The Dollhouse with the Red Corvette

The [Dollhouse with the Red Corvette] is a lateral, vertical, linear, horizontal, and spherical art installation.  It is a poesy puzzle for verse or graffiti, with sublime imagery.  It functions like a mnemonic, a telltale pastiche for found poesy — in a digital world. Some of the pieces fit, and some are misfits — that lead to other immersions… in this stained-glass heaven — this society in the machine…

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]

Copyright © 2017 E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved.

 

 

Woodstock! (WIP (x Bars)) [Reserved][Reserved] 3.0

Overture:  Woodstock is an ensemble.  There are two voices and the beat in this WIP… the Narrator’s voice, Hitchcock’s, and “That Yoni” by JuseBeats!  

 

In a walk through Whole Foods like Hitchcock

In his magnum opus

about a world… full of extras

in architectonic loops and links, alliteration and reverie, force, ballast, fancy partitions, linear renderings, systems of reckoning and more — of her…

He wants

Beddo, Caprini, Dolce Sardo

Zufi, the Saperavi

He nods

I’m  thinking

Disappointed… in us!

[There’s no other way to say it — I can’t dress it up]

Caught between a slumbering scream and Vertigo

Cruising isles and isles of sweet and sour

People who think they are special

People who know they are not

People who wish they were

Impeccable

He wants

Beddo, Caprini, Dolce Sardo

Zufi, the Saperavi

Whispers prologue

Guess what we did?

A Springboard!

A party of twenty

Three couples played before

winking and willing

shills playing in the round

Lovely trips on the Hill

in augmented VR

I’m thinking…

Baby boomers had their turn Woodstock!

Barefoot bell bottomed hippies

Denim sweeping the ground

[Reserved]

[Reserved]

Revolutionary hair —  fists in the air

Dragging us back in the mud

Blunt antiquity

Move on Woodstock!

Take your shades, caps, change and loose articles

Bombs in black holes!

[Where did you go?]

We should be sunning in the Bahamas

chilling on hemp swings and

chairs swiveling in immersive environments

Higher than kite fights

A soaring for points experience

Get off the ride Woodstock!

You had your turn — at freedom

Thank you

Exit signs are easy to find — look

The dragon is in the window

Freedom is accessible

Wonder is a trip

with walk through assistants

Dreams of power and prizes

Optional…

Fall out and Jack into

a walk through Whole Foods like Hitchcock

in his magnum opus

about a world… full of extra

architectonic loops and links, alliteration and reverie, force, ballast, fancy partitions, linear renderings, systems of reckoning — and more — of her… virtually surreal

He wants

Beddo, Caprini, Dolce Sardo

Zufi, the Saperavi

Whispers song

We don’t want to feel we’re high…

We just want to think we’re high

in Dubai

We don’t want to feel we’re high…

We just want to think we’re high

in Dubai

Copyright © 2016 E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved.

 

I’ve toyed with a conundrum, for too long. [Reserved][Reserved] functions like a digital art installation in Woodstock! (WIP (x Bars)).  I could render [Reserved][Reserved] a mechanism – to catch That Yoni’s beat in perpetuity.  I could close the brackets with bars that fills your loins with blood.  I could leave redundant emptiness here — like tautology or romanticized art, or structural language — in this bifurcated space, like stars.

I could invite Poets to fill [Reserved][Reserved]

 

 

Woodstock! (WIP (x Bars)) [Reserved][Reserved]

 

Overture:  Woodstock is an ensemble.  There are two voices and the beat in this WIP… the Narrator’s voice, Hitchcock’s, and “That Yoni”.  See Side Bar by JuseBeats!  

Continue reading

[Reserved][Reserved] — An Invitation to Dine

Dear Poet, [Yes, you]

I’ve toyed with a conundrum, for too long. [Reserved][Reserved] functions like a digital art installation in Woodstock! (WIP (x Bars)).  I could render [Reserved][Reserved] a mechanism – to catch That Yoni’s beat in perpetuity.  I could close the brackets with bars that fills your loins with blood.  I could leave redundant emptiness here — like tautology or romanticized art, or structural language — in this bifurcated space, like stars.

I could invite Poets to fill [Reserved][Reserved] with dope poesy and select a date for submission. However, if we receive one hundred thousand and one couplings, we’d read them…  but frankly, why not do, all of the above.

The empty brackets function like missing endings now — lacking only your bylines, pseudonyms, and ghosts — in translatable bars that work in Woodstock! (WIP (x Bars)).

Poets make this space immersive.  Explode – The Writer’s Environment is an interactive environment — and this is the first foray for interactivity in this community — that links back to you!

Starting August 15, 2017 — let’s finish this poem with the best bars — curated for Woodstock! (WIP (x Bars)) here…  Bon appétit.

The Chelsea Hotel, Manhattan  — No Spam — Balls in the air! A real experience for us and them.

Copyright © 2017 E Maria Shelton Speller

 

Tagging Dystopia

 

McKay shouts and then nearly whispers to Ellison, ‘It takes more than creative androgyny to “embody” the opposite sex. The storytelling responsibility of all writers, whether female or male is to fill the void. When a woman creates a man, she must imagine the sensation of “owning” a penis. When a man creates a woman, he must imagine the sensation of “owning” a vagina. It is a void, not a vacuum. A vacuum would imply the all-consuming black hole — the feminization of sex. It is not trained comprehension or chromosomes — it takes pure imagination to get the story straight…’

 

 

Copyright © 2017 E Maria Shelton Speller  All rights reserved.

Update #4 — Super News! Explode — The Writer’s Environment is a Spring 2017 Experiential Network (XN) Project Sponsor — for Northeastern University!

Explode — The Writers Environment

Spring XN Project

COMING SOON!

E Maria Shelton Speller

Project Sponsor

 

Weiwei “Vivi”Huang

Interface Designer

Tejasvi Kandula

Programmer

Yingqian “Selina” Jiang

Project Manager

Girl Band of STEMs

my eyes

 

Girl Band of STEMs, is a lark, a careful ruse about a writer, who comments on her own stories. It is metafiction in a digital world. This, I would argue. The author writes a story about herself, writing a story about her Band, and the Band knows they’re in the story, about a story that interacts with you.  She writes a story, where her audience is her muse – may demand she change the ending, in an installation we build in space — for dreams, on a loop…

The Band asked me to write tags for my work. Tags!  But, opportunity or obstacle… the Muse is insatiable — until it works.  Poets know that tick, when everything becomes art – in a second glance. Woodstock, was absolute freestyle in a digital world. I worked on it for weeks… and wrote it Live one Saturday afternoon – five hundred revisions at least. Poets know that tick. I changed commas to periods and back again  – metaphors to imagery, slowed it down, sped it up. Reminisced. If you were there on that Saturday afternoon, Woodstock was a writer’s tick at work.   I wrote the hook on the 7th Street Bridge.  Installed [Reserved][Reserved] when I lost my way.  Found the beat, marked the spot, and then it looked like a digital art installation, in spite of the implications — for structural functionalism in space. But, my muse is pissed…

Tag:  A Band of Immersive Content.  A Woodstock Experience.

Tag: Metafiction — [The Dollhouse] with the Red Corvette:  [Vous êtes contrarié parce que je suis sorti du lit. Ce n’était pas ce que tu imaginais – dans le film dans ta tête. Je ne peux pas aller aux toilettes, quitter la pièce ou fumer une cigarette. smh]

Copyright © 2017 E Maria Shelton Speller  All rights reserved.

About a Prisoner of Love

me-now

About a Prisoner of Love (Props to Christopher Logue’s War Music: An Account of Homer’s Iliad)

Look at the smile on my face. I knew you were selfish. Abandoned, you left me on the side of the road. Gone. Put yourself in my place. Left, on the side of the road. Naked. I knew you would own me — broken and falling to pieces — in swirling storming faints. I would let you stand me on my head, spin me like a top, a dreidel — and catch me before I fell. Then, you said you would sleep with her because, “Why not?  It’s not a competition — though you might win. Its not about… us.” That’s ballsCUT!

 

Copyright © 2017 by E Maria Shelton Speller.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

 

 

Comments Off on About a Prisoner of Love Posted in Short short

Update #3 — Super News! Explode — The Writer’s Environment is a Spring 2017 Experiential Network (XN) Project Sponsor — for Northeastern University!

We have the solution, information architecture, documentation, literature, and wireframe design for Explode – The Writer’s Environment! Like Da Vinci’s sfumato – you can’t see it, but you know something’s back there!

The information architecture is flat, the wireframe is behind a VR scene/mechanism that looks non-logical for locating functions — but still has consistency for navigating users. Yinquin Jaing “Selina’s” design accommodates content – not just Explode’s content — any content.

To bring the project to fruition — Ms. Jaing and Northeastern University have agreed to a seamless hand-off of this milestone to the Northeastern University’s Experiential Network’s Spring Term 2017 — for ideally — two students:

  • One Computer Science Student (PHP, HTML, CSS, and JavaScript)
  • One Game Development Student (make videos interactive)

Selina designed an unprecedented prototype for content delivery.  To share the documentation – and absolute vision at this juncture would be premature — when we are striving for an immersive dynamic environment, with a game development engine, and a Storyboard to make the website rich and interactive on Go Live.  This project is pushed back to the summer of 2017.

Thanks for hanging in here with us!  Stand by for updates.

 

Comments Off on Update #3 — Super News! Explode — The Writer’s Environment is a Spring 2017 Experiential Network (XN) Project Sponsor — for Northeastern University! Posted in Art, Digital Media, sci-fi, VR, WIP Hop

Escapades and Props (WIP)

Its Manhattan...

No.

Istanbul.

Istanbul’s Muse Board

June 2, 2017

Explode — The Writers Environment Experiential Network Project — has a girl band of STEMs!  Stand by for updates.

May 19, 2017

You never appreciate home

As much as when you come home

Where God lives… with you

May 11, 2017

Haiku #13

Name baby something

Something easy to retrieve

Then share Me with friends

About a Prisoner of Love (Props to Christopher Logue’s War Music)

Look at the smile on my face. I knew you were selfish. Abandoned, you left me on the side of the road. Gone. Put yourself in my place. Left, on the side of the road. Naked. I knew you would own me — broken and falling to pieces — in halcyon swirls, dark storms, and faints. I would let you stand me on my head, spin me like a top, a dreidel — and catch me, before I fell. Then, you said you would sleep with her because, “Why not?  It’s not a competition — though you might win. Its not about… us.” That’s balls. CUT!

April 9, 2017

Notes on Manhattan: This is not a Warhol ~ Basquiat Installation.  I curated the Opening and a still – not the fucking gorgeous film.  While it is lovely — I did not curate Manhattan.  Not my composition — not my triptych.  This space is for art — for the sake of art — unaltered.  It’s Explode: The Writer’s Environment!

To curate content in this space, please contact me.

April 25, 2017

Thanks Halo Music!

April 29, 2017

Last night, a friend and I

took the Kimye Tour

in Cuba

I was a voyeur

A friend took him there and there and there

Unbeknown to him

I asked him if he knew where Kimye went

in Cuba

We roared and stumbled on together

Please please paint a picture…

Funny, you asked!

Copyright 2017 by E Maria Shelton Speller.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

Update #2: Super News! Explode – The Writer’s Environment is a Summer, Fall and Winter Experiential Network (XN) Project Sponsor — for Northeastern University!

The XN project for Explode is conducting a poll to gather feedback on your experience and expectations for Explode – This Writer’s Environment. The poll should take no more than 4-5 minutes. Be assured all answers you provide will be kept in the strictest confidentiality.

With much gratitude and appreciation, please take this opportunity to participate in this XN project poll for Explode – This Writer’s Environment. Your voices are a critical component for the successful launch of the writer’s environment! Thanks!

The poll is located here:

https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLScsGtw6V4ituIBM33Hw_EcITxxOXo3wcEbZ9IF  BZvsJICRvhg/viewform?embedded=true

Comments Off on Update #2: Super News! Explode – The Writer’s Environment is a Summer, Fall and Winter Experiential Network (XN) Project Sponsor — for Northeastern University! Posted in Digital Media, Metafiction, Motifs, Postmodern, sci-fi, VR

Update #1: Super News! Explode – The Writer’s Environment is a Summer, Fall and Winter Experiential Network (XN) Project Sponsor — for Northeastern University!

It is my pleasure to introduce Yingqian “Selina” Jiang. Ms. Jiang is the NU XN Winter Term student for Explode – The Writer’s Environment! Selina, MS in Project Management with a concentration in Finance, and MS in Informatics – graduates this fall. Her academic projects include the Peking University Science and Engineering Building, the Movable Sidewalk for Logan Airport Terminal E, and the Casino in Mashpee. She is also a volunteer for the Japan Festival Boston Committee and the Mulan Non-profit Organization.

