A RUIN, 2022 @ JACK
On Dancing the End of the World at the End of the World
The Ballad of the Fates
Opening, six soft baby browns
Dawn paints the whitewash pink
As Motor City oracles sing
“Baby, baby” in sepia sounds.
Ancient anger burns through the quivering silence
Sonic boom, big bang violence
The moon is in the wrong place.
I’ve never seen so many stars.
Choreographic Task #1 or Becoming Post-Lingual
First, we forgot how to speak. Exclamation points tornadoed at the bottom of our gut, bludgeoned their way up our esophagus, cut their way through closed teeth. What came out weren’t words, the days of diction passed. They were, instead, the bellows of horror, the hisses of sour, the sighs of first love- and it was fine. Memories aren’t spoken. They are bone marrow. From their crux, we build universes. For, we are the makers. We are The Fates, America resting helplessly in our palm.
The morning of our last rehearsal, the studio waxed and waned between silence and cacophony. If we spoke, when we spoke, it was only in “What ifs?” (CLICK HERE TO CONTINUE)