poetics of the apocalypse: monologue one
an amalgamation of texts from
M. Royale-Jackson, Samual Delaney's Dhalgren,
and June Jordan's "On a New Years Eve".
Aint the body where me make the world?
Daddy, Daddy. Sweet Daddy. The lifeguard who let me drown.
Aint the body where we make the world?
And what do you know about darkness?
I've been squeezing time together. I'm dissatisfied with my life on Earth. Perhaps its the sort of thing you only tell one person, but I've told a couple dozen. The world is round* (asterisk) and the moon is a small world circling it. You live in a world of up and down, but for me...in the dark.
We danced when we got to the moon. What else could we do with all that lightness? Dream? Long? Moan?
To see a life backwards isn't the same as seeing it forward in reverse. On a boat. We arrived in a place where no one had walked. We left a place where only we had danced. The moon.
Don't you ever wonder at the "the-ness" of the moon? Our moon. As if it were the only one.Truly, I'm not too satisfied with life on either side. How do you know if you're dying when there are no overt signs of destruction, just here and there marks of fire?
Calling. I heard the voice. And all I had heard was your voice. Lying in the critical distortion that comes from having heard your voice. Calling.
The Miracle has run out! What do I do with all of this unmiraculous materiality? Search for new moons?
And they will come. And we still silently machinate toward the joint of flesh and flesh, while the ground stay still long enough for us not to notice its solubility, no matter what hangs above it.
And there I was! Half a peach splayed open in syrup and cream. And a me-shaped hole through which you could pass. So we made love and talked about moons and about madness. And then made love. And slept.
And made love.
And made madness.
It begins how it ended. As all things do. And it turns on the verb. As all words do. And disappears. As all things dear.
As all things dear,