Ms. Jiang would like to conduct Voices of the Customer (VoC), or surveys if you will, to inform the project completion and launch of Explode – This Writer’s Environment in March 2017!

The XN survey would gather feedback on your experience and expectations for Explode, and should take no more than 4-5 minutes. Be assured all answers you provide will be kept in the strictest confidentiality.

Your voices are a critical component for the successful launch of the writer’s environment. With much gratitude and appreciation, please take this opportunity to participate in the survey, and join me in welcoming Ms. Jiang to the writer’s environment!

Woodstock! (WIP (x Bars))

Overture:  Woodstock is an ensemble.  There are two voices and the beat in this WIP… the Narrator’s voice, Hitchcock’s, and “That Yoni”.  See Side Bar by JuseBeats!  

 

In a walk through Whole Foods like Hitchcock

In his magnum opus

about a world… full of extras

in architectonic loops and links, alliteration and reverie, force, ballast, fancy partitions, linear renderings, systems of reckoning and more — of her…

He wants

Beddo, Caprini, Dolce Sardo

Zufi, the Saperavi

He nods

I’m  thinking

Disappointed… in us!

[There’s no other way to say it — I can’t dress it up]

Caught between a slumbering scream and Vertigo

Cruising isles and isles of sweet and sour

People who think they are special

People who know they are not

People who wish they were

Impeccable

He wants

Beddo, Caprini, Dolce Sardo

Zufi, the Saperavi

Whispers prologue

Guess what we did?

A Springboard!

A party of twenty

Three couples played before

winking and willing

shills playing in the round

Lovely trips on the Hill

in augmented VR

I’m thinking…

Baby boomers had their turn Woodstock!

Barefoot bell bottomed hippies

Denim sweeping the ground

[Reserved]

[Reserved]

Revolutionary hair —  fists in the air

Dragging us back in the mud

Blunt antiquity

Move on Woodstock!

Take your shades, caps, change and loose articles

Bombs in black holes!

[Where did you go?]

We should be sunning in the Bahamas

chilling on hemp swings and

chairs swiveling in immersive environments

Higher than kite fights

A soaring for points experience

Get off the ride Woodstock!

You had your turn — at freedom

Thank you

Exit signs are easy to find — look

The dragon is in the window

Freedom is accessible

Wonder is a trip

with walk through assistants

Dreams of power and prizes

Optional…

Fall out and Jack into

a walk through Whole Foods like Hitchcock

in his magnum opus

about a world… full of extra

architectonic loops and links, alliteration and reverie, force, ballast, fancy partitions, linear renderings, systems of reckoning — and more — of her… virtually surreal

He wants

Beddo, Caprini, Dolce Sardo

Zufi, the Saperavi

Whispers song

We don’t want to feel we’re high…

We just want to think we’re high

in Dubai

We don’t want to feel we’re high…

We just want to think we’re high

in Dubai

Copyright 2016 E Maria Shelton Speller

“It is said that what is called “the spirit of an age” is something to which one cannot return. That this spirit gradually dissipates is due to the world’s coming to an end. For this reason, although one would like to change today’s world back to the spirit of one hundred years or more ago, it cannot be done. Thus it is important to make the best out of every generation.” ― Tsunetomo Yamamoto

and this

“Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand.” Albert Einstein

Cheers! I would also like to thank 40K poets at heart (like us) on FB et al, who like and love, and laugh, and mislike this WIP!  Please pardon the broken link… We’re working on it.  However, this glitch is an opportunity to say thank you for being in this Writer’s Environment with me.  Happy Holidays and have a wonderful New Year!

Super News! Explode – The Writer’s Environment is a Summer and Fall Experiential Network (XN) Project Sponsor — for Northeastern University!

XN is a new initiative from Northeastern University (NU) that offers graduate and professional students and sponsoring organizations experiential opportunities to collaborate on short-term, real-world projects in the best co-op program in the country, and positions NU as the global leader in experiential learning! Organizations move forward on project-based work and connect with rising professional talent while students gain real work experience and valuable learning opportunities.

Students have a range of skill-sets including digital media and marketing, data analytics, corporate and nonprofit project management, regulatory strategy, communications management and the Creative Digital Solution for a VR/Game-Inspired Concept for Explode – The Writer’s Environment during the Summer, Fall and Winter Terms of 2016!

Details included the Project Description:

Explode – This Writer’s Environment is a Kick Starter Project 2.0. The first launch is what Rita Gunther McGrath calls, “failing by design”. The launch was admittedly, a treatment to direct investors to Explode, as well as a serious foray, to define content while using the Writers Environment as a springboard to other experiences. That unsuccessful project was a lost opportunity, but an intelligent fail. Explode — The Writer’s Environment is space for visionaries — Poets, Writers, Coders, Programmers, Filmmakers, Thespians, Graphic Designers, Artists, Musicians, Directors, Cinematographers, Designers, Educators, Historians, Actors, Conceptual and Performance artists, Photographers, and finally, Virtual Reality Developers and Designers. It is a platform for curated content, in an interactive meta-environment – that pulls and pushes information. The Environment facilitates content and other stories – using digital media for curated art to redefine how artists, their audience and visitors experience real and virtual content. The project details included problems to be solved, goals, and deliverables — scheduled for completion March 2017.

Please stand by.  See updates!  Thank you for your continued support!  Let’s rock and roll!

WAR AND PEACE BURIED HERE

One Single Act of Love

I sold a rock opus to the best Black rock band on the planet. A band that lost its capacity to dream. Formulaic guarantees skewed their imagination for platinum discs. The male coward covered their lifework, literally. My story reminded them of what ‘rushing’ felt like, how complete, how deep blushing could be obvious. And they bought it, and produced it. And it was good — it was better than good. It was thought provoking and it was an African-American affirmation of our realities and our fantasies — no matter how unrealistic.

Suddenly, they were very significant and the world truly believed, that rock music is black music and black music is everything. Power is aesthetic. Aesthetics is politics and being black is philosophical and our philosophy is phenomenology and being black, is being real.

No Hip Hop could say as much as this rock opus did, ever — no matter how many stories they sampled. So, this black rock band were crowned kings and were exulted, and revered; incandescent icons, the envy of friends, the consumption of man, the image of immortality — like the stained-glass heaven you summon before you close. And they loved me. I was the wick in their candlestick and without me, there was no burning flame. I was the source of their energy. I, was the unstained virgin encamped.

Sooner than anyone imagined, there was nothing more important, than our collaboration. The media was our medium. They stopped referring to me as a writer, and started calling me, a Love Supreme…..

 

Copyright 2016 by E Maria Shelton Speller.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

Aristotle Michelangelo and Louis Picasso’s Parallel Discussions

Aristotle Michelangelo and Louis Picasso’s

Parallel Discussions (In Medias Res) and Overtaken by Events

 

Behind Pushkin’s Coffeehouse, Aristotle Michelangelo and Louis Picasso sat on the remnants of a barge, trading barbs in Ibiza… swinging high top leather sock hip hop sneakers, and creeper boots in blue green virtual water, with Rick Owens’ reflection in the pool, burning fat ones – away from the beautiful ones — in a Period Piece. The Darlings of today’s literati — visionaries during the Harlem Renaissance, play themselves in a satirical throwback in VR.

Louis Picasso: “In RL, it’s 6 P.M. You just got home from work or you work from home in your virtual office. You decide to spend the evening in space! You scan Balmain for your Avatar – dope fashion — with as much audacity as Hype Williams’ black lacquered Keisha in Belly — wearing Versace!

You decide to download your brand new Porsche designed by Porsche and Atari for Microsoft, on the Pacific Coast Highway — Malibu on the left, Pepperdine University on the right, you’re on your way to virtual LA in the fast lane — your thighs are burning. Other avatars and their cars share the PCH too — driving Vipers, Corvettes, the white BMW X6 and you are speeding at 100 MIPS, streaming Coltrane.

Aristotle Michelangelo interjects: “Then you decide to go to BET’s virtual Nuyorican Café in Gotham City for the Open Mike – Saul Williams and Jessica Care Moore are featured (as themselves) tonight. You hand the keys to the valet — pay at the door with your password, sit front row center no matter what time you arrive, sign up to read your poem — because you can start over from the beginning or resume.  Gender! Lame. Race is unimaginative in Space. Ethnicity is a brand — at best.  The Open Mike is over at 10 P.M. but there is still time to go to Bar Pitti. You walk in and Claude McKay is at the bar in a heated debate with Ralph Ellison about literary ownership — by Netflix.

McKay shouts and then nearly whispers to Ellison, ‘It takes more than creative androgyny to “embody” the opposite sex. The storytelling responsibility of all writers, whether female or male is to fill the void. When a woman creates a man, she must imagine the sensation of “owning” a penis. When a man creates a woman, he must imagine the sensation of “owning” a vagina. It is a void, not a vacuum. A vacuum would imply the all-consuming black hole — the feminization of sex. It is not trained comprehension or chromosomes — it takes pure imagination to get the story straight…’

Louis Picasso:  “Then, at Midnight, you blow kisses and wuggles to your friends, and log off. You stand and stretch your back, and your bladder is bursting because you forgot about your biological realities. The television is off; it has been off for weeks. Why watch television when you can be your own audience? Randall Walser said it best, “The filmmaker says, ‘Look, I’ll show you.’ The space maker says, ‘Here, I’ll help you discover.’ We will be our own creators functioning like actors in high culture — tools of the taste public!  We will create our own universes — our own planets.   We can superimpose our images circa 6 BC – AD 30, and follow Jesus to the Promised Land, witness the crucifixion – and how we feel and what we think is utterly private and without commercials! Because, global messages with common appeal will forever change with today’s technology, the challenge is to make communication visual, images symbolic, and still sell product… I want to propose arcane ideas…”

Aristotle Michelangelo interjects: “I want to develop, manage, and direct vision. My goal is to be where imagination and business are indistinguishable, because imagination without business, and business without imagination is as incongruous as capitalism without consumers…   I found a dope quote dog!”

“When, she was still in her teens, well before she met Caesar, Cleopatra already had slept with Antony… though Caesar was fifty-three and she but twenty-three or so she proved ready enough to bed her third Roman. It is said that Cleopatra was a woman of lively turn and enticing talents. She also had a keen sense of the political. That this Roman [Caesar] conqueror had the power to secure the Egyptian throne for her must have added to the attraction she felt for him…Caesar established her in a sumptuous villa across the Tiber, from which she held court, while political leaders, financiers, and men of letters, including the renowned Cicero, danced in attendance.” Michael Parenti

Louis Picasso: I’m reading the same book, and I have a better one!

In a prologue to Caesar and Cleopatra [George Bernard Shaw] that is almost never performed, the god Ra tells the audience how Rome discovered that ‘the road to riches and greatness is through robbery of the poor and slaughter of the weak.’ In conformity with that dictum, the Romans ‘robbed their own poor until they became great masters of that art, and knew by what laws it could be made to appear seemly and honest.’ And after squeezing their own people dry, they stripped the poor throughout the many other lands they conquered.” Michael Parenti

Aristotle Michelangelo:  Shrugged his shoulders unconsciously, “Chez Bricktop in Paris?”

Louis Picasso:  Not now. I am having a violent reaction to prescription drugs!  My body is like, ‘Don’t put that shit down here again!’  They gave me all this medication for Acute Caesarion whatever — and I took it! Of course, you don’t exhaust the shit. You’re not an idiot. But, what the fuck? Where the weed at?”

Copyright 2016, E Maria Shelton Speller.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

Continue reading

The Purple One

Prince

Prince Rogers Nelson

June 7, 1958 –  April 21, 2016

The Purple One

 

I remember writing

Love Letters

For souls that bow out

Like bosses

You wrote that elevator ending

Pennies for your music

Paeans for the soul

of the Purple Dove

 

Copyright 2016 by E Maria Shelton Speller.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

The Wonderment

Why does black on black crime matter less than black lives matter?

Black on black crime is the consequence of a broken man

Black lives matter is the consequence of a broken system

Fix the broken system

fix the broken man >>>>

 

Copyright 2016 E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

 

 

Dada — Lost and Found — Triptych

 

Doing nothing

and falling

down the same rabbit hole

I would be nosey

like numbers on analytics

Floating lollipops and gummy bears

 

Copyright 2016 E Maria Shelton Speller.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

On the 48th year since the assassination of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. — the language for this mash-up, was for the revolutionary icon.

2015 in review

There are so many poets in here with us! I love it. Thank you!

WordPress.com prepared a 2015 Annual Report for Explode. Happy New Year. Peace 2016!

