRANSCRIPT
a
succession
of
dream
0.
Rush of morning air, wake
up. The sheets rustle with my
timid movements.
New day with setting sun,
depending on your choice of
direction. I steadily recall my
nightmare: I was stranded on
an island in hell, demons like
terrorists plotted their attack
on me. There were bombs
and guns, I had to hide.
They found me every time.
Morning fog, & I swear I felt
the island moan as it looked
to the sky, to the angel’s sigh
behind the clouds, to the
hands clasped thickly around
my neck while god prayed a
melody down on the sleeping
devils.
A memory of dream, the
song enters my mind in
trumpets of non-thought.
—Static muse
—White dress
—Ivory peeling down her
throat.
I’m drifting… drifting…
drifting…
The sun burns the Nile’s lapping waters. Ode to the blue and green skillfully hiding biblical glory in its bounty. The Pharaoh, he lives! and the Egyptian people celebrate in waves of alcohol and grapes.
Everything is good because Ra, the
sun god, smiles.
(Here I am the Pharaoh’s muse,
timeless & airy, dedicated & fragile.
Here there is aesthetic, gold, but the
plagues are coming, I can feel it: the
empty headed Divinity breaks fingers
and toes as I pick flowers in the
garden far and cosmic. This Eden
cannot bear the voices of war on the
horizon and I dare not.)
3. Dog fights in dirty streets.
The sun is red overhead, vivid
& let me paint you a picture:
The howls high pitched and
squealing, the blood crimson
and warm, the cheers loud
and excited, and then
the silence. (Winner!)
You’ve got a lot of
nerve. I’m walking
around the crowd,
holding out my
sign:
“Be free”
Does anyone care? -----
I’m walking around the crowd & keeping my daisy outstretched, the jeers hit
me like a physical blow. (I think back to the island.) I’m standing in front of
the crowd, sermons of love spilling from my lips… but the jeers hit me like a
physical blow.
The devil smiles at me from beneath the brim of his hat. There are bugs in
his teeth and smells like vanilla.
He holds out his sign:
“Join me”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“Honey!”
“Yes?”
“Telephone!”
“Who is it?”
The scene grows dim.
“Power.”
13, 13, 13, 13 : (dial tone)
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
4.
Dark pond water on a crisp October night and a hip hop
beat softly playing through the tall grass:
How can I go on?
I think about sibling rivalry between cool skies & molten
lava, grace and the graceless.
I think and a terror overtakes my body, a shiver passes
through me. I grip my throat and squeeze, thinking about
the devil’s sign...
5.
We’re marching the dense, daring
forest as indigenous peoples in chains
offer us food and direction. We rape
their women. We rape our own as
well.
(Load the rifles –war reboot.)
Well, this chancy production took
countless rehearsals to perfect, I’ll let
you in on that little secret. From side
stage the whole thing is humorless & I
hate it. The show must go on.
“Yessir.” There are thousands of
bodies front to back, dark eyes swirling
red and white. “How may I please
you?”
Whips grind along the backs of these inkblot people:
depression filling the air,
marching a forever of misery,
redhearts beating furious little blood cells spreading.
Silence, and then...
Swinging hips.
Shoulders drop.
Sway to the backward beat.
Body to body.
Arms hung low. (knuckle dragger)
Mouths open in bliss:
may the dark day be
blessed by these
bouncing slaves.
And there’s something so native about this dance: it soothes me. I hear
its call to the ancestors of some ancient tribe, maybe even the gods and
goddesses of some unknown religion. (It flows through their limbs like
waves, but controlled.)
6.
The distance holds liberated plateaus weathered in their
languid stretch towards heaven, heat, buzzards and other flying
scavengers. I take in the colors: Mexicana and dusty, rocking
back and forth in hues of beautiful orange, tan, sandy brown
and hardly anything living.
Not even me.
I’m gone, poof, lost, a ghost, & I know the top of the mountain
secures my place in heaven… but the damned thing is just a
mirage on my eyes. We are hot and angry, the snakes are glad
and waiting.
In any case, I travel the harsh punishment century, sweat
dripping, scorpions murmuring & me tripping over the atoms
heavy in the air, is this my cleanse? Is this my test? Hello, are
you there?
Below the sand, the devil is writing his next sign.
“Do it”
7. The piano is sleek, ebony, cool & cream glitz. The air is thick, rough, musty smoke mingling, gin and tonic trailing. The microphone stands solid (my anchor in this abyss, this sea of chattering people dressed in Sunday bests) and the spotlight burns. Ah, this Louisiana night swelters.
The music begins:
“Tonight the angels are taking
bets… earthly pleasures exchanged
between heavenly hands.”
I sway in holy union with the sensual jazz
bop, snapping fingers with twisted smile
loose. The crowded room exists and I am
alive:
“Separation from God is
the true meaning of hell.”
I croon to the waiting people. A gentle rush
of attention floods my coy smile &
with amplified truth I moan:
“The worldly desire for god is
simply the work of
the devil...
The music skips, skips, skips. I hit:
“So you best
enjoy it.”