Бесплатный фрагмент - Cire Perdue

An act of Love,

To Mom and Dad.

To mankind.

Introduction

Cire perdue: “lost wax” of “precision casting”, is the process used in metal casting that consists of making a wax model as of a statuette, casting it with a refractory (as clay) to form a mold, heating until the wax melts and runs out of small holes left in the mold and then, pouring metal into the space left vacant.

There is not much to say for women in the world today; with the simple reasoning that we must all be in the business of speaking for ourselves. I have always entertained the security and pure authorship that my own thoughts provide, over my own discretion to being warned of danger without tasting it for myself, wondering if there was a direct lineage to me and the Amazonians whose brief hegemony described my heart with such ferocity it may as well be labeled on my right breast. That I would give up my sole expected purpose in society to discover the vulnerable, influential being that exists here today, one I never imagined I would meet is a blessing.

I belong to her in the off-chance that I escape the need to belong, there is still a sense of denial born of the pain of this shallow, albeit agreed upon unilateral experience. I write despite it. I fictionalize her while on my drum set, and I beat on things like thunder does the earth: ideas, images, social constructs, music, and pain, and when I’m making noise, I picture waves rising up through me, pounding these debilitating notions into the ground. It’s not always gentle; it’s not always pure, and yet, I find my very ambition reflected in nature’s plight to simply exist, on drums, behind the pen, behind the ritual of it all; it’s this dance of ritual and nature, history and femininity and this love for creating that allows me to continue to support life despite its appearance of being manipulated or coerced by man. I feel these illustrations as deep meditations within my spirit, and then I become the seer you see.

It’s an absolute honor to share this work with you. Let its wings soar into the heart where it feels empty. Let it wander through any singular experience you have and expand it lovingly, the way I inhaled perspective like fresh mountain air and feeling like rain.

Rituals of Forgiveness

Ornaments/Girl’s Guide to Drumming

If you want to make the big bucks

You’ve got to shake a leg,

Break a leg I mean

Am I being too demeaning?

A day in the life of a female

Like it’s my life’s goal

For you to take me seriously,

But shouldn’t it be

The other way around.

First you’ve got to clean houses,

Sweep up floors,

Clean off puke and ashes

From college dorm rooms.

Sell a foreign language

Or a common tongue

That cuts culture out of everything

Like bread and line-dancing.

Sell crawfish

Or the idea that their going extinct

Or their habitat is,

But that’s beyond the point.

Then you’ve got to practice slamming,

Pretty much slamming anything.

Slamming doors shut on your childhood,

Slamming bones into iron

To get your muscles back into place,

Your spine upright,

After it got ripped out by life.

Slamming poets,

Slamming rhymes,

Claquant des couteaux à travers la pommes

And you get home

And crash into a comma

Of forgetfulness and Netflix,

And hope you have the strength

To remember tomorrow, the same question

You’ll be asked for eternity:

Who are you?

Like you don’t have to be that bitch

From high school anymore

Or the one who has it in with Shiva

And maybe you actually can save a live this time

Just not your lovable delinquent dog’s

Or his hot nose on your skin

Sinking in like good ole fashioned solitude

Unless you tattoo him on your arm

On the beach in Tulum

But your body remembers you too

It reminds you of you,

And all the acts you need to perform

To save your own life

And mostly it involves your hands,

Your mind,

And your heart

In that order

Bronze and copper and mahogany

Slamming them together

With wooden weapons

Twirling around my wrists,

My mind,

Like a charm

Hanging off of an arm

An ornament in a tree,

A shiny surface polished up

Placed on a chain,

Untouched by this broken society

Or its basic properties

Wood, grain, and metal

Made into weapons

the splintering of which

Is hitting the stick

In a right way.

In a way that it makes a sound

That softens the rest

Crashing through cymbals

Like holy relics of reason

That complicate the primal tone

But they do something for our needs

To advance the noise

Isn’t being weird just being happy beyond reason?