PS:  A couple of broken pointers disappeared — at least 7800 likes for the Soliloquies…  Guilty.

Here’s an excerpt:

The Louvre Museum has 8.5 million visitors per year. This blog was viewed about 86,000 times in 2015. If it were an exhibit at the Louvre Museum, it would take about 4 days for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

Happy Holidays Poets! Played Like a Diptych — A Triptych…

 

She gets played like a Diptych – in a Triptych…

Happy Holidays Poets!

by E Maria Shelton Speller

It happened at a Springboard Party…  She barely glanced at me.  Looked at my woman like…   Her locs were in a ponytail — they have to be down her fucking back… when our friends shouted at the screen, “The Screening Room.  The furthest found.”

Copyright 2015, 2016 by E Maria Shelton Speller.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

 

 

ONE ACT PLAY — SPRINGBOARD’S CURTIN* CALL

CAST RETURNS TO THE STAGE — DANCE CLOSE

If you can, imagine Seven Whole Days on repeat… and you were raised in the city of Boston — where Playhouse in the Park is the only alternative to hot house parties, in Orchard Park or Ruggles Street — and dancing room is a premium for a chilly Bostonian, with a New England attitude.

When four seasons and rapid transit affords you the opportunity to go anywhere at any time, wearing everything a Bostonian can — properly — weather be damned…  then you know how much space love demands. In an apartment when body heat is canned and cool, you learn to slow dance in the place you pick with just the space between grace and pressure.  Boston, is the only city in America that knows how to have sex on legs.   If you think it’s a mere grind — you can’t dance in a vacuum. The only thing a man can do, if he’s not a Bostonian, is let the lady lead when she is a Bostonian, and hope — its a long song.

 

Copyright 2004, and 2015 by E Maria Shelton Speller (Explode: Epic Poetry ~ Excerpt from (Behind Pushkin’s Coffee House)), and the One Act Play — Springboard!  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

*This is not a curtain.

Luda’s Second Soliloquy — Miles Language II

If I could write language

that speaks and points….

At trumpets

when the moon is tone

and the sun is sfumato

 

See… the chiaroscuro Supreme

[dream in hue]

magenta, chrome, cherry-white

[mixed with blue fugue]

Put-the-night to sleep!

 

See Sisyphus scorn

at amber headlights

in Paris dew

 

Skin seeking skin

and birds seeking

[the flutter of feathers]

ink… that runs like blood

on paper… that does not bleed

 

Contrapposto poets

succumbing to peaches

 

Dogs… suspended

like meat in Seoul

 

[In the dawn]

She comes home

the moon is a beat

the sun is trill…

 

Dada responds

to Surrealism

Hip Hop responds

to R&B

 

[The trumpet responds]

to me

bebop bebop bebop bebop blam!

Fa Falala…

 

Copyright 2004, 2015 by E Maria Shelton Speller.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

Inspired by Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew and Zurich Dadaist Hugo Ball who according to Arnason’s thesis on Ball’s conventional language,  “had no more place in poetry than the outworn human image in painting, produced a chant of more or less melodic syllables without meaning:  ‘zimzim urallala zimzim zanzibar zimlalla zam.’ “

ONE ACT PLAY — SPRINGBOARD!

FLASH DRAMA

Genre: Comedy

9 actors

Duration: 10 mins

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Cece – Art Curator, Poet

Tess – Communicator

Lena – Data Scientist

Wife – Analyst

Wife — Homemaker

Said – Data Scientist

Etan – Consultant

Luda – Data Scientist and aspiring Poet

Kent – Data Scientist

ACT 1 — Installation Art (Sit next to me)

The scene takes place in a private home theater under a Proscenium arch. Stage right is a door to the dining area. Stage left is a door to the great room. Upstage is a grand screen.

It is Tess and Said’s turn to host the Football Sunday dinner party for three married couples – their closest friends. Tess’ single BFF, CeCe with the gratuitous beauty, on everyone’s dream team (and it is rude to stare) is visiting from the city – and having so much more to offer, as usual she is flying too close to the sun and upsetting the social balance.

CECE: I have a story to tell! I promise you — you’re going to love it! You simply must experience it. The absolute audacity of the writer is stunning. She’s THAT motherfucker. (Giggle) That bitch. Tricky — Romanticist.  Epic like the Iliad…

(RESTLESS MOVEMENT)

ALL

We’re watching the game… in a minute.

CECE:  But, wait…

CONVERSATIONS HAPPENING IN THE ROUND END DOWNSTAGE

 

UPSTAGE

SAID:  Of course you have data.  Do you know how to use it? Give me data.  I’ll give you algorithms… synced with the principles of Six Sigma.  It’s over.

TESS:  I said, If you don’t knock on my door, someone else will.

STAGE LEFT

ETAN:  Evidently, you’re attracted to me, and I applaud you for knowing who you want.  I’m flattered.  But, I don’t sway that way.

WIFE:  What did he say?

ETAN:  “It doesn’t matter.”

WIFE:  Oh! O-kay…  (LOOKS AWAY STAGE RIGHT WITH A GAFFAW) He’s funny.

ETAN: Define funny.

WIFE: Funny is funny.

ETAN: What’s funny to you, may not be funny to me.

WIFE:  Are we going to go back and forth on what is funny? I want to talk about something else. I want to talk about Project #99 (GAFFAW)  Again.  You pushed me… But, it was good. It’s true.  Where was I? I’m crazy! Yeah. No doubt… (LOOKS AWAY) But, I love you.

TWO BEATS

WIFE: I’m kickstarting my project this week. (THROWS HEAD BACK DEFIANTLY)

(BEFORE WHISPERING IN HER EAR)

ETAN: “Sex packets …”

WIFE: (SUDDENLY) You said, I would be your wife, not your slave.

DOWNSTAGE LENA WHISPERS TO LUDA AND THE AUDIENCE

LENA: So, what if it’s all true? Does that give you the right to kick my ass and keep it moving? You’re a mutation. It does not sound like we’re the lazy ones.  We will survive. You will not… and if that’s true why would I compete with you, when you are doing all the work? You cannot survive without us. We’re going with. Wouldn’t you?

LUDA: Human DNA enlarges mouse brains.

(LENA LOOKS AWAY STAGE LEFT WITH A THROATY LAUGH)

(LUDA TURNS TO THE AUDIENCE WITH A SOLILOQUY

STAGE RIGHT

HOMEMAKER:  Look babe, it’s tulle and mesh — and if I bend over just right…

KENT:  I am not going to kiss your ass (Chuckles)

HOMEMAKER:  Why not?  You’ve been kissing it.

KENT:  Don’t try to goad me into an argument to justify your own.

HOMEMAKER:  I’m just saying… if it’s in our heads, it’s pure fantasy.  Don’t float what you imagine out here in the void, like what you think is really real.  If it’s not real… like your hands on me — it’s fiction.  You cannot possibly know what I think, how I feel, how I will respond to your bullshit… or even how you will respond to mine.  I thought?  When was the last time you imagined a confrontation?  Of course, it never happens like the movies in our heads.  Not even close!  But, to be content to covet the same dreams, is so… unimaginative.  Is that the best we can do?  To be part of a crowd?   Look at me.  (VOGUES) I am the fastest swimmer in a sea of zoon!

KENT:  (Chuckles) Who the fuck are you reading lately?

HOMEMAKER:  (Playfully) We have to spend more time together!  I do have a wonderful quote… “I have a lesson for you.  Do you want it?”

KENT:  “I have a lesson for you.  Do you want it?”  Who said that?

HOMEMAKER:  My mother… in so many words.

KENT:  He called me Money.

(HE BEGINS LIKE A STORY SHE’S HEARD BEFORE)

KENT:  (CONTINUES) He said, I want a boy who gets what he came for. A boy who knows he’s the strongest swimmer in a sea of zoon. It’s true, a boy could have been pushed by stronger swimmers behind him. Like Mad Max. I want a boy who would survive the hood. A boy that knows changing direction is nothing. The trick is to breathe again. That’s the boy I want. Do you think you could be that boy? I would sit up straight, tip my head, and say, Yes Sir. I’m that boy.

HOMEMAKER:  Every time you tell that story I’d forget to mention, it feels like he’s looming over you. What were you sitting on?

KENT:  My potty chair… I thought you knew?

HOMEMAKER:  Oh no. He didn’t! (GIGGLES) Your father is bananas.

KENT AND HOMEMAKER LAUGH TOGETHER

KENT:  Jules Winfield reciting Ezekiel.

HOMEMAKER:  That’s why you’re so ambitious. I love that about you, Honey. Look at us! We’re a Stupid Power Couple.

KENT:  (CHUCKLES)  The first time we met, I wondered… how does THAT work? (LAUGHS)

(HOMEMAKER FIGHTS A SMILE)

KENT:  You said, “I’m not looking for a husband.”

(BOTH LAUGH ON KEY)

HOMEMAKER:  You want to play with me?  Are you sure? Are you sure?  Are you sure?

STAGE LEFT

(HUDDLING WITH HIS SILENT WIFE)

ETAN:  Conscious decisions are all that I can respect.  Don’t cling to insanity, or criminal passion, or peer pressure, or social expectations.  Don’t talk to me about losing control — momentarily.  Or, the poverty and violence of pain heaped upon more pain because you’re black.  This is not a gang-rape.  This is not Dionysia all over again, where women and children are sacrificed, and blood is beer.  If I change my language, the outcome will still be the same…  (STOP)

(THREE BEATS)

ETAN:  Jack Kerouac… likened writing to dreaming and fantasizing, as a substitute for life. So, he wrote The Subterraneans, in three days and nights of speed typing energized by Benzedrine — to imitate the rhythm of Bebop like free energy flow and unrestrained association to reveal the unconscious…  because he wanted to flow from inside out in spontaneous prose!  Am I going to read that trippy book again, with absolutely no punctuation period, when I can imagine my very own Mardou Fox?

STARING OPENLY AT ETAN, LUDA STOPS LISTENING AND LOOKING UP TO THE HEAVENS, STROKES HIS BEARD, AND TURNS TO THE AUDIENCE WITH A SECOND SOLILOQUY.

LUDA TURNS AWAY FROM HIS AUDIENCE AND LOOKS STAGE RIGHT AT KENT 

A PHONE HELD IN KENT’S HAND ILLUMINATES HIS FACE.  KENT SPEAKS LOUD [AS IF] SIGNALING THE END 

KENT:  A black man is charged with burning black Churches in St. Louis Missouri…

KENT LOOKS UP FROM THE SCREEN.  HIS FACE IS STILL.  EYES UNFOCUSED.  HE MOVES HIS LIPS.

KENT:  Unbelieveable.

HOMEMAKER:  I’m gonna’ need to pinch him.

KENT AND THE HOMEMAKER THROW THEIR HEADS BACK IN HEARTY LAUGHTER.  THE HOMEMAKER SUDDENLY STOPS AND LOOKS AT KENT.  WHISPERS.

HOMEMAKER:  Wake up, blue pill.

THE HOMEMAKER LOOKS AT THE AUDIENCE — IN A MONOLOGUE — LOUDER THAN KENT.

HOMEMAKER:  It’s the Age of STEM.  With VRs for your fancies, imagining aggressions you never lose. Where are we going? Who are we doing? How shall we dress for the joie de vivre?  I want to meet the best Black Rock Band on the planet and their Muse; to be the woman in the Dolmus, the Driver, Simon… I want to hear Luda deliver his soliloquies in a courtyard enclosed by trees, with stapled bark once covered with flyers — for missing pets, and outworn, archaic, and unimaginative campaigns and trade for sale or giveaway. I want to be where someone says, I have a story to tell, and those who’ve heard the story reply, we’re watching the game in a minute…  I know how the story ends.

(WITH A MONA LISA SMILE)

HOMEMAKER:  (TAGGING) I am sorry, but, honestly, the 21st Century is so… contrived.  (STOPS SHORT OF LAUGHTER) Let’s move along.

CENTER STAGE

CECE:  We have plenty of time!  Indulge me.  I’m going to read it.

(MORE RESTLESS MOVEMENT)

CECE: Come on! It’s my birthday! Okay, it’s not my birthday….Listen! This is a quote from Interview magazine. I think it’s poetic.  “I use pot for depression, and I am depressed often.  When I am high, I am very creative, and because my word is work in progress, I have no regrets. Self actualization is anticlimactic…  I am the hopeless writer.  I spent most of my life being angry that I, didn’t have an audience that would pay for my work.  Girls, gotta’ make a living.  It’s amazing what turns people on.  It’s not at all what I imagined. I spent too much time trying to create a persona, when I am one.   I suppose it’s okay to spend your life chasing a dream.  You have to have one or two to live for.”  She’s extra… Did I mention Ovid?

