January Monday 19th 2009
(filmed in interior scenes)
i.
White stilettos walk into Miami
Ink and Ami is a Weevil and he knows me
quiero hacer contigo lo que
la primavera hace con los cerezos
And he knows and I know
but we don’t acknowledge
We cool at school
I want a tattoo as I slap my book
heavy on the counter
It’s a declaration of work
and a solicitation
He nods but he’s grazing through
the pages and stops on the black dog’s
head on fiery wheels
He whistles for the cameras
It’s all in silhouette
He admires me pushing wetly
at me I look at his eyes
and it’s hard because he is
many and the eyes fluctuate
Then he whistles again
thumb running over the picture
his eyes licking at my body
My body which is never my body
I, the I that dreams feel
silhouetted, it feels nice
ii.
Is it yours? Is it mine?
There is broken glass glistening in the cut of his lip now
Inside a locked book, pictures
fall about whirring
I am fanned by displacement
and there is too much air
I, the I that dreams, is unsure about whether they are mine now
He quotes me $5000
Contempt to be
paid under the tablecloth
Inside the locked book the pictures
are thinner than mine
My dogs have teeth
My flames have teeth too
iii.
Time and dream are woven into a rug
I travel along into the making
the shading the bleeding the loving
it is mine and it always was
now my eyes glint silver in the corners
cold and softened hard yet warm
my flames bite and melt
I am streaming veins of argent
inside a laugh are also teeth
I walk past the locked book and past the thinner things
in my hand is my design as it always was
even the black dog is mine so I turn my wrist
to the sun and see her shadow there
Epilogue:
The shoes are too high they drag
on the pavement in a tired
slurp of sound, I focus on heels
and backs and necks and adjust
the percussion back into time but the
street has grown invisible walls and
the clop resounds, bounces around
sound is ostentation and the people
are beginning to turn. Don’t
look at me. White stilettos and pencil
skirt and don’t look. The walk is now,
become classical. I am swimming
through air and this is theatre in the round
There is no pain until I lose
rhythm. A white woman comes to me
She is talking at me about shoes,
me. What are you? The bricks
of buildings gather in her throat
Her eyes reflect like glass which has caught
the sun. She doesn’t understand me
We walk together but she abstracts
How lucky you are where did you get it
There is a sand bank of people
in front with us walking. We are all
walking but they slow me down
She clutches at my sleeve, the fabric
rolling between her thumb and forefinger
When we get to the intersection I say
Get away from me, you bitch
or I’ll fucking end you
The woman squeals into the street and I
continue forward no longer aware
of the clack of stilettos now that my voice reverberates
so. Everyone is adulatory and I stare them
Away as the rain falls torrentially upon us
Don Cheadle says we should turn back
and I say Yes, brilliant and they
turn. And I don’t
