Before a Show

My hands are very cold.
Like clocks, they count my patience
with concrete and rectilineal shadow.
They place me inside my skin
looking in, seeing that
I put so much hope into this dark room,
that from the lands beyond its darkness
dreams and terrors will appear.

I fold and unfold my imaginings
to find what I have surely hidden,
to let them leap up from the page
and pull my hair down over my eyes
like all the other lies I breath my life from.

Come, sweet crazinesses.
Come from someone else's minds and lead me off
inside of your evaporations,
lure me beyond these paper cages I crowd with my howling muses.
Give me a single match that I can play with back at home.
Give me something to steal or something to break,
something to commit another crime of beauty for.
Come, and leave your fragrance on my skin
like a tattoo tapped of inspiration's vague ink.




by jerry gordon
dance box: B1 Art Space
12.6.08