While we waited for the show to start at A Rrose Is a Rrose on August 19, we all participated in an Exquisite Corpse, which seemed an appropriate pastime at an event named after Marcel Duchamp’s alter-ego. I was kind of delighted that some people had never heard of such a thing; and yet when it was over, it had more or less all worked out.
Here’s the finished ‘corpse, spliced together as seamlessly as possible. I created an author list, so I assume these are the guilty parties–some names may be missing or spelled wrong or completely just off, so let me know in the comments if I need to correct something: Reyben Kaiban, Mary Animaux, Stephen Kalinich, Azalia Snail, Jenn Carno, Joanne DeVault, David Lopez, Stan Byd (sp?), Martin Matamoros (I think? The name looks crossed out.). These names are listed at random, because I want the process of who wrote what to be completely seamless and invisible. I think this one really works as a single piece, which doesn’t always happen. The line breaks, too, are my own, and not based on any change in handwriting or where the folds were in the original piece.
I’m titling the piece “Sacred Jewel.”
Sacred Jewel
I just saw my ex-boyfriend walking across the street from where I was sitting.
It’s been a year since he left me.
I thought I was doing okay, but nothing could stop me from shaking. The earth below my feet was quaking. I steadied my nerves. I planted my feet. I found myself walking down an empty and dark dead-end street where a team of elevator-pants-wearing zebra sharpened their teeth on grim sidewalk grit.
We were all wondering where our time would go. We were all wondering about Martha. And what about the secret batch of green growing wallpaper above her nightlight, tangled and swirling with twigs and sun? Dreams of water always startle screams underneath a warm flow—from here she rises and runs through the endless static and humdrum.
I try to make some of the hum as it slowly raises in pitch and key, until the tone complements and harmonizes and creates a perfect major seventh, leaving the previous six aghast and irrelevant. Among the now vacant lines and spaces of the stuff, I consume the environment in a predatory desperation, not considering the consequences of a single oil well!
I torture children and abuse others from my position as Head of Consumer Affairs for Moonbeam Productions—I close my eyes as I walk into oblivion! Sacred dancers surround me with nude trophies; I accept their gifts and shave my head. I cover up with a blanket and reach for a flashlight.
Spotlights don’t go over well in oblivion, but they can’t deny that I never took advantage, can’t provide an even look, divide a broken cook, deny a crooked fool!
Simplify a hardened tool? Crucify a sacred jewel? It’s getting harder and harder to find a quality crucifix. Most of the artisans who were skilled in crucifixes have been retrained as call center reps, which is a much more 21st century occupation. Meanwhile, most modern crucifixes come from China.
Can we trust them? Only one way to find out. So… he decided to destroy everything.
No more life.
No more trying.
No more hurting.