You always wait for Kate's
next move, and when it's
finished you can light a
cigarette, stare off into space,
peer into the windows of distant
buildings, holding offices that
probably have swivel chairs,
people who know more
about money than you do,
but stay too busy to do what
you do, which is each other
on the phone, oh baby oh yes,
jacked/in-box full of what
you jerk from these digital kisses-
Chop up text from dirty French
novels, throw in some candy
hearts, make it a production, all
for what reason? That this is all
building to some astonishing
climax, as our bodies reach
through envelopes to grasp
with greedy hands desired limbs?
I'm not sick of it yet, because it
is interesting to dance with raw
desire- to imagine the eyes,
the breasts, the sex, how they all
might look in motion, in rapture,
in the only text that really matters.
Dada Circus: Outlaw Playwrights: State College Pa: 9-24-98
man in black ambles slowly and deliberately onstage, possibly bearing roses. He
seats himself in a chair at a table stage left. His name is James Douglas.)
J: Everything’s a fight these days. We’ve
got to fight evil! Fight racism! Free the Tibetan monks! Help the Bosnians with
money, blood, sweat and tears! I see kids walking around today wearing army
jackets from some thrift-store, and you know it doesn’t mean a thing to them.
The kids aren’t fighting; it’s the Baby Boomers, that’s who’s at the heart of
our modern malaise! They know damn well that they had it better than any
generation in American history— no world wars and no AIDS. I, personally,
identify with these kids today. But then, I’m young at heart. (violent knock at
the door) Probably someone soliciting for some goddamned Mothers Against Drunk
Driving— (James opens the door to find three men in nothing but boxer shorts—
Elmer, Homer, and Omar)
E: Are you James Douglas?
J: Are you a homosexual?
E: No sir— we are Elmer!
O: And Omar!
H, O: (in unison) We’re a pseudo-quasi-ersatz-alterna-white-funk-Chili Pepper
rip off band!
J: Chili Pepper wha…?
E: Could you please let us in, sir? We’re
J: Why the hell should I let you hoodlums
into my humble abode?
E: Did you not hear us? We are Elmer!
J: Alright, alright, come in. (they enter)
Now what the hell are you doing here? I ain’t givin’ any money to no charity!
E: We’re from the Society for the Humane
Treatment of Overused Undergarments, and if you don’t clothe us, we’ll have to
shampoo you (holding up Pert-Plus bottle).
O: Have you ever witnessed an Oriental
Shampoo attack? It isn’t pleasant.
H, O form a circle around James, shampoo their hands)
J: (nervously) Do you boys like paintings?
I could give you one in lieu of clothes— I’m an artist too!
O: Far out? We can’t shampoo this guy! (the
J: Alright, now get the hell outta here.
E: We’re naked and it’s freezing— have you no
J: No! I ain’t got no come, and I ain’t got
no passion! (grabbing them) Now git! (slams shut the door) Y’ know, they say
what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. They’ll find clothes, and they’ll be
stronger for having suffered. Just between you and me, I know this is some
artsy-fartsy play. I know you’re watching me, and I don’t like it. It’s
Orwellian. What do you want me to do, jumping jacks? (starts doing jumping
jacks) Now this is character development! This is transformation! I am in the
moment! I am playing the lines! I am playing the lines! (he stops) Alright, now
I’ll sit here and wait. (violent knock at door). Probably another naked rock
opens the door to find a man in a Richard Nixon Halloween mask. We’ll call him
D: Trick or treat?
J: Is it Halloween?
D: No! It’s the 24th anniversary
of the first day of Watergate hearings! Long live Tricky Dick!
J: Now here’s a real man! Alright, Dick,
you can come in on one condition— you have to leave your mask on. Here, have a
seat. (Dick sits) So, I was telling the audience earlier that the Baby Boomer
generation is the source of our modern malaise— wouldn’t you agree?
D: Let me contact Nixon for an answer.
J: You can communicate with him?
D: Yes, but it’s funny— he doesn’t want to
talk about politics. After Nixon died he went into therapy— it’s done wonders
for his self-esteem. He and Pat are even making love again.
J: Without bodies?
D: No; apparently they’ve taken to possessing
Bill and Hillary in their intimate moments.
J: I thought Hillary Clinton was frigid?
D: She is. Hillary is a prostitute working
the red-light district of Washington.
J: Is she attractive?
D: Richard says she looks like Nancy Reagan,
J: Can I ask you a personal question?
J: Do you have any allegorical significance?
D: No, I’m a cipher.
