met up at the dairy queen parking lot on bicycles; bump over the curb up on to the sidewalk. concrete. yellow line. transcend. the gallery is behind. on the top floor. industrial district. should have been a motel; a cheap apartment complex. ghetto. still can’t afford to live. it is a place where Thelma and Louise hide out. where Julia Davis fucks brad pit. inconspicuous location for your clandestine dealings.
smoke against the chipped paint wall. sit on the pavement, legs stretched out long. rolled cigarettes between lips. wander upstairs into the gallery. eight people in middle ages sit on chairs, quiet, attentive. John stands in the middle of the room. the projector he paces around buzzes ambient, under noise, light beaming. two machines sit on either side; dormant. this is dream. perhaps i am not awake. in class but the words are incomprehensible, incongruous with each other or the concept or John’s poem. projected backwards translucent.
my right hand takes notes:
is the grass dreaming?
dreaming conversations with familiar strangers?
eclipsed by shadow
three old machines, two dormant one glowing.
responsible for shadow
John assures us we will fall down a rabbit hole from which we will never get out
so i close my eyes and listen proper
sounds sort of familiar,
“we’ve been here before”
only the wrong way,
but the bones are reassuring,
the bones are here to reassure
road signs bidding us to sit still
narrators of the wasteland
singing copulating serpents
imagining post coital chats of the gods
blind to our singularity
so you turn, cross out words, vandalize
“who is the you?”
“you who drew parodies across ceilings?” just to find us.
you, you and you and us.
it is a question of intimacy.
taking notes. a lecture. dreaming. hallucinating? sip water from a mason jar.
the night progresses. we stomp through poem. i draw a ram. inadequate. fallen short. Andy and Nasstassia enter. it is over. exit. gather. walk.
we happen upon Chris and Thomas. warm hug. swoon and buy a nectarine and dried fruit and french beer and carry on. to Whitsteen X. the last. last at the ritz. walls covered with whitsteen, marcus hastings, serina zapf, absorb.
itallian version of star wars buzzes on a screen. our art is on the walls. or in our hearts. or broken on the walls.
womyn talk about oppression and bleeding. it is what we talk about. we also smoke on the deck and Thomas tells us visions of the diamond planet. of dinosaurs and symbols. signets of demons. symbols of beings. consciousness. abstract manifestations. not like diamonds planets or the dark planet. not things we want to know about. not things we want to be involved with.
exit. i ride my bicycle. slow circles in the street. play CCR on a dumpstered tape deck. music to march to. noise to dance in streets by. the boys make jokes. we smoke jokes. “car!” arrive at Logan’s. and have no cover. go in the back parking lot. play with clothes. play with kitchen pots left for the thrift store. dress up. a womyn sits amidst the rubble distraught. uses my cell phone. throws my cell phone. at me. catch it. she has a fever. catch it. out front. we sit on cars not our own. and then we storm the entrance. spontaneous manouver.
dance wild to cobras cobras cobras cobras cobras cobras cobras cobras…. drink beer. Nasstassia plays piano. one joins in. one joins in. Karres dances. I clang Andy’s newly acquired cooking-wear-noise-maker. others join in. we howl and growl and clang and piano. cacophony. bar tender turns off the background music and we howl. fucking wild beasts.
canned music returns. we eat blueberries. we leave for the street. we listen to CCR. we smoke. we move arms and legs and hair waves back and forth. there is a glow stick. drunken milling. there are others around us. tape deck tunes. and wanna date? wanna date?
good night richard. good night kris. good night andy. good night karres. good night brynne. good night nasstassia. good night chris. good night chris. good night kyle. good night chase. good night ian.
who coxed sweet easy laughter with incongruous antics. poetic laugh. everyone gets a high five.
ride to the couch at Ashley’s. whose mum slumbers in the guest room. whose new born son sleeps in her bed while she folds laundry. eat cheerios pilfered from cupboards and almond milk. and type on lap top.