... you begin the writes of a passage
and the telling arrests you bold
blatant holding back
of truths and the tale suffers
God give me the grace
to tell the parts of this story that matter
to the listener
help me to weed
the rocks from the soil
planting is necessary for growth
and I want to shoot taller
than this fear
these shoes rigged for flight
right or wrong
I am ignoring the pens scribbling
powerful in the audience
these stories
are truth lived through
survived against odds and even numbers
that fell short of being enough
this evening
I will be myself
regardless of what they say I will be me
out on the jagged limb
I will stand firm
and hope the wood does not break
even then
I will get up from the windows of things broken
mend again
the torn edges
spread the cloth out for viewing
again
such reds and oranges
cannot be silenced
forgive these inclinations to run
I am standing
staying
I am rooted in my choice
even if it rattles me trembling
in sandals
and skirt blowing
the wind can beckon
my face upturned
but I promise to remain
seated
committed to the splendor of sweeter things
than flight
home is the place that allows
the soft drift upon breezes
belting gentle on the narrow current
of
I'll be right back
my mother never did come back
forgive my mistrust
I am still working through the craters
she left gaping on my moon
soon
I will be better able to say things
without the urge to smooth them
for the ears that matter more than me
one day I will know for sure
that for me
no one matters more than me
and you
and the years we have lived through
remember when we were young
twenty years old
twenty six
what a time between effort and actuality
can you believe we were that young
once
I have a photo
smooth and hopeful we stare into the camera
certain of love and revolution
and our place in that struggle
these days
responsibility twists me necessary redesigning
the folds of me into angles
I am my most cruel critic
what can anyone tell me
that I have not flogged brutal on my own back
what can they say
that I do not say to myself
when I am most bruised
most bloodied
I am most strategically placed
nothing to do
but rise from the pulp of flesh
mangled and A-mortal
the spirit only knows
how to survive
long after the cockroaches are dead
I will lean ancient on this pen
and write a poem about us
and how we dared fate
and won
or lost
but we would have tried
the numbers who walk
against the grain in this generation
is small
gadgets and interest rates
and television clips knock more urgent than change
or human rights
or temples as bodies to worship whole
at the foot of one's great love
God grant me
the fortitude
to speak in a voice that will encourage
compassion
sisterhood is only one way to nirvana
if I am to be nothing
more than this
let me do it well
without pomp and ceremony
let me go easy
among the mouths that have
written their own Histories even when
the baring of such details
rapped impossible at doors refusing to be opened
help me
God of small things
to paint an accurate liking of these events
as they occured
see you at the theater/or online
or in our dreams
Staceyann
Previews are mid-stride
And Thursdays looms promising
so many parts of me
congeal
that afternoon/evening knock/s
near and meaningful
the show begins
again
as if we have not been in full throttle
for what seems like eons
we have been here before
but never so much to lose
before
never so much heart invested
so many years
precious the goal slips possible
into perhaps
maybe
we might make something of worth
of this
borders and bodies clash
all the time
this is no different
for Bernice Perry
for Hazel Mills
for Olga Wishart
for Miss Jones
and the dreams she does not speak out loud
for Rabbit and Maz
for Elisha/Randi
for Ashly
for all the times we had to survive
hard steps and broken hearts
and romances
that did not hold us at our optimal angle
This show is for my brother
Delano and my small sister Larah
I see you both
negotiating adulthood and new boundaries
this is for my great grandmother
Mama Lou
I apologize for not having come sooner
I might have become friends with you
great grandmother
midwife
tie-head
kind handed woman
had I been born two decades earlier
for the doctor and Metta
who likes to color beyond the alloted lines
my grandaunt
for Lisa who will come to me from Munich
this summer
for all the names I dare not write
outwrite
for the names I no longer remember
for the mothers who let me rest when I needed some mothering
June
Pamela
Ruby
Ms Johnson
Carol
I am grateful thursday looms
large in the knot of tales told
in pieces
parts of women
we have long buried without gravestones
I mark you as having existed
Zora
Harriet
Sojourner
my father
I am not so much angry at you
as indifferent
most days I am indifferent
my apologies
I am yearning towards evolution
this is my life
told in vignettes
as remembered by me/a life
is always a sliver of what is told
behold these are the parts
that make me sane
the others rest silent on hills I have not climbed yet
sometimes I view them from my lovers arms
from there they look
surmountable
knocking animal
and strange I creep to the edge
plant myself firmly at the foot of such mountains
today and I am defiant
on thurdsay
afternoon/eveing
I will tell the wall to go fuck itself
in a theater
in a city
in a place I have loved you before
I will hold you
precious
as a tale told well
on Thursday
I will promise you truth
and all I ask is that you hold me
safe in the curve of an honest ear
in hope,
Staceyann
... in two days
aaarrrggghhh!!!
ok. So went Jamaica. and Jamaica. and Jamaica again. and that was my last trip to Jamaica until the show closes
arrrggghhh!!!
ok
the days have meandered
into the learning of lines
the pledging of a telling
a story
just begining
ends of things and how
they frighten me
still
they speak of wide open tales
brothers and nieces
and bodies coming to see me
strange
I have always gone to see you
wild
surprise girl with the two times
you have shown up
unexpected
and beautiful
night-time and summer and surprises
and you
and distance
the years have made you
more romantic
under the skin
at first glance you are praticum
erect in principle
but that is only skin
not so deep
I sniff you illogical see you
slip un-
noticed down the slight angle of need
and want
and desire
I desire you litanies
lists really
of things we plan to do
when we both breathe the same time
zone
zip past the same
postal code
perhaps
and suddenly the phone
sings you present here in my ear
talking blizzards and bounty
blue walls and wet waters and boats
and writers at sea
what a thing to be so honest
and open
for me and you this connection sleeps as door
between what we feel and how we intend to do
all that we wish for each other
I will love you
even if no one comes to see me prance
ants and hopping on a glass stage
rage and wrestle with love
and wanting more than I was given to me at birth
kiss me and I will tell
how good it was whispering
and inappropriate
catcalls and strips of things that used to be a calf
covered with a thing
dried and cut
into strips
and I am vague
because love sometimes makes quiet noises
when everything is loud
we are quiet
waves crashing hush
blush and molasses and midnight
snuggles that paint me
perfect
and you reflect my flaws as beautiful
winning and wonderful
you make me want to laugh with liquid in my mouth
lychee juice
and a show daring to be honest
like you
I like you/little spirit
sea and sun and me tanned
with the breath of you built into me
permanent
too many years have passed to paint me
leaving
I will always be here
in this place of trusting you with my softest fears
who cares if the world
tags me temporary
I am me
changing always
plucked from the window of things
prudent
Previews begin on the 3rd.
please come,
Staceyann