Preacher King

I crawled home. On my own. Bloodied and dying. 

No one came to look for me when I went missing. 

No one came to pick me up.

I crawled home. On my own. For days.

When I finally arrive, no one came to the gate to welcome me.

Momma scolded me for being late. Pops threatened me with a whip. My bloodied body bruised and broken was my fault.

 I went upstairs to wash. Slept for days.

Woke up in rage. Grew up into that rage.

Found a needle to pinch my voodoo arms. 

Took a lifetime to end that shit. But finally got ended when I accepted the truths I never wanted to see.

Went to the desert. Let the burning bush burn away the pain.

Celebrated the possibilities.

I became a part of my now.

I am the Preacher King.

Otherness

Lights up on a female identifying pitch person, dressed in skinny black jeans, with high heels, a tight black turtleneck and a hat adorned with pheasant feathers, carrying a whip.

NARRATOR

You’re here.

Each and every one of you.

Welcome.

For what you don’t know.

You’re here

Given the privilege of looking.

You’re here

Looking at the differences

Challenging the urge to judge

To dismiss.

The otherness what isn’t you

Or is it you? 

And you just don’t wanna see it?

Tonight

This moment

Our journey

Together

The Other than what you think

Other than what you know

Other beings

Other expectations

O there. Are. Things. Yet. To. 

Be seen.

Bodies are our soul.

A landscape.

A landscape we paint. 

Do you like to paint? 

Making choices?

Physical choices?

Perceptions, or urges…

What are your urges? 

Bodies react

Between what is and what isn’t. 

Choices

Perceptions

Binary

Or other

Pushes us to dig deep. 

Or deep comes to the surface.

Fantasies or fact. 

Little kids love to dress up

And I love the costumes you all wore here tonight.

We put ourselves on the stage.

Dressed bodies

In staged rooms

Rooms telling a story

Each room a story…

Will we turn away?

You paid your ticket.

You want to be entertained.

So come inside our journey through story telling rooms. 

Searching for what is true.

Their truths.

Their landscape.

Their choices.

Despite how the world responds.

Don’t walk out.

Don’t turn away.

Stay and judge for yourself.

Do these creatures deserve compassion?

Do they deserve protection?

Or should they be gone from sight?

To the dark corners of the night

Come into our world for a moment.

Judge for yourself.

Bodies are our landscape.

Bodies hold our soul.

Young TIG

Why don’t you like me? I’m…I’m sorry. It..it just seems like I want us to be friends. You’re so confident — and I..I know I can…I…I…I just want us to share this movie together. I have a friend — Eileen. Or Ellen. Anyway. She’s a PA. On Grind Down, and she tells me how the industry is and what to expect and stuff…and I kinda hoped we can be friends like that…sharing stuff…like she showed me this video a grip guy took during a closed set. Seriously, this actress…totally flippin. Like full throttle breakdown. Zero to 100 screaming how the director’s a jerk While he’s throwing shit everywhere she just walked off. You see this? It’s on the in-ter-net. Damn, can’t remember her name. Eileen thought she’d quit, but she came back with some dude trailing her. God, what’s her name? Ohhhh…it’s on the tip of my tip of my (tongue). “R” something. Ar – r Arianna! Aww so cool.

Anyways…I was hoping we could like be friends, and share stuff like that.

I am of —

I am of —

A parent trapeze – a man and a woman – that tried to make a perfect world from imperfect outcomes – a paradox of wits

I am of —

A name – regal power of womanhood – formed from ancient spirits – inherited force and determination – with bow and arrow, a quiver and knife – Artemis searching fields and forests for an entourage

I am of —

Skin and bones – accepting and rejecting – always learning – striving to live with humility in contrast to selfishness needing to be understood

I am of —

Conscious thought – ideas engaged in nurturing brainpower – images and words creating silent narratives – sputtering synapses – memories caught in déjà vu like moments

I am of —

The human condition – OZ –witches and prophecy – wisdom trees – giving wells – deep riches difficult to hold steady – arrogance that seeks recognition but never prosperity

I am of —

An earth absorbed by commerce and speculation – seeing auras of hope that are often blinded by the deep intentions of others to do harm

I am of —

This city home – with family and friends – art and theater – one step – two step – dancing along cement paths – floating islands – screaming silences looking for shade from harsh environs – eavesdropping on conversations

I am of —

Plays and poems – representation of half true stories – spinning narratives – or messaging call to actions – like taromancy signaling a journey in one’s divinity of choices –

I am of —

A workplace – filling pockets with change – giving purpose to sacrificed time – to do more with less – discovering a wavering hope – measured by successes – giving reason to move forward – financing security so the landlord doesn’t foreclose the door

I am of –

My age – withering in an older something – skins shedding – changing colors while a heart beats for truth – legacy – a lasting portrait in dharma – to celebrate the passing.

I am me.

Night Becomes Mourning…an excerpt

LOURDES: Isn’t this my reckoning? 

EARLE: Is this a tragedy?

LOURDES: I hope not. 

EARLE: Listen. I’m not what you think I should be to you. I’m a user. Resentful. Angry and never satisfied. I’m unfaithful. I was unfaithful and that’s why I’m alone. Not because of anything I wanted my life to be. I’m here because I can’t be where I want to be.

Pause.

EARLE: No matter how much you feel you can handle the situation. I’ll always look for the exit.

LOURDES smiles.

LOURDES: Of course you will.

EARLE: The only way I can take something from you is if you let me. 

LOURDES: And I let you. Because I wanted you. 

Pause.

EARLE: Don’t be stupid. Play your cards better.

EARLE starts to move toward the door.