J: Sorry to hear it.
D: The pay’s good and I’m going to write a
J: Will it sell?
D: Richard’s BIG in purgatory.
J: So the Catholics are right?
D: No- in heaven that’s what they call New Jersey.
on door—James answers—Attractive middle-aged Anne Bancroft type)
J: Who’re you? You better not try to sell
C: I’m Claire Avon and I’m sleeping with your
J: Well then you better come right in and
tell me all the juicy parts!
D: Ha! Ha! Ha! It’s just like “The Graduate”!
Richard loves that one! “Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson, Jesus loves you…”
J: (cutting him off) That’s enough, Dick.
Have a seat, Claire.
C: There are no chairs.
J: I didn’t say have a chair, Claire!
C: (seating herself on the floor) Your son is
ruining my life!
D: Wait…I feel Richard coming…yes! He wants
to say…Claire…your…you can’t say that, sir, you’re a President!
C: (approaching Dick) You can communicate
D: Just Richard Nixon. Why do you think I’m
so happy all the time?
J: Alright, Claire, obviously you want me
to help you, and you’re certainly well made up. In fact, I’m not sure where the
makeup stops and you start.
C: Your son is mad— he’s always kicking and
punching and screaming and yelling!
J: Then why don’t you have any bruises?
C: He doesn’t hurt me— he just punches and
kicks aimlessly, and in public places too. It’s embarrassing!
D: So why don’t you leave him, and then you
C: I can’t leave Andre…he’s the most considerate
lover I’ve ever had!
this point, the action freezes. Elmer appears onstage again, still clad in
boxers. He snaps his fingers and Claire, James, and Dick collapse. Elmer sits
center stage, Indian style.)
E: That scene was going downhill fast, and
now here I am because the playwright wants to jar you. (Rising, bellowing) My
friends are dead! The band is over! No more cocaine! No more groupies! No more
amps that go to 11 and MTV Music Awards with Courtney Love! (he snaps his
J, D rise to their former positions)
J: (advancing to Claire) Well, why don’t
snaps— C, D, J collapse)
E: I wonder if I could get these idiots to
sing the Doors. (Addressing them) When I snap my fingers, you will all become
Jim Morrison simultaneously. (He snaps his fingers)
C, D rise, link arms, line dance, singing “Come on baby light my fire” twice—
the third time, Elmer snaps his fingers and they collapse again.)
E: It seems I have complete control over
these people onstage— but how much control do I have over you? I want you all
to laugh at me. Do it!...Do it! It’s just a game, right? I don’t care what you
do. It’s every man for himself, cause this is war! Everything’s a fight these
days, isn’t it? We’ve got to fight evil! Fight racism! Free the Tibetan monks!
J: Now wait a minute, boy— those are my
E: You’re the only one allowed to fight evil?
J: Wake Richard Nixon up, too.
E: Richard Nixon can’t wake up. That’s what
being Richard Nixon means!
J: (attacking him) Why you little…
freezes. Homer and Omar appear onstage, normally dressed. They snap their
fingers and James and Elmer collapse.)
H: When we die, the play’s over.
O: Pretty existential, isn’t it?
H: Not if you look at it metaphysically.
O: Which means?
H: We’re actors playing a scene. “Actor” is
just a personalization of action, and everyone is performing an action at all
O: Even Richard Nixon?
H: No— we’re talking about the living.
O: What about a Republican like George Bush?
H: Again, no— we’re talking about the living.
O: So what action is George Bush performing
at all times?
O: But aren’t the dead, just by not living,
performing a sort of negative action?
H: Ask Keith Richards.
O: We sound like we’re in a Tom Stoppard
H: No, not a Tom Stoppard play, THE Tom
O: He’s only written one?
H: Yes— the rest he just sort of threw up.
O: That’s an action.
H: Isn’t Tom Stoppard not an actor?
O: That’s true.
H: Affirmation— twenty-love!
H: You called?
H: We’re playing the question game.
O: Explanation— twenty-all!
rises, screams, charges between Homer and Omar)
E: Plagiarizing! You’re plagiarizing!
H: It’s in the script. (he pulls out a copy)
Have a look.
E: It’s a sham! It’s a travesty of a mockery
of a mockery of a sham!
O: That’s plagiarized too.
E: At least he’s honest.
E: No, the playwright.
H: Oh— him.
O: Are we honest?
E: Who knows? There’s no plot in this piece
and no character development. It’s DADA— we’re not really anything.
H: That’s the playwright talking.
E: I didn’t write the play.
