#4 Illusions of a Horizon

we are illusions
conjuring up images 
of a non-existent centre
that seems to come and go
like the dawn
like the illusion 
of hope

#4 Waking Up & Growing Up

growing up on an island just so out of nothing you come to an approach to performance to life to living which allows you to play with the superficiality of the everyday busy-ness or bacchanal activity of the foreground in such a way that the fundamental background that is always there is eventually revealed waiting as it were but that background is so obvious it cannot be explained nor can what happens there be put into words because nothing is happening really there is just an is-ness there where the sea is everlastingly curving under a horizon that is not there hills standing there doing nothing blocking out the rising sun casting shadows that dance then disappear that is the surprise of a jouvay morning realisation that jouvay that stillness that silence in the midst of activity in the midst of noise that is waking up through a performance of the shifting foreground to the permanence of the so-called background that is not permanent at all so jouvay is not really a process that leads to anything it is just an ordinary ritual of the sunrise that the people make in the silence

#3 Waking for Joe

I meet Joe
On the Piccadilly Greens
He is sleeping among the bleachers and his knotted beard
As the mid-night sweepers go about their cleaning
After the 5.00 am Riots
Is this Joe Talmana? The Joe Talmana?
The sun is almost up fully, still in motion
Gun shots ring out
Off in the distance, not so distant
Is it guns or bayonets?
What do bayonets going off sound like?
This Joe wouldn't know
These sounds don't disturb him anymore
Joe wakes up as the horse piss and canal water
Carrying pop corn and beer
Run over the cracked leather of his aching two feet
"Mama, we is people too"
Joe does not recognise me nor the song
He looks up in space as if to say
"You too" and in silence he walks off
Leaving his bois behind in a drain
Heading for George Street

I don't dare call out to him

#2 My Face

I can never remember my face
I can't remember my own face
Even sometimes when I think
I see it in a mirror of a pool
I can't I don't recognise it
Once I thought I did and I jumped
The changes in the water mesmerise
I can't remember any ideas
Of my face that I may have seen
I don't recognise any ideas
Inside my head that I may have heard

U. V. I.

#1 SOUCOUYANT* (a womanifesto)

as it is written in the dew

one early pre-dawn, a soucouyant, after her night errands flying around as a ball of fire, hesitated to return to the safety of her skin. she had spent the night fulfilling the mission of the universe, traversing the skies in a fire of red hot passion and using her ample lips to carry out blood transfusions to purify her community’s circulation, sucking in and spitting out all of its poisons and toxicities. yes, communications to behold. 

- Jouvay? Jouvay! Jou paka ouvay! Daybreak? –

once these words came out of her mouth, in the split moment of that hesitation, a new world had been created. she did not know that she had created a new world through the crowning of this darkness before the dawn, as an awakening dissolving time and space, as ‘jouvay’. a creation story was started on that first ‘jouvay’, a creation story with all its treacheries and teachings. for she could not avoid the breath of the little school boys with big ideas and over-sized teenaged teeth gnawing down her neck, waiting with deadly salt to sprinkle the insides of her empty skin. her lonely, empty skin propped by a stone waiting patiently for her, next to her parked Nissan under the silk cotton tree, if she entered after the first light came up, that would have allowed them time to sift through fingers and thumb their spray of salt unto her bare, naked skin. and she knew once that happened before she entered her skin, on entering she would immediately combust and go up in a blaze of glory. the small boys of circumstance and situation, in their stiff khaki pants, blue shirts and polished shoes, would be in their glee, for as usual, they know not what they do. she knew that there is always a fear of the one who is alone. so quickly, in that semi-darkness, under the acrylic limbo of pink and blue, she entered her skin before the first light one more time and once inside the frame of those tender and weary bones she knew she would be safe. safe behind the silenced alarm of the vehicle, she eventually reaches past her bedroom door to sleep for a while. she could hear the electronic feedback from the shrill laughter of the bright boys scampering away. and so she knew she was spared on that day to continue her journey of cleansing, maybe flying around town for yet another night. soon.

(more to come)

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soucouyant