LOURDES: We need to finish this.

EARLE: What do yo think we can give each other?

LOURDES: This is a two way street. It didn’t just happen because I willed it to happen. You wanted something out of this.

EARLE: I got what I wanted.

Pause

LOURDES: I’ve never been able to understand your infatuation with Instagram. Perhaps that’s where it all is in terms of the deterioration of relationships, right? All stuck in a blip.

EARLE: . . .

LOURDES: Shallow games. Self worth tied to the “likes.” All Emojis and manipulations targeting for acknowledgement.

EARLE: You don’t post.

LOURDES: You noticed?

Pause.

LOURDES: Texts.  Insta-posts. 

EARLE: Where are you going with this?

LOURDES: Blips don’t replace real connections. One can’t compete. I..I found myself going deep into their portal to find the truth about people. It became a distorted truth I’d think into my circle of want. Because in this brave new world, that’s the way we resort to find our place. This technology, held tight in our grip, begins to believe that people’s posts are their intuitive truths, their true first thoughts. But they’re masks? 

EARLE: They’re curated.

LOURDES: I found myself spending hours, scrolling posts, trying to find some understanding. Something you’d reveal so I’d know what you thought. If you’d thought about me. I posted for your to see me. Then, I had the brilliant idea of writing you a text. Participate on your level sorta speak.  Hoping there would be a cascade of conversation that would spark more, and more, and then open into something more meaningful. 

EARLE: Curated conversations.

LOURDES: But you didn’t play. So I swore it off. Had no interest communicating that way. Too much misunderstanding or avoidance. But there is something that kept calling me back. Our moments together lifted me. Made me feel I was doing something right. 

EARLE: I’m flattered but I’ve nothing worth giving.

LOURDES: Maybe you never stopped long enough to take notice.

Running on Soul

I paid the man and he took my money without blinking an eye…and now I’m down all that stuff and can’t make it out to pay the rent. He stole from me my means to an end…I have no way out…no way to keep things close…to allow things to happen…no way to keep it goin strong. When I replay over and over that moment…over in my head…I get so mad I wanna hurt some one…wanna hurt myself…you know what I mean? Do you see what I’m telling you?

This ain’t no Ken and Barbie shit this is real…real life poverty knocking me out of the game…and I’m running…running on soul and the ice…is its real thin…like it don’t matter anymore if I’m dead or alive. You get what I’m telling you?

Little Fe(a)t

Across the road, in a small gathering place, elementary children sat, in woods conjuring, fantastic worlds, beyond knowing.

While sitting on logs, heroes pretended, with protecting swords, saving the weak.

One morning, a kindergarten girl, stole in the gathering place, imagining pretended fire, occupied logs, in a summit of conversations.

Realizing her solitude, imagining hands reached, the sky dissolving in-between treetops: a confluence of man and nature.

A broken thought interrupted: Why is it so hard to tell the truth?

Trees answered, understanding, beyond a single moment, representing all moments, as witnesses of harm: nothingness is easier.

Senseless harms, let houses burn, skies smoking war, or oceans disintegrate.

The winds howl, shook branches, pointing to bystanders, with closed eyes, shielding fear, then, returning to circles, around fires, killing all things, outside the circle.

In the clearing across the road, in the small gathering place, children sit in woods, conjuring fantastic worlds beyond knowing.

Sitting on logs around a pretended fire, planning futures, pretend swords, protect damsels in distress: heroes saving the endangered and weak.

Monologue of a Distinguished Service Medal

It’s an honor to be pinned.

Salutes make my gold bar shine. Don’t ya think?

It’s bittersweet though. . . this moment.

Do you like my ribbon? It has a story in it. A bittersweet chronicle. A marine’s moment . . . cherishing life . . . protected by the man’s unselfish act. Life’s more important than self-interest.

The place I rest is with the living. . . but it mostly means people have died.

Can you see my colors clearly? Their symbolism? Red for valor – I know it usually means blood, but I hate it when people say that red is a violent symbol – blood’s a natural element – part of the human condition . . . for me it represents beauty in powerful and courageous acts. Extraordinary heroism against an armed enemy force. When people get all up into it’s political meaning . . . they steal its true value.

My white . . . faith and purity . . . always a favorite . . . but I question whether anything can really be that pure. I suppose giving a life for a life is a kinda pure love. The ultimate selflessness.

But then people take the blue and use that as a means to an end . . . using it as some political tool to defend a political view debunks my value. Blue lives . . . black lives . . . brown or yellow lives representing lived lives . . . yes . . . things endured . . . but all that steels my ribbon’s reminder of the courage and valor that I represent, and symbolize…a saved life.

My cross, held by these ribbons, represents that act of protecting against an enemy of life. Protecting against those in our global community that live to hate and hate to love all equal. Resting on this chest of bravery and determination is my greatest honor. This person protects us from hateful actors.

I represent what’s best in a person because this man . . . or woman . . . without thought took action. A selfless headstrong action into danger.

It saddens me when people throw us away. Or stomp on us as if trying to blot out the actions of madmen. Saving a life in wartime is not a symbol of hate.

My ribbon is not political. It represents sacrifice. Honoring a moment of selflessness. A son . . . lost . . . a daughter . . . lost. The defense of a greater good.

You see me . . . now do you understand me?

Substance

The juice sinks into me like a warm sunrise,

While the luxury of self-indulgent paths imagines it as love.

I begged to graduate;

coercing the puncture of my curiosity.

Drinking the elixir of blood and guts,

grit and fear moved in slow motion veins.

I lived in a paper castle,

to avoid the somebody that always dies.

Never thinking that someone could be me.

No one hears the river as it thins out.