If you don’t like it (PAUSE) I’ll blow every cock in the room.

HUSBANDS

Whoa! What? Fuck? Really?

WIVES

Shut up! Girl! Bitch! Are you crazy?

Continue reading

Luda’s Soliloquy — Miles Language I

If I could write a poem

with the language

of sound

strings, keys… lisps

 

Cylinders spheres cones… lines

Miles tripping

Turning turning in melody

 

Blowing brass trees

whispering through trim lips

white horses, white horses

Standing over Princes

 

Cries cries

Cry like a woman

whirling in

an eddy of tongue…

 

Words wedded together

Like brothers

Kidnapping daughters*

 

A mind fuck

A dark defining gaze…

 

Words you see in 4D

You smell reed

fingers tremble

skin riffs

 

Words with the sigh of a Diva

Mad Mad like

Zeus on a bad rape

 

When you look up from the page

You will not see me

 

Molesting you with crazed

language…

 

Copyright 2004, 2015  E Maria Shelton Speller

Peter Paul Rubens’ The Rape of the Daughters of Leucippus

Inspired by Miles Davis’ embouchure

 

 

Night — FAWC Summer Programs — Featuring Istanbul

A Night at the FAWC

“I think women artists begins to pay attention to what people expect from them, as opposed to what they are searching for within themselves. It’s pretty deadly.”  Euphonic’s, “The Artist”

Istanbul

and 

“Nobody Speak” – (Feat. Run The Jewels — DJ Shadow ~“TRAPSOUL” — Bryson Tiller
“Deee-Lite Theme” — Deee Lite ~ “Estate” — Joao Gilberto  ~ “Gooey” — Glass Animals
“Mercy” — Kanye West “The Far Side of the Moon” — Tinashe
“Give Me Your Love” — Curtis Mayfield ~ “Seven Whole Days” Toni Braxton
“Two Weeks” ~ “Pendulum” FKA twigs ~ “Zip That Chop That ” Black Hippy
“Panda” Desiigner ~ “SevenRings” — Lyricks and JL
“Sex Packets” — Digital Underground ~ “Elemental” — Tears for Fears
“Heavn” — Jamila Woods ~ “Baby Can I Hold You — Tracy Chapman
“Sunset” (Ft. Yuna Zaraai) “Special Affair/Curse” — The Internet
 “Seven Suns” “CPU (feat. RZA) — Raury
“Where Do We Go” ~ “F.U.B.U.” (feat. The-Dream & BJ The Chicago Kid) — Solange
“Me and Your Mama” — Childish Gambino
 I Miss You” (Dobie Rub Part One-Sunshine Mix) — Bjork
Liberation ~ OutKast — Belle and Boujee — Migos Beauty and the Beast Parody (Nerdist Presents)
Without You I’m Nothing — Placebo (featuring David Bowie) ~ Diamonds — Rihanna
“Immigrant Song” — Led Zepplin — Lose Yourself ~ Eminem
Give It Up Fast — Mobb Deep (feat. Big Noyd and Nas) — fullmoon — Ryuichi Sakamoto
 Bodak Yellow ~ Cardi B  — Kitana — Princess Nokia
Marvin Gaye — Live!24K Magic ~ Bruno Mars
I’m weak for you ~ Madame X

Bars and Verses for the South Side (Inspired by Kendrick Lamar’s The Blacker the Berry)

 

You are here

In front of the Mona Lisa

Provoking six million gags a year

Dismissing she’s da Vinci in drag

 

You are here

So valuable she can’t be insured

Sfumato eyes and slanted smile

Dangle like sneakers…. on a pole

 

I can hear you thinking

You are here

You are here

You are here

You are here

 

Bored with near misses and boors

And the fealty of Jim Crow fifty years ago

Riding a labyrinth carousel in the wilderness

You are here…  before the fiery furnace

 

Freedom not long actually happened

While you were sleeping unaccountable

Transfixed on transitions a half-century ago

Don’t pretend you know what’s going on

 

We are here beyond the status quo

Beyond owning cable movies until 2024

Beyond the fear of dread before joy

Where do we go from here?

 

I know, they know, he knows, she knows

Like assumptions on the street is folly

Free your children what can you do for them?

Who are we?

 

Where conceptions… are constructions

Subject to… demystifications

Like symbols are… adroit for points

Take your children… Over there!

  

Over there

Away from you

Away from me

Away from them

Away from he

Away from she

Who are we?

Freedom!

 

You are here

 

Over there

Away from you

Away from me

Away from them

Away from he

Away from she

Who are we?

Free them!

 

There are non-profit-tax-exempt boarding schools

For girls and boys who would die on the fourth of July

Because snitches get stitches and fathers disappear

It was an easy sale – – – –

 

Wooed scholars thinkers and Morehouse men

With paeans and promises for the liberal emergence of altruism

With curriculums and schools of thought designed by them

It was an easier sale – – – –

 

Bernanke, Chomsky, Aslan, Witten

Micheaux, Baldwin, Davis, Marsalis

Thompson, Sir Timothy, Nash – – – –

Gates, Plato, Picasso, and Sowell

 

Over there where students create Kickstarter projects

Before the class trip to Paris, France in the fall

Parents watch their children dance under the balustrade

On the sunken floor after the Science Fair on Saturday morn

 

Where conceptions… are constructions

Subject to… demystifications

Like symbols are… adroit for points

Take your children… Over there!

 

Over there

Away from you

Away from me

Away from them

Away from he

Away from she

Who are we?

Freedom!

 

You are here

 

Over there

Away from you

Away from me

Away from them

Away from he

Away from she

Who are we?

Free them!

 

Cunning like military brats have to be

Wearing class A red cardigans and purity rings

Watching Venus north of the crescent moon in the dome

Reengineering the next generation

 

I called myself a Ghost writer

I never claimed to be one

But Talking heads and Rhodes Scholars

Join the flute girls at the grog bowl serving sharp edges and chum

 

This life is a bizarro disinvestment

But, before you head home by GPS

Where the last honest man is on video

Here’s a bar and verse… for the road

 

Our Father who art in heaven – – – – 

Hallowed be your name

Thy kingdom come

Thy will be done

On earth

As it is in heaven – – – –

 

Where God given gifts are never squandered

You are here in the foyer with problem and solution

Where common sense is not enough

Where who and what is forever kitschy

Affirmation is a function of negation and vice versa*

Social constructs are under siege and should be

Where talking heads shut the fuck up!

 

Free them!

 

You’re welcome to stay for Church

Or join Yogi… Temple

 

Copyright ©2015 by E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

*Octavio Paz

Transition… (Dedicated to the Survivors of the Charleston Massacre)

chi-charleston-0619-wre0029475677-20150619

In the body of Christ

Du Bois looked at Martin,

“Martin, what do you think?”

Martin looked down

tried to suppress a certain cry

reaching, he wiped a tear

from Du’s eye.

Transcript: Obama Delivers Eulogy for Clementa Pinckney — By Steven Dennis

 

 

Copyright 2004, 2015 by E Maria Shelton Speller, Explode.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

Cowboys and Indians and Torture Stories (WIP)

We watched a lot of television

when we were children

Barbie and Ken went to the Theater

to see Porgy and Bess

I am reminded that we liked

“Torture Stories”

The medieval thumbscrew

Spartacus and the rack

Cowboys and Indians!

We rooted for the Indians

They were savages

and were portrayed so

When the Indians tortured the Cowboys

We liked it!  Remember?

Then there were “Slave Stories”

Black people looked nothing like us

Slaves were bad people

They deserved to be whipped

When Slaves ran from their masters

for the Underground Railroad*

We screamed on ivory soaped knees

“Catch that nigga!”

Running like those colored people

in the Civil Rights Movement

Before my mother told me rather plainly

You are Colored too

 

Copyright 2015 by E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

 

* “The entrance to the Underground Railroad remains unknown. After leaving our tunnel, slaves would try to make their way as far north as possible. There are no records as to who went through the tunnel or how many.”  First African BC Savannah, Georgia

Lust for TIDAL — The Sweet Sixteen

Someone has to go with Ego

To the story about the story inside the poem

 

On ground eroding under sweet feet

Where dreams so real are accessible

and parodies will do

 

Epic stories tied to epic tracks

One point perspectives

and narcissistic points of view

 

Aural stories linked to sublime beats:

The gift between Agamemnon and Achilles

The Grounding for the Metaphysics of Morals

between Socrates and Kant

 

An opus for Free Angela and all Political Prisoners

Her quiet laughter at the end

 

Why should Kim go alone to France?

Fie for Shame!  Blood hath been shed…*

 

Make room for Superego!

Believing the fiction they think

They know

It’s true

 

Someone has to go with Id

Those streaming millennial Randites!

kissing clicks on tours

happy blowing up Karaoke machines again

 

Dénouement:  This whimsical WIP is for the sixteen owners of Tidal High Fidelity Music Streaming!  Turn it up!

Copyright 2015 by E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

*The Tragedy of Macbeth, William Shakespeare

 

 

 

The Gaze (Work in Progress)

Gazing at the gaze…

Foxy Brown’s Fox Boogie!

Marcel Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase

Françoise Nielly Les Diaboliques

Hopper’s Rooms by the Sea

Sergio Davanzo’s Pittore ~ Sonnet 18…

Arne Quinze The Sequence Brussels

Marco Perego’s Talk Is Cheap...

Kehinde Wiley Officer of the Hussars…

Kal Gajoum Piccadilly Traffic…

Frank Lloyd Wright’s Falling Water House

Domingo Zapata’s 11 Minutes Exhibit…

Picasso’s Les-Demoiselles d’Avignon

Kent Bellows Gluttony Self-Portrait…

Thomas Saliot Close Up Water

Bansky Warhol Basquiat...

Gentileschi Bourgeois O’Keefe

What was she thinking?

To see her muse

To be her muse

It is not enough to gaze at the gaze

How did he feel?

What did she say?

I cannot simply be a spectator in a cheap seat

or, a participant on a glancing spree

I imagine her backing away

Viola!  A masterpiece!

A glass of wine

A bottle of wine

A toast

Apollo 13*

It’s over

Finite!

Some ritual

Dirty paint

A bath

A bird in the fist

A shout

A sandwich

Sex on Fragonard’s swing

with fiddles and strings,

and Citizen Cope,

Sublimated and subliminal guilt

Sin and complicated insanity

Dismissal

Let yourself out!

I have a canvas to make,

a gaze to paint

Red red red.

 

Copyright 2014 by E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

*Maggie’s Farm

Brianna Perry’s Marilyn Monroe

 

The Orange Line II

On the Orange Line

some carried

boom boxes like briefcases

babies like groceries

and stout little bottles

like bibles

protected inside brown bags

from thumping

 

It’s about what people do

and what people say

On the Orange Line

 

On the Orange Line

I can see Michelangelo’s innerness

like the monk

the anonymous critic

who said, “The David”

is a homoerotic composition

a platonic love for the male body

that approaches erotic dimensions

 

On the Orange Line

with so little movement

on this human-scape

Clean and safe

inside the rubber doors

deliberately close to the gallows

David wanted out of his dirty world

 

When he described the disorder

Giovanni built cathedrals on his back

and rose windows with his hands for him

On the Orange Line

 

On the Orange Line

My father looked at me

like Noah looked at Ham

when Ham looked at Noah

as if he did something

ungodly and unplatonic

to him

 

In love so completely ruptured

Ham tried to stay

the flow of blood

with women too beautiful

for proverbs

 

Their eyes were

divining rods

for sex and dreaming

On the Orange Line

 

On the Orange Line

They beat him down on the threshing floor

he was too beautiful for words

They gave him something to cry about

and like the Egyptians

they sodomized him in turn

 

For the sake of the Orange Line

they made him their little boy

For the sake of the Orange Line

 

On the Orange Line

The housenegro in church on Sunday

said nothing about who would

be bought and

who would be sold

on the auction block tomorrow

and no one asked, and no one told…

 

What do you do when your enemy

goes to the same church you go to?

 

On the Orange Line

without room for rapture

or space for rape

I rested my stop on

my fingers

and the mad boy

the made boy

came on

 

Political obscenities abound!

The Million Women March

will reproduce

the matriarchal society

and transform it into what ~

new and improved Black Madonnas?

The Million Women March

legitimizes

the Million Man March

without the benefit of prudence

 

When the Million Man March

goes down in history

as an epic tragedy

you have facilitated

the perpetuation

of the sacrificial black woman

 

You risk the future

of born and unborn children

for generations to come

Duplicating unwise

and circumscribed politics

 

The fat lady is singing again

But this is not a corner stoop

in Harlem

and she is far too milky

to anticipate the social

and political implications

of a Million Women March

 

You cannot answer my questions

without trying to suckle me!

