Writing / Poetry / Performance Texts

Monologue for Marianne, 2017

No trouble no name sleeping the sweat off the slick fire growing from no command of residential typographies of where we came from. Said sleeping the following representatives standing up against the diligence of media, we are forced to escape in order to relinquish the validity of difficult experiences. Perhaps if we lived in a place where sentences were not so constantly under attack then the articulation of unspecific points of view and plurality could be a concept worth “not ignoring”. We don’t need to get the police involved here, this is just a performance. It’s a huge body of work to beg pardon to the circumference of continuing a radical association for the way in which people perceive us. The door is open and you woke up here not knowing who is outside, so any concept of a safety or security needs to be measured differently, as does the concept of protection. If you look on the other side of this page you’ll see a small instrument for arranging a sequence of agents to reveal to others another experience. I believe the media un-tethered to the live performance of this material will in some way disrupt or puncture the colonial tubing by which the dying beast of western civilization chokes on his own vomit. I believe this on behalf of the deceased or coma-induced foresight that has fallen over many minds, many worlds, and choked ourselves of a future we wish to build and imagine. The vestiges of hatred, blindness, and apathy will used as compost for the craftsfolk of tomorrow. Our non-biological children have inherited a different skillset for devouring futures we deem ineffectual and implicitly in denial of what we already know as truth. It is from within this knowledge I understand that our words are our most powerful weapon and the resources we have available could potentially infiltrate the negation of international relationships and become spoken remedy for the systemic violence that opaquely negates us from communication. There is a diversity plot that needs re-organizing. There is a home that needs better shelving and public restrooms where trans children can hang out and talk shit. This is where I’m confused and saying “ambiguity for progress” the way Anastasia first said after my studio flooded my second year at Bard. But I digress. If there was a container by which I choose to propose a dis-conbobulatiom of sequential kinship narratives. Under these pretenses it is proposed that there must be a kind of communication that adheres to some kind of legibility in constructing a narrative around a thesis, and to this, I break the container with this pink lucite hammer, shattering both the weapon and the contents of this vessel.