To feel connected on a deeper level,

Drive symbols

To our brain

To make our bodies move

The way we’re advancing

Forever dancing,

Chola Nataraja

Forever dancing

This is the movement of my ancestors

This is their words

Through my artifacts

All of the ways

I’ve collected their love

Can be seen in my hips and wrists

In my footwork or lack thereof

As I dance through the fires

Of doubt and illusion

Like Shiva

Like the distinct sound

Between war and religion

Art and culture

Love and illusion

Is the snare drum

Circling around

One central beat.

Time Spent

Time spent something on you

When the stars applauded,

And kissed your breath with magnetism.

They shook for you to shake the world

Beyond the gaze of judgment

Where we all cheer too.

For time spent something on you.

It rose and tipped the glass,

Clinking rims,

To the man in a pig’s mask

A cast of cadets

Smirking

Swirling around

The aftertaste

In midnight skies.

Where we meet each time

And walk along the winding.

Touching hands to withstand

The mask of illusion,

The blinding guise

That makes Wonder Woman

So worthy of the title,

Makes Lady Liberty the point

Of which to place the crown,

And the torch burns through the night

For those eager to lift it.

Sharing dreams of the sun

They are testaments, they are blessings

In the sleeping of our waking minds,

It passes with a blinking eye.

All we are is a star

Tossed into orbit upon the scene

Venturing into blinding darkness,

Through the binding of nature,

Of our own axial groove.

Departing, arriving

Into paternity.

Dancing in divine rhythm

Through sips of heavy bottles,

Dips in ugly lakes,

Made pretty with fungus.

Time spent something on us.

And it reminds me of me.

This body of water,

This being –

And those who bow to the masked,

The disguised eyes of discontent.

Who sit atop the chariot,

Carrying a gilded blade.

Puncturing holes

To ensure a greater virtue

For what is bound to swallow itself whole

“Pretend not to be pure,

Pig-faced heretics.”

Slowly flowing through,

Drifting to only cling on

No rhythm without rhyme.

No fulfillment without wonder.

….So why do we hear?

Écoute pour la calme,

Then jump off

Waste not a single breath

On what lack luster time doesn’t muster

The echo, the song,

The silent observation,

The calibration of our engine’s parts.

A mark,

Often met,

Made by bleeding palms.

Bound, yet freed of looking out,

Freed of wanting more.

Stains we must remove,

But time spent something on you,

It gave you a choice.

Greater than the great divide,

It is a ride through roads with no signs.

But you see smoke from the fire.

Or the dust in my eyes,

That says to stay inside.

Part II

We must be near the fear again.

Hurry, put out that cigarette,

And take my hand.

You’ve got to bang to feel the beat.

A drum is but a heart in heat.

Opening, closing.

With valves that pump

For the steering

Time spent something on Earth.

But even she is not so soft

Nor so fine,

Yet we drink the wine.

And sound the lightning

That brings only more

Depth to the night

Like one sickened by love.

Expecting nothing less

Than to be stricken,

And molded into glass.

Drank up, sipped down,

And banged on,

Broken or emptied.

Plein d’eau

Et plein de notre vœu

Il détient en elle une seule rose

Et laisse des traces de pédals tombés.

What a gruesome prick,

Pain’s sender,

No longer real or tender.

I came only to be stricken,

And made into pools of clay.

To be the meaning behind the mold.

The pulsing of the ocean,

Beyond the notion

Of “what if”

Or is to be.

Time spent something on me.

It built for me a rosary

And asked of me to be the prayer.

The Tremble of Vigor

I could do it, you know,

I could hover atop the sky

Fumbling over falsehoods

And bow to your buckled knees

Surrender-

Like an eagle on a white flag

I could, but I won’t

Make pebbles of light dance

Around my ass like Ariel

Flop along the banks

In an attempt to sink my skin

Into one of those men-

These pirates

But I’ve played all my pawns

For sake of making a cheap jump

Why torture?

