Tracks created for performances pieces with dancer/choreographer/poet Mickey Morgan. Two of the tracks were performed in front of a live audience, and one of those got the biggest boo on the biggest stage of my career. I was so proud. Track 3’s words and voice courtesy of Mickey Morgan. Enjoy.
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And of course a guy like Job dreams an awful lot. I mean something had to be going on in the freak’s mind now, right? Something had to be pushing those gears, jumping on those levers, veritably humping those big round red buttons. Something had to be pulling at the roots of his psyche, perhaps a deep wound suffered at the factory precise hands of a modern, or advanced, or enlightened, or progressed, or advantaged, or overabundant, or technologically inclined, or a, or the, or that, or this, culture. Instinctual drives rubbing rudely up against programmed transferred rules, taboos, unnatural bathing habits? Artistic genius blotched ruinously rapid by structural rigidity smacking its bitch up? A fatal dive into Houdini escape fruits like heroin, cocaine, marijuana, or television and food? The blundering sexual robbery of a madcap uncle, neighbor, or parent? Parents tragically stolen by freak accident in train crashing into fish market on Polynesian island mysteriously floated serenely around and about Rhode Island? Fleeing foreign spy killers or enemy alien car salesmen, Chinese revolutionary royalists and the Russian KKK? Completely bored out of his fucking mind? Couldn’t wet his willy in the woman he wanted such wetness from, due to the various the family, the country, the other guy, the other girl, the other and dangling genitalia surprisingly hanging next to that which he believed to be the harbinger of such desired wetness willy-nilly? Shoes too tight? Deeply offended at the sodomizing of innocent otters with long red lipstick dispensers, while sucking on a pair of Nikes with a new dye? Deeply in love with god and guns and hotdogs and his mother?
So at first was the sensation of the bodily need to urinate. That was first. He was hanging by a string from the tip of his penis, a taught yellow rope glistening up into a nicely backlit infinity. A spectacular swinging began, and he started to spin about in swirling circles, and this made him decidedly sick to his stomach. And then there was the furry pryingly invisibly prickling fibers of the nothingness of all the enveloping space which began to tickle him, poke him, scratch poems in his back; scratched, ‘this… nutter… nun…. for…and.for’. All random letters really being random consonants and random vowels and random weavings of the interplay of countless infinite cilia with little sharp bristling points. Everything slowed down some then, the bright yellow rope dissolving from view among the black smothering car wash brushes of infinity. A warm yellow glow began to fill the space around him as he realized the yellow cord had snapped in umbilical eagerness. He did not fall but was held suspended in the middle of the nowhere nothing by the quickly condensing push of the blackness.
Something about spoons, somebody was singing about fucking the pain away, some Irish gobbledygook thrumming in the distance, he seemed to be inhaling a smoke that tasted of humiliation, of not enough numbers. Of not enough strength, of not enough thinness, overwhelming lethargy, spine curling into old wrinkled mush, food taking on the taste of metal, everyone would be wearing white and sky blue.
The gently cracking sun peeked through the boughs green and dripping with a light drizzle. Job finished the hike to the small field. Under the gentle rain he buried his tongue a few inches under and tasted the earth. It curled around his mouth, acidic and all-powerful juice, spiked with green roots of that which dared to move and render. Job felt an intense boredom the likes of which he had never experienced before. It humbled him. It made him small, and he let tears drop in a death freeze in tender syncopation with the gray drops floating down about him.
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He couldn’t wait to just cut it all off. Every inch of flesh was a word, a sentence, and a life. Like popping a hard, swollen zit. He dreamt of tapping his head and the angry woman sitting silently in front of him reading the paper looking for her name. Looking for names she considered hers, names she had bent. She wasn’t finding anything, and this was putting her in a bad mood. Job was writing about himself, in a deep throbbing egoism pushed towards the final gained ability to ascertain the truth of his identity. She just thought he was a selfish jerk, and that he should spend lots more time taking heed of her sound and hard won advice. Not having the energy at the moment to push this point, she continued reading with a frown on her face. People babbled like popcorn around him, in the recognizably American chicken sound. Maybe he was in Canada, or a hip Tokyo café. The minimum wage was totally unnoticed. Thank god he had never fucked her. For some reason, the hard wooden table he sat at made of smoothly worn eight inch wide planks of pine began to rise from underneath his hands and crumble into an expression. It swallowed cigarette ashes like starved children and the essential salt and pepper shakers slid centrifugally towards and into one another with a bright shrill clack. White and black dust was thrown up into the lampshade’s aura, and it stayed there, floating into organic and fractal shapes. The lamped shade bowed in dishonor as the base slid back against the wall and seductively threatened to fall to the floor. The sugar dispenser tipped over and drew an ‘O’ which would have impressed Godot. The beer list cube, completely freaked out by all this nonsense, tumbled clumsily off the edge first chance it could get and gained a nice fat crack from a good whack at the floor. A battle scar she would bare proudly to the end of her expositional days, glorying in the awed gaze of her teepee cardboard display descendants. The table reached the level of his eyes, and showed off her granular planes of eroded wooden existence, great poems of passing drunk gods had been fingered drunkenly over her exposed creases, true loves had been born and died in moist hands grasping each other over her dark all seeing knots, pride, she was.
With a clunk it all falls down into normality as the angry woman opens her mouth. She speaks of future plans, like always. She’ll do this, she’ll do that, she’ll make up for this other thing, she will, the all powerful healer, the will to something, the intention, the plan, the preconception wherein lies the eternal spring of that fucking sick hope.
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