O: No one does.
H: How Zen.
E: Shall we meditate?
Elmer, Omar line up at front of stage, close their eyes, assume lotus position.
D: You have no idea how uncomfortable it is
in this mask. I don’t know why I accepted this role— I’m not even getting paid.
I’ve spent half of this thing on my back, the other half singing “Light My
Fire” and pretending to be a Republican psychic. I have some news for you,
folks— there are no Republican psychics.
C: And I get to be the Avon
lady— real fuckin’ funny! I’ve had the stupidest lines in the whole script!
D: That “considerate lover” bit?
C: I cringed in rehearsal every time I read
it. I asked them to edit it out.
D: Are you fucking a teenager?
C: I am a fucking teenager!
J: Why are we all just standing around?
This is a play, isn’t it? Whoever heard of a play where nothing happens?
C: Well, look, they’re meditating.
J: Is that really an action?
D: We talked about this before, didn’t we?
C: Someone did.
D, C snap their fingers— E, H, O rise—E, H, O snap their fingers— J, D, C
E: Do you get the feeling we’re not alone
H: And why do we keep snapping our fingers?
O: Remember— the other three.
E: Oh, the other three— of course.
H: We’re stagnating, guys.
O: I bet they’re getting tired of the whole
“stand up, collapse” bit.
E: Now wait a minute! Obviously we’re here for
a reason— they’ll be patient—
audience) won’t you?
H: Dammit, I’ve got something in my boot!
O: Does it hurt?
H: He wants to know if it hurts…
snaps his fingers—H, O collapse)
E: I know in the script I’m supposed to
commit suicide now. Just because this started as a comedy, you thought it would
end one? Here’s a secret for you, folks— change is absolute. Change is the only
Absolute in the Universe! This is LIVING THEATER— it doesn’t create a fantasy
world for you to lose yourself in— it confronts you with life! Sure it’s
pretentious, but it’s better than some sitcom, right? Isn’t art supposed to
grab you by the balls? By the neck (screaming) By the throat? (Elmer clutches
his neck, choking, collapsing)
Mortuary Puppies: Outlaw Playwrights: State College Pa: 2-11-99
men and three women in black robes sit in a semi-circle; a candle sits before
them, and a box of bibles. Inverted pentagrams are drawn on their foreheads,
and their faces are powdered stark white, black lips. Call them A, B, C, D, E,
off his robe to reveal black jeans and tee-shirt) I have no supernatural
insight! I can’t cast a spell!
B: (pinching his stomach) I’m fat! I eat too
C: (rising, miming an Indian rain-dance) You
guys take yourselves too seriously. I can’t blame you. We’re desperate for a
leader. (pulling his hood over his head) We’re living slumberously. We’d rather
surf the Net then the ocean. We’d rather rent movies than make them. Lust is
the only thing you can rely on. (crumbling into a heap on the floor, writhing)
D: (approaching C, comforting him with an
embrace) Sex dominates our lives, but we don’t want to admit it. (she peels
hood off C’s head and kisses him passionately)
E: (picking up a copy of Playboy from beneath
the candle, lighting a page on fire) Look at this shit. Exploitation is
B: (pointing accusingly at E) You’re
desperate! You’re an accident waiting to happen! (he shrinks away from E,
pointing a cross at him)
E: (chasing B around in a circle) Hatred is
the spice of life! Your subtle sensibilities are corrupt with bullshit!
F: (coming downstage left, lying flat on
ground) Every man harbors a secret desire to be Superman.
D: (rising, tearing off robe to reveal
glamorous dress, breaking into a supermodel strut) I am revolver! I am bomb! I
am grenade! I can hurt!
E: (walking aimless circles) Like idlers at
the funeral of a psychiatrist. (collapsing onto his knees in prayer) Like a
pitchfork stuck into eternity’s stomach.
F: (frantically doing sit-ups) This was the
determinist exercise, intellectualized, spectacle-juiced.
C: (catching D in a full-nelson) This was
detrimental planets of chanting, word-place unstymied, climaxed with whoredom!
D: (breaking away from C, spitting on him)
This was the court of maybe adjourned, wrestled with casual moaning blizzards!
A: (doing Michael Jackson “moon-walk”
downstage) God cooperates with Truth and Justice. God is millions of uptight
people fucking themselves!
B: (taking off his shoes, beating himself in
the head with them) God is implements of destruction stewing in vats!
C: (finding a razor, preparing to slit his
wrists) God is a spider piercing heaven with venom and menace!