 

This is what I am afraid of…

Keep your blouse on!

Your ample bosom

is an integral

part of the problem

~ not the solution!

 

Do the black man a favor

take his body down

beat your heart

weep and wash his feet

wrap him in fine linen

and cover him with spices

Maybe if you mourn him

you can resurrect him

He might make an appearance again

 

Not only did the Black Madonna

leave him on the cross

she won’t take him down

Take him off the cross now!

Everyone else has

Maybe you like the view

from the ground

 

We are beyond Brown and Newton

we’re on fallacious arguments now

Where are you going

other than the ground

On the Orange Line?

 

On the Orange Line

I saw dog paws

tattooed on her thigh

and red daisies

on her boots

My prism came from

within

and landed on my skin

 

In random chimera conceits

I think

of blue nights and black mornings

The full moon in the white Winter sky

with pink Cirrus lips

demons and febrile mouths

Rimbaud, and blackbirds in epic simile

Squirrels that wait for green lights

Keisha!

and white girls

on billboards

on black streets

 

And the mad boy sung

“Ooh day Ooh day….

You got me humpin’…”

 

On the Orange Line

The station point

where esoteric beginnings

are setups

for sublime endings

Copyright 2004 by E Maria Shelton Speller, Explode.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

 

The Orange Line is inspired by The Last Poets’ On The Subway

 

 

 

 

 

Queen!

Flagrancy

 

Draped over flesh folding,

Overlapping, lapping, titties like water

 

Coursing over plantations

landing on designer gods

 

She’s the Queen of make believe

dross, lace, and fancies

the strumpet of style and envy

supply and demand

framing references

of fragmentation and icons

the whore of big business

luxury and privilege

Capital Supreme

 

She gives it to you every time

the same kiss same trade

whispering buy me

while you sit splayed still

eating her conditions

wanting more between

feasts

 

An electric whore transfixed on fiction

screaming paeans of promises

in fleeting imagery faster than you can think

 

Candle eyes revealing

nothing and something equally

commercial bitch

coca cola coochie

 

The queen of white hot dreams and fantasies

Dreaming the business of culture

for recycled cyclical people

in suspended disbelief

 

Chronos’ eating children again

consuming – regurgitating

the piss Ellison smelled in the hallway

the blood he saw at the top of the stairs

of the worn unfresh and rotted

postmodern prostitute

circumscribing your will to dream

someone you

 

White voodoo yahoo

looping tricks for

fifteen pimps

 

Coliseum dreamers

in concert muffle

the scream

 

Hegemony is a bore!

Capitalism is a whore!

Patriarchy is a sham!

Subjugation is complete!

You can’t dream for me…

 

Children of the light!

dreaming in strophe

what she dreams

what she thinks

what she wants you to need

what she wants you to buy

when to laugh

cry

what to eat and how often

who to love

hate

how to suffer

on her terms

 

Dreamers of the light!

dancing for the gods

in collective nothingness

tweaked to think vapid

celebrated center-folds

of flagrancy at your expense

dare to dream

alone in dark energy

 

Turn off the lights

of the Queen of white hot fantasies

in unsuspended disbelief

 

Let’s make believe!

The Sirens’ in the room

and you applaud

on your knees

Give props to the Queen

of postmodern dreams

of white white-white hot trips

on Lilly fields designed

for you to dance

for the gods

pimping their dreams of her… and them

on wide screen… for you

~dance

Kill your TV!

 

Copyright 2004, 2015 by  E Maria Shelton Speller.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

 

My Condolences

Dear Jon,

I am so sorry to hear about Victor.  I’m lousy at expressing condolence.

I am anticipating a phone call about one of my brothers or sisters – essentially a family member that I have grown to dislike or they dislike me – no matter how close we were when we were children.  A call about a family member who began and ended references about me with, “What is she doing now?”  I perplex them with all my projects and shenanigans.  A family member who could not possibly appreciate the personality of an INTJ – confusing alone with loneliness.

At the end of the day, it is not about me.  When we go home — family puts us to rest.  Not your BFFs, your hundreds and thousands of FB friends who like everything you like, your brothers and sisters from another mother and father, your innumerable half-sisters, half-brothers and cousins who were not there when you were growing up – but somehow you were twins, random shopkeepers at spas who talk to your baby in mandarin — your baby hangs on every word and seems to understand, not the concierges, your neighbors, coworkers, managers, bishops or priests.  Your family puts you in the ground.

Your family makes sure you are wearing your favorite shoes, that you are wearing a whole and not a half-slip – even though you have never owned a whole slip.  Why?  Because it’s regulation, it’s mandated by the State!  Your family makes sure you are wearing your shade of lipstick, and the wig on your head is straight, the part is in the right place and despite the protestations of the mortician, the bangs are swept wistfully in the right direction.  Your friends give you brand new bibles to take to the pearly gates. Your family settles your estate — if you have one — cleans your home, takes possession of or finds a good will or thrift store for your belongings.

Oh, your friends will offer their condolences, show up for the funeral, sign the guest book, send a sympathy basket, donate to a charity, ask if there is anything they can do, say pretty thoughtful things about you, go to the repast – and that will be the end of it.  The last time you see them.  Your BFFs are not going to your gravesite to leave flowers on milestones and Christmas.  No.

That is what family is for.  The family you perhaps did not respect, did not value, and could not abide because you were not equally yoked.  Yes, I am waiting on that phone call, that text – so I can put that family member to rest, take my turn at the podium and say, “I anticipated a phone call about one of my brothers or sisters, because apparently this is what family is for…”

I am glad the call was not about you!  I would not have been able to write this letter with a steady hand.  Perhaps you might share it with your family.  It was oddly salubrious.  RIP Donnie “S”.

All the Best,

D

Copyright 2014 E Maria Shelton Speller.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

The Godforsaken

Before the godforsaken

had time to swallow…

they knew who first

judged what out of dreams

came truly real*

and he was fastened to a rock

and they knew who

stirreth up the people and dippeth his hand**

in the dish with Judas

and he was nailed to a cross

And they read books within books

about wise and foolish virgins

and signs of the end

and love and judgment

and they heard God talk

through the mouths of men

who talked about him

his son and the holy ghost

 

When spectators provided the notion of reality

Christ and Prometheus

were objectified and subjectified allegory

spheres of hope and rebellion

courage and prudence

temperance and justice

and how they chose to read it

in the time before terror

depended on what level

they chose to see it

 

Pity

incredible people and prophets

who function as vehicle

for literal, moral,

and anagogical levels of meaning

 

Before the godforsaken

had time to swallow…

they reused and refashioned the heads

of emperors in their own image

because they could

they reinforced power and authority

with legitimate political imagery

like the Egyptian Pharaoh Ramses

and General Holofernes

They respected the classical past

in fertile crescents of greed

and they rejected classical design

in the center of ruins

 

They housed the rock in the dome

on which Muhammad ascended to heaven

and hung the Virgin Mary’s blue robe

in Chartes Cathedral

and it didn’t burn

and they appropriated columns

and Corinthian capitals

and called it the holy triumph

of Islam

 

When denizens of form said

Nothing is new…

The godforsaken asked,

Since when?

since the Lion Gate

since the Great Sphinx of Gizeh

since Doric and Ionic orders

since the Palette of King Narmer

since the Parthenon

since Stonehenge

Since when?

 

They stood in the light of starry nights

in the drum, coffers, and concrete cylinders

of uninterrupted space in the Pantheon

and made no apologies for ripping off

master tracks from the past

and heard the hip hop train

sampling every post-hit

with unripe music and blood

and mounted the heads of gods

on the manifest

like the catalog of procreation

in Genesis

 

They heard his Mother

three blocks away

on parallel streets

screaming redundantly

You won’t take my child!

You won’t take my child!

at the vigil where transvestites

whispered about how many times

her child was stabbed in the neck…

 

Lord have mercy!

Who are these motherfuckers?

on the bottom rung of the Ladder of Descent

trying to climb up

on the backs of allegories

floating in fleeting and airy hope

part of the story

part of the sin

 

Before the godforsaken

had time to swallow…

 

He knew

that love ends

as it begins again

on rocks and crosses

in books and dreams

and politics and imagery

under domes and temples

in music and song

and blood and death

in stories and sin

and in the hands

of God

~ the Swallows are building.

 

Copyright 2004, 2013 E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

 

*Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound

* Matthew 26: V21,V22,V23,V25

 

 

A Valentine for Angela (for Angela Davis and George Jackson)

When you see Angela

Give her… this Valentine

 

Tell her

No code of morals

Or pastoral sermons of redemption

in bastions of struggle

nor private language

Or puritanical divinity

from the tyrannical gatekeepers

of black consciousness

in Baptist Churches

Where the house of God

like the people are falling

and bibles are missing

countenances are broken

and carriages are bent

on Grandfathers

huddled like old horses

in Chapel basements

can keep her locks from draping

my thrilled skin

 

I felt the linguistics of freedom

without right-wing caveats

and the sophistical footnotes

of kept intellectuals

when Black Power waxed

the center of my tower

and the bottom of your well

farther than this cell

and closer than holding you

in my arms now

 

 

I found the status quo

on endless streets with names

and no names

we neglect or accommodate

 

In a sound dream

on spots

we smother

or straddle

we are a sexual coterie

 

I wanted to indict you for voluntary servitude

buying part and parcel of our own existence

like exploitation bought and exploitation sold

back to the exploitable…

 

With a shameless display

of unnecessary needs and haughty miens

napping, unconscious, and folded

 

Like Black parents

who cannot recognize their children

Hiding inside androgynous clothing

Reciting the lines of criminal poets

perverting language that appeals to them

 

Black Panthers in proletariat-drag

When Heidegger said

The dreadful has already happened!

 

Tell her…

 

Huey

is an effete dilettante

living life inside a penthouse

longing to be outside in the cracker box

raping after he was free

Down with the masses!

Up with the bourgeoisie!

 

Eldridge

came to the Party shouting

“I am a rapist!”

“I [am] a patriarch!”

Power was not concept

abstract or privilege for Eldridge

 

His last contribution

will be the design

of cock pants

 

And Bobby

is a politician

with idealistic intentions

running for the Mayor of Oakland

loyal to the Patriarchs

that bound and gagged him

in the courtroom

 

 

Elaine Brown

confused pussy with power

will deny

Huey beat her down

and ran her out of town

in her red Mercedes Benz…

 

Hide your guns from Jonathan

My brother is poised for Fatalism

Suicidal ideations are necessary considerations

when voluntary death is a blow against

excessive regulations

 

The gun…

is justification

for the enigma

of an absurd existence

when God is dead

like Nietzsche and Sartre said…

and heaven is empty

 

When you see Angela

Give her… this Valentine

 

Your status in the ballroom

on that intellectual runway

does not resemble

the place we found

 

Bring me back from Limbo…

Your breath is shallow

Your pulse is faint

The ring is dark

The tower is steep

The well is deep…

Are you coming too?

 

I am waiting

in this din

pacing the floor in my 9 x 4

in absolute solitude

wanting

you, you, you,

again…

 

Copyright 2004, 2015 E Maria Shelton Speller.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

The Foreword to Insomnia

Like all writers, I rewrite, combine, borrow, loot, recreate, change my own work, and play with metafictional devices and the relationship between what is real and what is imagined.  I combined “TP’s Muse Board” with “The Foreword to Insomnia.”  Perhaps it will be a triptych, or perhaps three panels of an octaptych,  a short story, novella, or perhaps a novel.  It’s a WIP.

The Foreword to Insomnia

 

“All our crimes are the crimes of a phantom:  God.”  Octavio Paz

 

I

Is the girl necessary?  Can you abandon her?  Yes and no.    She’s the curtain-lifter and the scout!  Always.  I cannot forget her.  I was there, talking to myself, as if I were someone else.  Like now.

She’s as necessary as the galoshes on her feet, paused in a puddle, with her binary reflection obscured by polka-dots, vector and speckled umbrellas billowing from ordinary windows like parachutes, or the multi-colored aureoles in the virtual vertigo — of an art installation.

She is as necessary as umbrellas on a rainy afternoon under golden arches and digital displays of saucer eyed anime faces in Tokyo during rush-hours, or the dark city around the corner with a hole in the ground — over rainy subway stairs she lost a galosh on.

II

When she was nine, and her sister seven, they shared a bedroom in the attic of an old Victorian house, in New England.  They loved that pink triangular room, and the imaginary line that equally divided that sanctum, and it was not lost on them, that they were far removed from their extended paternal family, parents and the Irish triplets who shared a room of their own — downstairs.

