0. Rush of morning air, wake up. The sheets rustle with my timid movements.
a succession of dream
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.”
Amber Renee
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