A: (knocking razor out of C’s hand) Fuck
death! Death is the refuse of flies! (the rest of the group forms a semi-circle
around him, begins falling at his feet and feeling him up sensually, lust in
their eyes) Death is the pulse of underwater nowhere! (the group begins to
sex-pant) Death is the thin arm of ridiculous waving! (the group begins to
climax violently) You’re all a bunch of babbling crabs! (he breaks from them
and they whimper) Let us ride. Let us worship a lesbian gopher. Let us spit our
vehemence. (he takes out a copy of the Bible from under the candle; in it are
five copies of the poem “bible”; he distributes them; the rest of the group
forms a line at the front of the stage and recites this poem)
C, D, E, F: bible is stilts for
brassy as a Barnum
bible is black and white
Valentino Christ presiding
bible holds governments
in thrall, muzzles
mouth, defecates on judges heads
bible is Godfather
ordering a kill,
hovering outside abortion clinic w/
bible is Pat Buchanan
riding GOP elephant
towards Bethlehem, stampeding over
bible is 700 Club
demanding money, bogus
tears in their eyes,
bible is King Silence
faced w modern ambiguity,
rage in frail hearts
bible’s enemy is
longing howling w compassion
bible is fire blowing
bible is exclusivity
spilling its heinous seed
bible is shelled
bible is vomit of fear
bible is a lie, an
to shit in it you have
to flush yourself
the poem, A has been tearing pages from his bible, chewing them and spitting
them out. When the poem ends, he tosses the bible into the audience)
A: (approaching the other five, he tips the
first in line and they fall, domino style) Somehow I found myself spending time
with teenagers in coffee joints. I happened to lose my bearings and had no
better place to go.
C, D, E, F: (from the floor, doing the wave, in unison) God is a cornball with
a draggy scheme!
A: I fucked one of them but I…(weeping)
C, D, E, F: (unison, pointing at him accusingly) Sometimes impotence knows
A: (regaining his composure, lighting a
cigarette suavely) Terrible, how our needy flesh imagines satisfaction in
B: (rising, kneeling before A) Shut your eyes
and listen— the thread of children’s voices will hold our hearts in place, cozy
as a hammer’s nail or tire tracks on blacktop roads.
C: (rising, kneeling before B) I haven’t seen
my father in seven years! He jerked off in front of me and brought home porn!
D: (rising, kneeling before C) Precious bulbs
bloom form horde together beg!
E: (rising, stripping off his robe in
disgust) You guys are fucking ridiculous. Why do you have to make a production
out of everything?
F: (rising, facing audience) Emancipate my
claustrophobia! Respect my wedding dress! Ponder my teabags! Sleep! (she spits
into the audience)
A: (taking F by the neck in a vice-grip) Do
you belong to a food group?
F: (fighting A off, wailing) Sleep on
sea-sunk nail-beds! Sleep in tart plum wine!
B: (saluting) The President’s power is
measured in inches! Stars and stripes become a big boner! The bald eagle a
flying come-shot! When the President comes, the earth quakes! The President is
A: (letting go of F, attacking B) Your head
is fuzzy with pussy-dreams!
B: (fighting him off) Saddam Hussein our
leather dominatrix! Bush has discovered the joys of jello! Our head of state
has a seventh-grade heart!
A: (letting go of B, lighting another
cigarette) Butt. Universal emblem of frailty.
D: (approaching him sexily) You should put me
in your mouth. I come lit. I don’t produce noxious fumes. You can put me out,
if you want. (caressing his torso) Quit me. Leave me a butt on your ashtray.
Keep my ashes in a vase. Cart me out for the relatives on holidays. Sprinkle me
on the Easter turkey. I’ll make a hero of you; you don’t need cigarettes! (she
removes the cigarette from A’s titillated lips)
A: (falling on his knees before D, who’s now
smoking his cigarette) You’re the strum of Spanish minstrels, smooth thumbed
suck & burst!
B: (hugging himself, shivering) Man holds
himself stiff, pretending impotence.
A: (rising from his knees) He is not
sleeping. He dares not to dream. His breath comes in little filaments. He fears
C: (clutching his stomach, rocking back and
forth) His skirmish is entirely interior. He will die clenched down on some
teething ring, bent over from exertion, wishing he had a bolder to push up a
D: (chastising them, hands on hips) This is
all exercise. A ruse. A pigeon’s quip.
F: (sudden wail) Exit signs get in my eyes!
Clocks insult me with nakedness and smoke! Tortures of unmovement! I am the
lost quim of Venus!