It was not just the physical detachment, but on the heels of “making believe,” they began to transport each other to fictional realities at bedtime that began with a question, followed by an answer and finally a bidding, “What are you doing?”  “I’m thinking.”  “What are you thinking about?”

Her stories would often begin with something truly extraordinary.  Diana Ross had ten kids in 1964!  She was twenty years old and married to Jorge — the Ebony Fashion Fair model who was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, and one of Diana’s children was her fourth grade classmate — a Puerto Rican named, Sorah Sanchez.  He told his classmates to call him Willie.  He was so cute!

Theirs was the perfect family!  Jorge wore gray suede shoes and cardigans advertised in Jet and Ebony magazines, and the children wore clothing from Alden and Spiegel catalogs!   Images were accessible and appropriated. The stories epic and uninterrupted — unless clarification was necessary, like “What time do the kids have to go to bed?”

She loved The Supremes!  In the Sixties, Diana Ross was a delicate and beautiful remix, of freedom from ugly restraint.   She could scan a page for “Diana Ross” and find her like code.  Ditty Bop!  She could imitate her voice, her tone, inflection, her vibrato, choreography and her mannerisms!

In the Summer of 1965, she sang A cappella, “Where Did Our Love Go,” “Stop in the Name of Love,” and “Come See About Me,” on a makeshift stage in her back yard, and became an accidental star with a teenaged fan base; but, she just wanted to be left alone to adore Diana Ross — the beautiful one!  Those oral narratives in the dark — were contiguous, on a continuum, interconnected — in medias res.

III

At seventeen she hadn’t seen her Father in four or five years.  Her mother and six children took the last bus to a safe haven twelve hundred miles from Boston.  But, when father walked into her home, the house her mother managed to “negotiate” by “befriending” the most unattractive man she had ever seen… and barely past the threshold, he said, “I know, I know, I know, and I know.”

It was the most honest response she’d ever heard.  It made sense.  No apologies.  No explanations.  What else could he say?  Last year, she wondered why she and her sister screamed their hearts out of their mouths, eyes, and ears crouched in a closet — as if screaming would make a difference — as if screams would stop unmeasured and random assaults on her Mother in a Commonwealth where the Rule of Thumb allowed husbands to beat their wives as long as the stick was no thicker than his thumb!

In that house, little girls might not stop screams with their own.  Who could scream the loudest?  Who could silence the noise?  Eventually, she realized the house was on Rockledge Street before pre-K, so they were one and three, or two and four years old, perhaps.  In a one mile radius, the same thing happened on Cedar and Alpine Streets. On Hartford Street, her Father cut her Mother up with a meat cleaver.

She can still summon the smell of Sugar Smacks decayed and stinking in bowls of spoiled milk abandoned on the kitchen table like so much blood and flesh on the floors, doors, the papered walls, and ceiling where on her Sister’s 9th birthday, “the accident” happened.

The blood of donors rushed from other jurisdictions, the white sheet that hid her mother’s head from her children, the paddy wagon where her mother was slung like a criminal, the crowd outside the window oohing and awing, jeering, and cheering her Father, who changed into a brown silk leisure suit, brown suede shoes, cocked a fedora on his head and walked tall, proud, and un-cuffed to the Police car.  The footnote in the Boston Globe, “Negro Man Attacks Wife with Meat Cleaver.”  The rise and fall of orphan’s tears, swollen eyes, praying hands and bargains with God in zombie disbelief.

But, I don’t feel sorry for that little girl.  Tall and proud.  She could have been a psycho killer — and I would be her muse, a tiny detail, a paper doll from an Alden’s catalog — paused in a puddle for the amusement of children.

IV

I am the one who cannot sleep.  Aside from occasional drifts from the pollen consumption of moths, to the dignity of a ski-lift nose…

 

Copyright 2004, 2013 E Maria Shelton Speller. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

 

The Foreword to Insomnia’s Istanbul (The Voice of an Unreliable Narrator, in Medias Res)

Now and then, I am restless….

When I dropped them at the restaurant, Simon asked me to join them for lunch. I parked the dolmus near the Sirkeci Railway.  Potential fares watched me curiously. I felt compelled to announce that it was time for lunch.

“Ogle yemegi.”  is what I said to them, and not sesame-sprinkled bread either — to myself!

I couldn’t walk fast enough to get away from the stink of the smelted metal, and I find the putrid aroma of leather nauseating. What you smell on Galata Bridge depends on where you stand.  Looking over at the fishermen bobbing on the ‘horn’ next to the bridge, but still managing to grill a pan-full of mackerel, I almost walked over and bought a snack from my brethren.

When I arrived, Simon and the woman were drinking Tuborg bira. I don’t know what inspired her, but she was wearing the hood on her caftan.  My friend, Ishmir, served us.  He handed me the menu, but he was very good.  Ishmir stood directly across from her and suggested we start with hor d ‘Oeuvres.

They ordered Red Caviar in Mayonnaise.  I ordered Stuffed Vine Leaves. Of course, Ishmir suggested fish, and she ordered Roe. I ordered Anchovy. But Simon ordered Roast Lamb with onions, Yuk!  Ishmir smiled a lot, but he was a cad, a supreme waiter and a notorious rogue.

For vegetables, she ordered Spinach Tomato. Simon ordered Squash Potatoes, and I ordered cabbage.  They wanted Strawberries for fruit, and I ordered Figs.  For dessert, she ordered Yogurt and Egg Pudding.  Simon, a Lady’s Navel, a donut soaked in honey — and me Rice Pudding.

Then we had vodka.  She tipped the glass as if it were empty like her vanity.  Simon told Ishmir to give it some color. So, Ishmir put a peach on the rim. Suddenly everything was right. She rested her elbow on the table, her chin in the palm of her hand, cradling the vodka in the other, and started at the “bottom” of her wish list.

“I want to go to Topkapi Palace.”

Simon smiled the way a jinni would when “his” wish comes true. “What do you expect to find there?”

“The shadow of God — I don’t know.  I just want to go.”  She dropped her eyes, and then raised them again.

Simon said, “You want to see the shadow of God?  Perhaps we should go to the Sancta Sophia instead, but of course we can go to the Imperial Harem in Topkapi and feel the shadow of black emasculated men who controlled the Harem — eunuchs who resembled modern day pimps without penises. Or the captured, bought or sold foreign and often Christian concubines whose body hair is removed, and then pomaded with henna to prevent perspiration, after it is massaged and scrubbed by slave women (too old to be favored), because the Sultan put his handkerchief on the concubine’s shoulder that she brings to his bed at midnight.”

He leaned into a whisper, “A world of bored lesbians or platonic affairs with castrated page-boys.  And afterwards, we could dive the Bosphorus,” He pointed toward Asia. “In search of those weighted sacks that Sultan Ibrahim had 280 concubines sewn in.  They’ll be upright and easy to find at the bottom of the channel.”

“You know…” she lowered the hand that held her chin, on the table and dug her nails in the palm of her hand.  She sipped her vodka before she continued with, “A goalkeeper can catch ‘and’ throw the ball.”

He didn’t return her volley.  He reached in his pocket for cigarettes.

“Meaning?”  He offered her one, but her eyes faded and she shook her head, balancing the rim of the glass on her tongue.  She sipped her vodka again.  When she spoke, her blue eyes were flambé.

“You can relate the melodrama of emasculated slave drivers; expose the gauze of white bondage in a pleasure dome.  You can casually lean into homophobia and then sink into regret.  You hear voices from the bottom of the channel and you can suggest that we dive like dreadful Arabs; but you don’t mention that in this center of civilization, this threshold of bliss, the arched eyebrows of ravaging old men think it is right and necessary to punish one man for his impudence with the lives of a thousand boys, and a thousand girls, a thousand mothers, and a thousand fathers.”

When she said “a thousand,” her eyes closed, and her lips barely moved.  I could hear her heart weep.  She leaned across the table into prose.

“Muslims never mention a time when neglected and lascivious Turkish women stole around looking for new loves, shrouded in these habiliments — now celebrated as some sort of Islamic affirmation.”

She snatched the hood from her head.  “Whores, whose husbands dreamed about the Imperial Harem, and could never recognize their disguised wives in this garden of paradise.”

I pursed my cigarette between my lips, looked across the Horn at the Galata Tower, and thought, “Please!  Fuck her in the ass!”

Simon’s bottom lip collapsed between his teeth, and when he released it to speak, they left a white impression.  His head moved like the pugilist you shadow box, the prize, the peacock that halts to seduce you.

“Is my nose bleeding, goalkeeper?”

Her hands moved across the table for his.  She took his hand in hers tenderly.  She spread his fingers, and stroked the back of his hand with hers, and turned his palm over and held it up as if light would pass through it like alabaster, and she talked into it, as if words would penetrate like sound.

She said, “I saw a man in Seoul once.  It was a gray day.  My girlfriend and I had just hailed a taxi.  He was with business associates, I guess, I don’t know.  They carried armored briefcases and he was wearing a plush black topcoat.  A town car pulled in front of his party when his eyes, the color of the day, watched me, watching him.  It was a magnetic moment, with magnetic potential, but I felt my body moving like Niagara toward the opened door of the taxi, and fall inside reluctantly.  I left a phantom standing.”

His bottom lip grew accustomed to his teeth again.  He tilted his head far enough to see his reflection in her eyes, and her hands disappeared between his.  White horses straddled the hull, and Ishmir smiled at me, when a glass of tea shifted on his tray.

I followed them through the Gate of the Majestic One, even though I’d been there before.   They were easy to trail.  After we paid half price for nylons from a street vendor, Simon bought some French vanilla because she liked the decanter.  It resembled a flask.  But French vanilla didn’t mix with a miasma of death:  the dark tiny cells, marbled rooms and iron barred windows of black eunuchs, and the eerie and evil battle-axes and scimitars of the conquered.  Or, the surrealism of giant emeralds on the crown of the Topkapi Dagger like a roman candle — carried through the Gate of Felicity by Madonna.

In spite of all that, and the barbaric flower patterns on the walls, and so much gold and diamonds they resembled copper and glass, I smelled French vanilla in this stained-glass heaven, and heard tocks in a room full of clocks like waterfalls, but what I wanted most of all, was to see his cock between her thighs.

Beneath delicate balconies, 300 tiny rooms and 400 years of a ravaged Harem bridged by staircases, little courtyards, and pavilions; at the end of the cul-de-sac, I saw the lustrous eyes of the gazelle.  While my thoughts shifted from ugly destruction to whet wildflowers in this horribly airy place, she looked satisfied.  Then the lights went out!

All you could hear was the hushed noise of silence.  The familiar yelps of babies paused for the unfamiliar, but the proverbial blackout would arouse the dead before they wiped sleep from their eyes, and magnified the click of her heels rising from clay, when I saw her leap in his arms in lackluster headlights, and her bosom brushed his face — infrared in taillights.

Toward my voice of gentle direction, a friendly gauge to the door I opened, in a dark stagger they fell to obscurity, like me.  But, I prefer to be forgotten, and left to eavesdrop on transitory affairs.

They were two people, interacting on each other.  One, to conquer like the Arab in the desert.  The other to submit, like the Turkish nomad.  Unfortunately, it was black in the back of the dolmus, like the city, and I was only privy to the promise of pleasure, the sound of pain, the smell of conduction, and the rhythm of breathing.

Unlike the neighbors next door, who desperately moan for us all, in the back of a dolmus — sex is existentialismIt is earnest copulation, a period of decline in a carriage drawn by a wild-eyed spooked horse — and I hoped she felt the sharp turn, at the corner of the Soup Kitchen of Lady Nilufer, in her throat.

We skipped the Sancta Sophia and the Blue Mosque.  We circled Istanbul University. When I crossed the Galata Bridge and so many pilgrims dancing in the dark, at once the electric power line that lay victim to steel-belted radials in the middle of the street, swung carefully without resistance — to expose the nightclub in the Galata Tower!

I watched them from a bar stool dance the Fandango.  A Jew with a batch of dark curly hair in rings around his head was dented at the crown by a yarmulke.  He ordered double shots of Absolut Vodka with the regularity of a dehydrated Arab and shook his head in time to Ruben Blades’ El Padre Antonio.

Above the lullaby of the synthesizer, the tower buzzed with “muchas gracias” from the last Spanish-speaking Jewish community.  When that same synthesizer switched to hot salsa and the Jews were oddballs again, her body arched, the small of her back in the palms of his hands.  Her hair hung like strings of yellow ribbon suspended from a merry-go-round.  Fixed at the center, she rode the stallion.

Then I felt an annoying finger poke me on the shoulder blade.  Of course when I turned the offender moved to the other side.  I hate that!  It was Ishmir.  Immediately, he excused himself and sardonically asked, “Where is someone who knows English?”

“Affedersiniz, Ingilizee bilen bir kimse merede?”

