a

succession

of

dream

0.

Rush of morning air, wake

up. The sheets rustle with my

timid movements.

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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