When the wind is sent

To dance like an echo.

The trees sent to bury their breeze,

And whisper to me sweetly

In songs and roars

In gusts and frozen symbols

Blended together

Like friction

But there’s not much of that down there

Longing for the ocean,

A witness to the shift of agility,

The tremble of vigor

Missing your parts.

Arose from the coals

Of the heart,

A song so absolute.

Beneath rays,

Signifying tales of the sojourn

Tempting me to return

Circling around the same gilded core

And where is their origin?

From breath like lightning?

From worn and crippled bones

Like worked out wheels

That grip the pavement

That’s all friction is good for-

Trading in my fin for original sin.

Like shame longing

For the dust from which it came

Like eyes that avert

From the shameless-

If I were a cloud in your sky,

I might cry for your eyes,

Weep and sink alongside

To dust and pain,

The waking eyes of love,

Bury me again.

Part II

Like I tipped the clinking rim,

And got drunk off the wine,

Like I woke up in a coffin,

And I can’t quite recall

The letters or language.

But the face of love remains

Like a mirage,

Resting above me,

Like the heart of the sun

Awaiting my return to its dream.

Like ancient recollections

We piece together smiles

Of things that christen our memory

To make love a blistering cold,

To avert the madness of pain

And the blinded life.

To wake from a place

So nightmarish

And find in my chest,

A freeing breath.

Turning Pink

Suddenly I chew at my tastes for you,

Like red meat

Stewing over the misery

But as soon as it hits your lips,

I swallow it like the pain of existence

And shudder-

That the fears of life are inside.

And there is quite possibly no way

Of getting out,

Only getting through.

I’d melt,

And shudder-

Man, if I could linger in this last bite

While glancing up long enough

I’d be full forever

Or I’d feel full

Full of life

Suddenly I chew at the taste of you,

Like stew melting my lining,

Like pain does to crying eyes,

Then enters my insides

Through the bone,

To the porous rock below.

I burn-

But not for my desires

Although they too contain a rigid grip

On the shovel that digs me under,

Drops me in the center

And pats the earth around my shut eyes,

Like the fears that clutch my tongue

Or the love that rests lays far beyond my bones,

In a place where I truly reside.

For if my soul is not the supplier

Of this merciful love,

Where shall I return this dust?

Where the frayed song of the soul

Dances me to sleep?

Through the hearts of the holy,

Caressing their infinite seas

With night skies, turning pink.

Like the torn old red sheets

That frame my bed

Because I like the feeling.

How can I deny its reach?

When in cherishing its sentiments,

I am surrounded

By the bellowing wind,

The raucous shore,

Or the arms of a friend

Holding tightly my weeping shoulders.

Patting down the woes around me.

I could bury my fears there,

In yesterday’s ignorance.

Like the day you departed from my mind.

But both the world too is made of water,

And carbon,

And even the dead return

To avenge their fallen,

Speaking to us of courage

Through the language of love.

Rapture

A shame isn’t it.

How you pierce me

Puncture my forces

Bruise up the party

With your eyes like sirens,

Your gaze like a wide wound

Like the halo of the moon.

Lips made for biting,

Tearing the crisp right off of an apple

And offering me half.

I’d eat it too

If I knew I wasn’t next.

I’m sitting here,

Slathering in the shapes

You put me in-

Dripping in gravy

Like white, whiny shame.

Chasing the flame,

I picture you

And call out closely,

A name for my reason

As I’m fumbling to locate

The parameters

Of your manners,

The means to your distinction,

Lies in the undressing me

With your eyes.

Temptation is a blanket

Between myself and the dream

And your piercing gaze.

It cloaks the dust of us,

In a fatal frame

An unsafe place for secrets

Safe not for even my own mind

But our bodies seem boundless

To unfold them.