I swerved round on the stool, and he saw what I saw.  My fare, without trying, drawing attention, like the dominant table in a crowded restaurant.  Without turning away he searched for his stool.  His hand on the seat, he gradually sat down.

“Guzel…”  He called her beautiful before his mouth closed and his eyes narrowed.  I ordered two shots of viski.  I was above lust in a crowd.  Instead, I encouraged the love Simon consumed and Ishmir conserved — like any valid voyeur.

In this motley assembly of American infidels, young Turks, Jews and effendis, he clearly wanted her.  He had no shame.  I watched Ishmir once stand in the center of the howling, his erection discovered, and affectionately held up for ridicule, Ishmir dropped his pants and revealed a deep-rooted trunk. With his back swayed by his fists on his hips he struck a perfect anatomical pose, a picture of pride among men.

Now, he watched her through narrow schizophrenic eyes, with his nose pressed against the windowpane, the man who has nothing, and no one adored her, like the man, Luther Vandross and Martha Wash sung about, and my fare danced.  Kirk Whalum’s sax charmed the snake.  Ishmir wanted to be the one.

Suddenly, he swerved round and watched them in the mirror behind the bar.  He swigged the viski and then he asked in a melodic yet unromantic tone, “Did he nail her?”

“In the back of the dolmus.”

“How?”

“With an overhand knot around her neck…”

“You always lie!”  He cut me off.

“I’m not interested in your vivid imagination! What did he do, how did he do it?”  he demanded.

“I’m telling you what I know!  If you don’t believe me, ask him!”

“What of her wrists?”

“A surgeon’s knot.”

“Bullshit!  That’s too much kinetic energy.  She would have to be willing!”

“She was.”

“I don’t believe you!  I don’t believe you…”  He repeated, shaking his head and looking in his empty glass on the bar.  I gestured to the bartender for refills.  We were silent.  Ishmir was disappointed.  He swigged the viski again, and slammed the empty glass on the bar.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why was she willing?”

I watched him.  He was a desperate, impatient predator who didn’t know how to take down his prey.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Nothing’s obvious,”  he shot back.

“Did she cry out loud?”

“Yes…in ecstasy.”

Ishmir swallowed saliva.  He gestured to the bartender for refills, and looked in the mirror again. They were sitting at a table for two.  Simon’s arm was draped across the back of her chair.  She used his thigh to rest her arm, her hand between his knees, her head on his shoulder. He fed her the olive he fished from her drink, and sucked the salt from her lips.  Ishmir swigged the viski again.

He sat his glass on the bar and with the same hand, he scratched the back of his neck, looked at me, and resolved, “She’s a whore.

They were loaded.  Simon draped his arms around mine and Ishmir’s neck and in an English proclamation offered to buy more to drink, if we answered this riddle.

“What motivates a woman more than love, pride, country, power, glory, or God?”  Our eyes shifted from his to each other’s.  It was a trick question.  I thought of the sphinx for our reward.  Then, in an aria of proper English, Ishmir and I replied, “Man, of course.”

We laughed in perfect harmony.  The truth was never more obvious than the pure expression of vulnerability and betrayal in her eyes; because I thought, I betrayed her confidence.  I snooped.  I peeked.  Yes, I stuck my dick in her pie, and felt a pang of regret.

She resembled an Alsatian bitch with that one three, two four stride, and when we got to the dolmus, she literally crawled inside on all fours.  Ishmir saw the fresh pears before Simon closed the door.

I watched Simon curiously.  Surely he wasn’t finished with her yet!  He wouldn’t send her home in a ‘taxi’…!

“We forgot her caftan.”  He lit a cigarette, cupping the flame from the breeze, as he walked away.

“I’ll do it!”  I thumbed myself repeatedly in the chest I was afraid to be left alone with her.

Ishmir nudged me and showed me his empty hands, and before I could fill them with my fists, he opened the door and filled them with her ass.  Two fresh pears in his hands.  He bit one gently, his tongue cushioned his teeth, his arms embraced them and his face disappeared.

She thought it was Simon.  She moaned when Ishmir’s hands went round and touched the core of her sex.  I knew he’d gone too far when I was erect.  I reached for the scruff of his neck and missed when he fell inside and covered her on the seat.  He started…humping her, like lesbians hump virgin lesbians.  It was fucking coitus!

They were slender bodies of revolution.  Then she screamed like a little girl screams at the sight of an earthworm.When Ishmir backed off, the wet spot clung to his leg.  She bolted out of the dolmus like a Mandrill and clung to him.  She was in a violent rage!  The skin of his face was under her nails.  She was like the sticky pulp of Oedipus hurled in Jocasta’s face.

She slapped him hard, and harder again before Ishmir grabbed her by the neck with one hand, and fenced with the other.  That didn’t work!  He started choking her and pushed her back inside.  They smelled like leather.  I needed to throw up.   Then I realized we were in the leather district of the bridge!

Out of nowhere, while I stood there praying for fresh air and Simon, she stabbed Ishmir repeatedly in the head with the heel of her shoe!  He fell on top of her in a convulsive fit.  Blood pulsed with every spasm, and zigzagged in a darker red all over my velvet roof and all over her yellow hair — dripping red.  I threw up on the curb.

Simon finally, shoved him to the floor and she kept screaming, “He, he, he….” and pointing at the bloody head.  She was hysterical!  Instead of shaking or slapping her, Simon hugged her and smothered her face in the pit of his arm.

“Shh, shh!”  he said anxiously, until she simply trembled violently in his arms, her cries inverted.

“What happened?”  he whispered between clinched teeth.  I hesitated, trying desperately to separate saliva from acid.

“Talk to me, and speak English!”

I pointed at Ishmir’s head, “He violated her…” I choked.

“You ‘watched’ him violate her?”

My hands wouldn’t speak, “I…I…I”  Simon leaned and punched me, fast and hard in the face.  I stumbled, my arms falling on top of the dolmus.  I braced myself against a fall on the curb I threw up on.  I thought he broke my nose.

“You stupid fuck!”  He’s ‘your’ friend, how could you let this happen?”  He pointed his angry finger.

I raised the palms of my hands, fending off his accusations, shaking my head in denial.

“He forgot that she’s an American!”  I pointed at Ishmir.

“And she forgot that she’s in a foreign country!”  I pointed at her.

I tell you all this because I can’t tell anyone else.  You see, I helped them excavate an Ottoman gravestone.  We tied Ishmir supine around it in square nylon knots and threw him in the Golden Horn.  What is life in Istanbul anyway?  A world of felicity — Ishmir is in the other.

I see the French vanilla on the cover of magazines.  She has an odd fixed look in her eyes.  The kind of look every man sees when a woman is between his legs on her knees; because, indeed nothing propels a woman like man, not God, country, or pride.

“Please excuse me.  Ogle yemegi.”

The mackerel has never tasted better.  There must be something in the water.

Copyright 2004, 2013 E Maria Shelton Speller  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

Istanbul’s Muse Board

Trench People (TP) Muse Board

When I was nine, and my sister seven, we shared a bedroom in the attic of a Victorian house, in New England.  We loved that pink triangular room, and the imaginary line that equally divided her side and mine, and it was not lost on us, that we were far removed from our extended paternal family, our parents, and the Irish triplets who shared a room of their own — downstairs. 

It was not just the physical detachment, but on the heels of “making believe,” we began to transport each other to fictional realities at bedtime that began with a question, followed by an answer and finally a bidding, “What are you doing?”  “I’m thinking.”  “What are you thinking about?” 

My stories would often begin with something truly extraordinary.  Diana Ross had ten kids in 1964!  She was twenty years old and married to Jorge — the Ebony Fashion Fair model who was the most beautiful man I had ever seen, and one of her children was my fourth grade classmate — a Puerto Rican named, Willie Sanchez.  He told us to call him Willie.  He was so cute!   

Theirs was the perfect family!  Jorge wore gray suede shoes and cardigans advertised in Jet and Ebony magazines, and the children wore clothing from the Alden and Spiegel Catalogs!   Images were accessible and appropriated. The stories epic and uninterrupted — unless clarification was necessary, like “What time do the kids have to go to bed?” 

I loved The Supremes!  In the Sixties, Diana Ross was a delicate and beautiful remix of freedom from ugly restraint.   I could scan a page for her name and find her like code!  Ditty Bop.  I could imitate her voice, her tone, inflection, her vibrato, choreography and her mannerisms! 

In the Summer of 1965, I sang A cappella, “Where Did Our Love Go,” “Stop in the Name of Love,” and “Come See About Me,” on a makeshift stage in our back yard, and became an accidental star with a teenage fan base… but, I just wanted to be left alone to adore her.

Those oral narratives in the dark — were contiguous, on a continuum, interconnected, in medias res. When I think about — Trench People, I wonder what are Angela, Lisa and Nimrod’s musings and who are their muses?  What would they like?  What makes them click?  TP’s Muse board is visible/linked below.  It’s a living, breathing, WIP.  It’s the pink room in the attic all over again!   I wonder how my sister is doing?  I wonder what she’s thinking…

http://pinterest.com/sheltonspeller/tps-muse-board/

 

 

Copyright © 2012, 2013 by Elaine Maria Shelton Speller

 

Trench People — Once Upon a Time There Were… Master Scene 2

The intent of this installment is to juxtapose art, content, audio, imagery, prose and poetry in an original screenplay, Trench People (TP).  Explode is a product of the antagonist’s art in TP.  TP is the framework for a virtual walk-through art installation like Christo and Jean Claude’s Wrapped Walk Ways or The Umbrellas — a mind-scape if you will.

Data for how many thoughts we have per minute and the speed of thought has not been measured and analyzed, so WYSIWYG — Wordpress is space for ideations.

TP follows the established rules of the industry, and in this space a JUMP CUT may signal a deviation, a temporary change of direction, an aside, a self indulgence, that hopefully holds your attention until the next FADE TO, CUT TO, DISSOLVE TO, or SMASH CUT TO — the antagonist’s art and the protagonist’s idealism.  When I started reading at the Lizard Lounge in Cambridge Massachusetts, I read master scenes as prose and epic poetry.  TP was well received and even requested!

What concerns me is decorum.  I hope my audience is not averse to poetry in medias res…  Once upon a time there were…  Trench People!

 

 

TRENCH PEOPLE

(Original Screenplay — a Period piece)

by

E. MARIA SHELTON SPELLER

Copyright ©1996, 2015. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

WGA Registration 2005

 

 

I.  The Erastes and Erominos (White letters on black background)

 

CLOSE – ON ANGELA AND JUNE

They laugh out loud.  Angela throws her head back in FULL-THROATED LAUGHTER and June BANGS the table in approval with her fist.

JUNE

(out loud)

That was brilliant!

 

ROSALIND

That was careless!  Talk

about artistic irresponsibility!

 

ANGELA

Oh, come on, Ros!

 

ROSALIND

A warning would have been APPROPRIATE,

instead of SURPRISE — mayhem,

and blaming the white man, again.

 

ANGELA

It’s not HER fault Preachers,

Politicians, and the gatekeepers

of black consciousness jumped

to conclusions.

 

ROSALIND

What’s with this about-face?

 

ANGELA

I never said I thought it was

wrong, Ros… YOU did!

 

CLOSE – ON ROSALIND

who RAISES both brows at Angela and WAVES the subject away.

 

CLOSE – ON JUNE AND LISA

June leans closer to the BABY-DYKES, specifically Lisa.

 

JUNE

(shouts)

One Hundred Nooses was crazy

art!  Was it a political pun

against the pathos of black

art, or a brazen political

statement…?

 

CLOSE – ON LISA

who OVERHEARD Rosalind’s opinion and although she is talking to June, she LOOKS at Angela.  She LEANS across the table as far as she can and talks in a curt monotone like Lisa Bonet.

 

LISA

(shouting)

I will not offer an explanation,

which is to say, an apology

for my art.  Not to be understood

or over-stood… Everything IS Political.

Sex is politics.  The day we swam to

the egg or were propelled, by stronger

swimmers behind us, was politics!

Art without politics is passion

without pluck. Sterile like

Impressionism!  An allusion of

The Great Gatsby.  Who… who

dreams in pastels?

(beat)

Maybe one percent of

the population?

(quickly)

The only way to have dreamed

about, A Sunday Afternoon on

the Island of La Grande Jatte

was to have been there.  Those

were elitist dreams.  The

poor and vulnerable don’t dream

about wearing iced-cream pants!

They dream about, Starry Night,

The Scream.

(beat)

One Hundred Nooses is a

commentary on truth and

reconciliation.  It’s

an unnecessary postmortem

for a committee that has

not happened.

