Silent whispers and hushed
cries. She said it might start. There is no sharing there; there is
no saving. Out here where grass grows ((where it shouldn't) the car
lot) and where hand writing cannot be written. The plow finds its
mark. The seed that needs and the plots to stop. Out here; frozen
from the breeze of a lake that thinks itself an ocean. Out there
where the growing occurs. There are no edits here, only a canister
of man: an object that feels itself used for painting purposes. The
great tumble of pen on silent paper; a phone that rings, a sign that
knows itself an icon. Devoid of ink this grass grows as a switch
impacts an ass. Still; frozen, it seeps into the pores: a room too
small, too cold; reaches are now not nouns. Verbs no longer act:
this is contemporary art. That which knows itself for more than it
is because it says so in the script. Eaten like this, the grass is
still; growing on pavement rocks; men have made both: symbols of
their whispers, icons of their cries. Those silent faceless tears
are no longer upon faces but upon contracts. Agreements designed to
fulfill that which is thought to be necessary. Out here------->
-------------------------->
We Are Out!! AND
We
ARE Here. ____________________
.
Lines are drawn
in the grass by pavement and its concrete neighbors. On each side
are silent problems and signatures (initials
here
and
here
).
Out is the
place to be.
Here is never
impossible.
We can be
the true,
The
spoken.
We can
be the narrator.
Out here.
Or Where
there
be a story on
top of a building made of pavement, banana peels and dust/soot from
those silent faces/contracts.
There is a star
for each of us out here.
This is not a
poem manifested or a poetic manifesto.
This is a
contract
and I have
signed it (initials
“But where
does it all come from?” I heard the mime in the back of the room
read from the note cards handed out before the lecture. Only the
mime deserves quotations marks around its verbal utterances. It all
comes from here. That unimagined place where men are not men and
women are not women: where we are children, simply.
here
Out here the
story scrapes the sky. There are no longer impenetrable phalli that
touch the sky's breast. There are only inevitable invitations to
contracts that are faces which weep harmonious tears along the sides
of cheeks that have never felt this cold, sharp blade of grass.
and here).