To whisper in the corner of the room,

Hearts heavy with manic lust,

Beneath my weeping womb

Like a justly guarded drug

And I between the bars.

I smile a mild decipher,

And yours

Like a cradle to the sirens,

Setting the insatiable blanket ablaze.

And I’m wondering if people cum

In the same way

That they erupt upon the scene.

But I’d have to seduce

Everyone in this room,

Move them into me.

Taste from the apple

The bitterness of their seed

And sour fruit.

But I’m just dust,

Chasing the flame,

Might bruise my skin,

Torture my complexion.

And slowly I will surround the ground

Who could take and recreate me,

The way the moon ejects a ring

Like a halo.

Better that I turn a curse inward,

Sop like a wet rug in a boys room,

Make meditation my thing

Like none of you hippies have ever seen

To sharpen my gaze,

My backwards tongue

Like ebonics

Like innocence, if only for tonight

To end it would bring life,

The casualty of the human mind.

Like craving the taste of sugar cane

The crispness of my vigor

Sent off in sight of you,

Yet you know it too to be a bitter fable,

Like the sorrowful sweetness of death

Penetrates me like a wound,

Like my last name

Or white whiney shame

To turn itself back into life,

Back into the core that redefines my memory,

That stretches outward to the existence of time

And in an hour,

We’ll be even more damaged.

Flung from the grace of gravity

To rely on the heat

Of our beating hearts for breath

Like desires are what hold our place in line,

And seize the gifts of life

Like the stars were truly reachable

Through the canopies, the leaves

That seem to have always harbored

Only the sweet memory of decay,

Or a door slammed shut.

But, whatever you prefer.

What’s on the agenda?

I’m like a serpent

And I like them live.

I like to romanticize

I’m fit only for my own mockeries,

And love,

I’m fit for love.

And the woes of the loveless.

Like holy megaphones.

Like a quilted blanket,

Caressing my fate.

In waves of churning teal.

I’m fit for the quakes of the heart

Falling upon my cheeks,

Shaking my lips like fallen petals.

To wrap its golden mockeries

Around me,

With ease and lace.

To touch, to taste it

Like a lantern,

Like my mother’s arms

Or the tides that skim the storm.

La rose qui fleurit éternellement

La son de ma création

A cause de votre amour

But you pay to hear the roar

Of nature calling out to you

In the wind and banging thunder,

In choruses of bells and laughter.

“Yours a simple gift.”

Undress me so

Upon the shore of the heart

That I might melt into her like candle wax,

Sunlit like its creation.

“To bring light into the hearts of men.

Who might melt into your core

Fall upon the shore of your heart

Like it held the keys to the world

And man, a hammer on heaven’s door.”

Fallen Petals

Might you take my hand,

Into the deepest canyon?

And trek through the cobwebs,

Trough the callous debris of time.

Murmuring sounds of love and lust

Like a venom,

Might we burn as lanterns

Of the holy night

And smile at the shedding

Of falling petals.

Decorate the void with our useless desires,

Like lamps with tapered fringe

And years of laughter,

Ravenous laughter

And tears that soak like dew,

Comme des matins dans la sud

Left at exiting the sojourn.

A long walk into the frost,

A stomp, a rattle, a run towards the sun,

Fostering the warmth alone

That my mind had measured

Like a wrist watch

Fingers pressing digits

That light up red with excitement

Testing the temperature of the spine

Like outlets on a mantle.

All the better to be touched,

Tasted like a lantern,

Kissed upon the walls

Of my encryption.

Told like a fable,

A frown.

Featured,

Like an image

Of falling petals.

Like a desperate plea

To sew fertility

In waves of thread and lace.

Pity that the leaves

Leave no trace,

No love.

Nor carry the scent of you

Like a rose does.

Calling out so

S t r o n g l y,

To remain.

Part II

Like a canyon crying turquoise skies,

I bare the tapered edge of time.

But even in your absence,

My memory wishes

To make use of your craftsmanship.