 

CLOSE – ON GODDESSES AND BABY-DYKES

The GODDESSES are SILENT.  Mardou breaks into a chilly smile.

 

CLOSE – ON MARDOU

looking at Lisa.

 

MARDOU

(loud)

It’s not who is going to let me,

it’s who is going to stop me.

I thought we plugged the

Fountainhead!

Let’s channel…

(whispers)

The Subterraneans, tonight.

 

BACK TO SCENE

Lisa’s eyes WIDEN and she feigns IRRITATION.  Soon everyone CHUCKLES.  People sitting around them look in their direction, as if acknowledging that theirs is the dominant table in the room.  Then Mardou watches Lisa REV up again.

 

CLOSE – ON LISA

LISA

It’s Bukowski’s Coffeehouse tonight.

Except, you’re beautiful,

(beat)

and you’re beautiful… and you’re

beautiful… and we know Bukowski

only trusted the company of

desperate people, with broken minds,

broken ways, and broken teeth.

 

CLOSE – ON GODDESSES AND BABY-DYKES

They AHA in unison.

 

MARDOU

(sarcastically)

Fuck levity, then!

 

LISA

Mardou, you want

something, superficial!

 

CLOSE – ON MARDOU

looks long at Lisa.

 

MARDOU

Why? Why are you so…

(frowning)

dissatisfied?

 

CLOSE – ON ANGELA

PULLS the edge of her glass to HER tongue.  In SLOW MOTION, it lands softly.

 

CLOSE – ON TONGUE

The tip of her tongue behind the rim of the glass.

 

CLOSE – ON GODDESSES AND BABY-DYKES

Angela is the only MOVEMENT at the table.

 

CLOSE – ON LISA

who LOOKS at Mardou.

 

LISA

What is satisfied?

Is that like wanting to

be the black girl of Jack

Kerouac’s dreams?  And

precisely when — when he

woke up and was repulsed by

her puffy sleeping lips the

morning after?

 

CLOSE – ON ROSALIND

feigning boredom.  She looks at the crazy crowd.  Then turns back to what she considered baby-talk.

 

CLOSE – ON TONI

looking at her friends.

 

TONI

(sighing)

Levity!

 

CLOSE – ON TONI

moving her hands as if describing a spiral staircase.

 

TONI

(continuing)

I don’t want to be the

only one laughing tonight.

 

CLOSE – ON LISA AND MARDOU

They BURST out laughing.

 

CLOSE – ON THE GODDESSES

They look at each other.

 

CLOSE – ON JIMMY – SAME TIME

an imposing man, like Ving Rhames’ Marsellus Wallace in Pulp Fiction, owns Pushkin’s Coffeehouse.  He spots Lisa, wearing a long black skirt over those long narrow flats with toes that turn up almost like elf shoes that she often wears, and a cropped black motorcycle jacket with white raised lines and letters of cycle iconography.  He looks SURPRISED because she seldom wears color.  Jimmy gets an ERECTION when he LOOKS at Lisa.  He reaches down to ADJUST the SWELLING under his fly. He waits a minute and then makes his way through the crazy crowd in Lisa’s direction.  He SIDLES beside Lisa — LEANING on the edge of the table with the palms of his hands.

JIMMY

El (Lisa)… How you

doin’, Baby?

 

LISA

(smiles)

What’s up, Jimmy?

 

JIMMY

I know you’re flowing

tonight, right?!

 

CLOSE – ON LISA

who looks up at Jimmy, and says nothing.

 

JIMMY

Don’t look at me like

that!  You read here,

at Pushkin’s first.

I know you’re gonna

read!

 

LISA

All the coffeehouse and cafe

owners say the same thing.

Everybody gave me a break,

but nobody wants to pay me…

You want me to read for free!

Then you get an attitude when

I won’t.  Pay me!  Show your

appreciation.  I’m a working

artist.  A proletariat!

 

JIMMY

OK, OK.  How much you

chagrin’?

 

LISA

(frustrated)

Jimmy, you know how much

I charge… I’m sick of

having to give the same

speech every time I want

a cup of coffee.

 

JIMMY

In Fifteen?

 

LISA

Let’s do it now!

 

CLOSE – ON LISA (MOVING)

rising from the table focused on space.  Her entourage ceases to exist. SLOWLY PAN the CRAZY CROWD.

 

JIMMY (O.S.)

Ladies and Gentlemen, Pushkin

is proud to present, our very

own, El Cherry… Snap!

 

LISA’S P.O.V. – CROWD

Lisa and her P.O.V. is filmed in black and white.  People step aside at the last minute, greeting her on her way through, while snapping their fingers.

LONG – ON LISA

On stage, you cannot HEAR her FOOTSTEPS.  The toes of her shoes SWISH the air.  At the microphone she STANDS straight almost in a NAPOLEONIC pose.  The room is QUIET.  She launches into “One Single Act of Love.”

 

LISA

(curt, ferocious monotone)

I sold a rock opus to the best

Black rock band on the planet.

A band that lost its capacity

to dream.  Formulaic guarantees

skewed their imagination for plati-

num discs.  The male coward covered

their lifework, literally.

My story reminded them of what

‘rushing’ felt like, how complete,

how deep blushing could be obvious.

And they bought it, and produced it.

And it was good — it was better

than good.  It was thought provoking

and it was an African-American affir-

mation of our realities and our

fantasies no matter how unrealistic.

Suddenly, they were very significant

and the world truly believed that

rock music is black music and black

music is everything.  Power is

aesthetic.  Aesthetics is politics

and being black is philosophical

and our philosophy is phenomenology

and being black, is being real…

 

The uninitiated FIDGET, while obvious followers recite some of the passages like Allen Ginsberg’s audience did when he recited, Howl in the Sixties. Lisa does not raise her voice.

RESUME – ON LISA

shoving her hands deep in shallow pockets.

LISA

(less ferocity)

No Hip Hop could say as much as

this rock opus did, ever–no matter

how many stories they sampled.

So, this black rock band were

crowned kings and were exulted,

and revered, incandescent icons,

the envy of friends, the

consumption of man, the image

of immortality like the stained-

glass heaven you summon before

you close…  And they loved me…

I was the wick in their candle-

stick and without me there was

no burning flame.  I was the

source of their energy.  I was

the unstained virgin encamped…

 

CLOSE – ON LISA

leaning closer to the microphone.

 

LISA

(continuing)

When we huddled over a page it was

a psychological bristling, a patho-

logical fear, a sexual entreaty.

I wanted them, and they wanted

me.  So when opportunity knocked,

I told them so.  Sooner than anyone

imagined, there was nothing more

important, than our collaboration.

The media was our medium. They

stopped referring to me as a writer,

and started calling me a Love Supreme.

Annie Leibovitz wanted to take our

pictures–together. But, there was

something unnatural about the photo

session.  Instinct was lacking.

There was a tame and conspicuous

outsider on camp.  After taking

off too many shades, we asked

Annie to come back tomorrow and

blamed our ubiquitous danger on

some tribal angst about picture

taking and soul stealing…

When she was gone, I suggested

that they fuck me…

 

CLOSE – ON ANGELA’S EYES

Her eyelashes flutter.

 

MATCHCUT TO:

Angela’s lips, opening slowly.

 

RESUME – ON LISA

who at this moment, personifies the rebirth of COOL.

 

LISA

(continuing)

Not unlike the man in the movie

and the dancing whore…  My

honest response to the love

between us left them exposed.

So exposed, their breath rushed

past their lips in staccato

proportions.  Although they all

did, the one that really cared

about me began to pace the room.

His eyes watched how his feet

travailed.  Another, would have taken me

right then and there had we been

alone–he would have used his

shoestrings and tied my thumbs

behind me if that were all he

had.  But he was not the only

one I wanted, so he waited

anxiously.  Another, had the

strange and curious stare of an

intellectual trying to figure me

out.  And the other, simply smiled

at me from some private place, now

public, and I knew he would hurt me…

deliberately. The intellectual asked

me if I really thought it would make

a difference, and I couldn’t help

watching him as if he were some…

clear liquid.  How could it not

make a difference?  The pacer turned

and admitted he cared and said he

could not and would not participate;

furthermore, he did not think it

should happen.  The anxious one

stood and started barking at him.

If I moved in any direction, it

would be provocation for premature

ejaculation and the anxious one,

while still barking would be the

first to straddle me…

 

LISA P.O.V. – CRAZY CROWD

A man in the audience barks.  Another howls.  Women smile to themselves.

 

CLOSE – ON GODDESSES AND BABY DYKES

SMILING.  ENAMORED, Angela FALLS in love.

 

RESUME – ON LISA

She raises her voice.

 

LISA

(continuing)

If I raised my hand or my voice,

they would think I might change

my mind.  Trapped, I sat there

watching this frenzy I’d started.

The air grew hot but I did manage

to express, “All or no one.”  They

turned to look at the one who cared.

He looked at me, and I decided

that he would be the one that

would hurt me… deliberately.

And because he cared, because

he was the one holding back,

he would have to be the first.

He would have to get his reser-

vations out of the way so that

they could proceed.   “It’s on you

man.”  Said the intellectual and

then I decided the intellectual

would be the last one.  Was I

afraid? I was practically trem-

bling on that single futon.  My

laptop at the head of the bed

would have to be moved–gingerly.

The point was, I slept with my

work, I ate with my work and now

I’d fuck my work–but we would

never tell Annie the latter.

“What the fuck is the matter with

you?”  The one who cared blasted

at me.  Oh, I thought, he would

fuck me angrily–he would punish

me this way…

 

CLOSE – ON ANGELA

closing her eyes.

DISSOLVE TO:

CLOSE – ON LISA

whose nostrils FLARE slightly.

 

LISA

(continuing)

All I had to say was something

stupid like, ‘What the fuck is

the matter with you?’  Then,

giving him an excuse to fuck

me to death like June Jordan’s

“…unidentified victim of her

own neglect…” gang-raped on

a Brooklyn rooftop and thrown

to her death, screaming  but

‘inaudible’.”

 

LONG – ON LISA

RAISING her voice for what is clearly her favorite passage.

 

LISA

(continuing)

Conscious decisions are all that

I can respect.  Don’t cling to

insanity, or criminal passion,

or peer pressure, or social

expectations.  Don’t talk to me

about losing control–momentarily.

Or, the poverty and violence of

pain heaped upon more pain

because you’re black.   This is not

a gang-rape.  This is not dionysia

all over again, where women

and children are sacrificed, and

blood is beer.  If I change my

language, the outcome will still

be the same.  And, if I am woman

enough to resist surrender, are

you man enough to know the

difference, between love

and violence–without conditions…

 

INT. BAR – JIMMY – SAME TIME

He dispatches a NEAT Remy Martin to her table.

 

LISA (O.S.)  (continuing)

“You want her don’t you?”  Somebody

said.   Then he asked me a private

question, not at all furtively,

“Why?”  I dropped my eyes and then

I looked askance at the one who

cared and said,  “My fascination

with poetic themes is like–a

serenade already in progress…

isn’t this poetry, in effect?”

 

LONG – ON LISA

PAN the Crazy Crowd — spellbound.

 

LISA

(continuing)

He kneeled at the foot of the bed

and that was their cue, but I was

not ready and he knew it–but what

the hell!  The love between us

was trapped between power and lust.

His hand covered my neck like a

bridge over a dam I could not escape.

The intellectual secured my wrists

exactly the way I described in my

dreams.  I whispered to the one

who cared… that while I waxed

my dream before it faded–

I knew he would halt before he

turned the page.  Like the man

in my dreams, he was too big for

me, but he did not hurt me delib-

erately.  Under violent power

strokes, I broke under him in a

cadence I could not count in a race

out of water.  A rhapsody played in

fusion.  The anxious one ejaculated

too soon, and the one that smiled

from some private place took me

to the basement in some tenement

and hurt me deliberately, pushing

in unyielding directions.  So, I

screamed finally and the one who

cared pulled him off me and he

came all over my thighs.  That is

what he wanted, to be restrained

by somebody, anybody because he

was an animal after-all.  The

intellectual rocked me gently

to peace, licked the tears from

my ears and my face.  When it

was over, the one who cared untied

my arms that felt like ribbons

draped over my shoulders.  He was

the only heat for my cold tremble,

my soul stirring complete.  In one

single act of love we were bound

together and in unison they

screamed to the stained virgin…

you’re mine!   It was…SURREAL.

 

LISA’S P.O.V. – AUDIENCE

The crazy CROWD and her entourage give her a MUCH LOVE.

 

WIDE – ON LISA (MOVING)

PIVOTS like a feline to leave the stage.  APPLAUSE lasts until she is well seated.  She reaches for the drink Jimmy sent to the table.  Mardou and Toni HUDDLE with LISA.