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 off 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)
B,C, D, E, F:
bible is stilts for mind-midgets,
brassy as a barnum poster, three-ringed
bible is black and white silent film
with Valentino Christ presiding....
A: (regaining his composure, lighting a cigarette suavely) Terrible, how our needy flesh imagines satisfaction in external monuments.
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.
As you age (if you age bravely), layers
peel themselves back before your eyes,
revealing how fallacious your suppositions
in every direction— yet the fantasy is
ineluctable, an adequate surface— it was
written in her smeared mascara, in black—
kids had, parts played, packages shipped,
all before she turned forty, out to lunch—
He knows, from certain bumps
in the night (impinging shadows)
that his time isn’t long, that
he is of the elect who elected
to try & reform, but to move
forward has to “play log,” can’t
smile, as he checks to see the
cache of pictures beneath his
floorboards is there, besides
something which shouldn’t be
there at all, but is, and is shitty.
They want to sign this kid up for
Little League, kids’ got no last name.
I asked them how this could be,
they wouldn’t answer. I don’t get
it— kids’ got talent, apparently,
but no last name. I turned the case
(I don’t know what else to call it)
over to my supervisor. But things
are getting more and more weird
around here, and there’s a bunch
of things I try not to notice. Who’s
got game these days— catchers.
To be the last Cheltenham stud from my
era left alive— a strange kind of homage
I collect, as a human relic, still strapping,
ready for action, a reminder that points
in time do connect, re-connect. As to what’s
put on display— I never know quite what
to make of the shows: mothers, daughters
preening, replaying scenes from their youth
or scenes self-created, of goddess-like
gracefulness. It’s just that the meth-shots
can’t show them how plastic they look,
or what shit-smeared plastic smells like.
If I’m a jive-ass tarantula,
only because I want to
nail you, I can manage
your venom. I’d rather
do the dance than be the
spider, and die spinning.