While on the edge of humanity, I found this. It took me back to a moment when I was young, dancing the first 3:15 without stopping for several weeks in a row. It was an elixir.


Movement Song

I have studied the tight curls on the back of your neck

moving away from me
beyond anger or failure
your face in the evening schools of longing
through mornings of wish and ripen
we were always saying goodbye
in the blood in the bone over coffee
before dashing for elevators going
in opposite directions
without goodbyes.
Do not remember me as a bridge nor a roof
as the maker of legends
nor as a trap
door to that world
where black and white clericals
hang on the edge of beauty in five oclock elevators
twitching their shoulders to avoid other flesh
and now
there is someone to speak for them
moving away from me into tomorrows
morning of wish and ripen
your goodbye is a promise of lightning
in the last angels hand
unwelcome and warning
the sands have run out against us
we were rewarded by journeys
away from each other
into desire
into mornings alone
where excuse and endurance mingle
conceiving decision.
Do not remember me
as disaster
nor as the keeper of secrets
I am a fellow rider in the cattle cars
you move slowly out of my bed
saying we cannot waste time
only ourselves.
~ Audre Lorde
RIP, Gambda Adisa

Bassanio’s Soliloquy

–Bassanio [to the gold casket]
So may the outward shows be least themselves
The world is e’er deceived by ornament:
In law, a plea that’s false and corrupt,
Yet made with a gracious and seasoned voice,
Obscures the show of evil.

In religion,
What damnèd act does not become a blessing,
When some sober brow will approve it with text,
Hiding gross error with fair ornament?

There is no vice so simple but assume some mark of virtue on its outward parts.

How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false as
stairs of sand, do wear upon their chin
The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars,
who, inward searched, have livers as white as milk?
These are no more than feeble shows of valor
To render them so dreadful.

Look on beauty and you shall see ‘tis purchased by the weight,
This cream, when plied upon the face works wonders
Making them fairest  who wear most of it.
So are those crispèd, flowing, golden locks,
Which make such wanton gambols with the wind,
But such pretense of beauty, as we know,
Comes from a wig; hair from another’s head,
The skull of which now lies in some lost grave.
Thus, outer show is but the guilèd shore
To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous  scarf
Veiling a queen’s wretched face; in a word:
The seeming truth which cunning times put on
To trap the wise.

Therefore, thou gaudy gold,
You’re as worthless to me as the hard food
That greedy Midas could not hope to eat.
I’ll have none of thee.
[to the silver casket]
Nor of thee silver;
You are none but the stuff of common coin,
Passed between the drudging fingers of men.

But thou, meager lead, which rather threatens
Than give any promise or hope of gain;
Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence.
And here I choose.  May heaven be my prize!




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bye london

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