D: (hissing at F, giving him the finger) I
can’t handle your vibes. Silence is the climate I aspire to.
A: (approaching D, hand on heart) I can’t
amend myself any further. What is the great truth of your cock-eyed haunches?
Bring out my bastard and love him!
D: (pushing A away, filing her nails) I
proclaim myself a feminist scholar! I will not hide amidst the masks of action.
F: (approaching D, pushing A out of the way)
From across the room I sense your distance! People who cannot feel are always
fugitives! You eschew the possibility of female erection!
A: (throwing F to the ground) Conversation
crucifies my pure thrust! Love is my dharma-soap and she’s the box!
C: (still clutching his stomach, rocking) We
are a generation of matches! We cannot differentiate intelligence from
confusion! We are nerves without ending! We feel safest alone!
D: (settling herself in C’s lap) Bed you down
on rocks of scotch and time. My groove will ride your pale manipulations of
C: (throwing D off) Reflect is the principle
D: (angrily, to C) Fuck your three-wheeled
baby carriage scruples! You’re a mortuary puppy!
C: (slowly, deliberately) I’ve been rigged
with chess-piece brains!
D: (approaching him again, tenderly) Share
your flesh, share your heart, make me whole I’ll give you part.
C: (resignedly) Sobriety obliterates my
supple. There are no rosetta stones in your foam.
D: (kicking him) Bolders are blundering your
mountain! Shadows are glistening your shit! Crosses are sucking up your vomit!
Life cooperates with pride and abundance! Death cooperates with shy and
repentance! (she begins crying)
A: (moving to console, hold her) Love
cooperates with everything lovely. Don’t feel soft among the steely geniuses
who know what to do! You inspired my first published poem, in a dream of
supernatural poise! (he wraps D in his arms)
F: (sudden frenzy) Nothing to kill or die
for! No religion too!
E: (coming out of trance-sleep) Fuck that!
Lennon thought peace was worth dying for, didn’t he? He made Yoko into a
religion, didn’t he? We all heard that!
A: Well, that’s love for you. Yoko was his
E: (to group) Do you guys believe that?
C: Vestial virgins shrimps and pillars…banana
bombs…cocktails of TV static…the thin arm of ridiculous waving! Sins! Window
seeds tempt me into comfort!
E: This was a tower-clock striking midnight.
This was the bumble of racketing rapids. This was the prick of heroic Hercules!
(he produces a copy of the bible) This existed! Ha!
C: (rising, eyes closed) Move! Anywhere!
E: (at lip of stage, with blazing eye) Shut
your eyes and listen— the thread of children’s voices will hold our hearts in
place, cozy as a hammer’s nail, or tire tracks on blacktop roads…
Monk is a North Lancashire poet with no phony airs, affected graces, put on pretensions, or performary hubris prevalent
in numerous others less naturally gifted and with a less diligently
sustained poetic attainment than this truly brilliant self-trained Ban Filí faery
woman experientially versed in the apical
compositional skill of the poet, imbhas forosnai - 'prophetic illumination' - in bardic practice one of the Three Things Required of a Poet.
The Wonder Inn
is 'a creative wellness centre based in a beautiful old listed building
built in 1810 in the centre of Manchester. Our focus is to raise the
vibrations of our community and the planet through creativity and the
celebration of art.'
It begins at seven pm, and is free admittance.
also reading is someone I may have been in the same as and occasionally
read of as being actively reading live shortly after one stepped away
in 2008 from four years poetic pranks on Dublin's weekly live poetry and
spoken word scene: 'a scholar, ideas person and a perfectionist', whose
poems, Afric McGlinchey writes, in Cork's premier literary magazine, The Penny Dreadful; 'are exciting, daring, original and hard-earned. Moreover, they have something to say.'
We can what they say tonight from the mouth of the Irish-American Elkhart, Indiana poet KimberlyCampanello, who is ' like Billy Ramsell,
attempting something new, something challenging and inspiring and
radical, something that hasn’t been seen before in contemporary Irish
Joining Campanello and Monk tonight are fellow experimental poetry and literary avant-garde culture professionals, IainMorrison; and 'one of the most interesting and inspiring authors writing flashes today', a live performance spoken slam poet
Blackwell's called 'the lit scene's most chic starlet', and Manchester
Music helpfully informs the Reader that 'The detail in her observations
can turn the most mundane setting to one you want to experience ... her
style keeps listeners eagerly wanting more': Sarah-Clare Conlon.
May all our love be large and all our sorrow small.