OK!
Listen to Anika Lisa Love’s performance of “OK!” Headphones strongly encouraged.
text of performance
OK!
As I hath said,
It does not stand.
Under the weight of a storm,
A fair, fleeting moment in space-time,
A haizy dewed mist:
flowering clouds of –Neptunian oblivion–
an empty space void, occupied by the dancing drops of a dream,
Inaudible whispers
made up.
Illusionary,
pictures of tomorrow, nor,
an absence of today by, not seeing.
I was questioned to the dulling cloak, of a phased rack,
A shelved dream of tomorrow atop a sunken head…
~or~
Cheapen the price of living, and the women drop like flies.
The unawake vesicle,
they themselves,
seemingly tender enough,
to hold,
or coldly rock,
the baby into a coma
to vener—
into a system of recognition
—an establishment,
assigning the moral code,
based on its, self serving accolades:
Ecotage.
I served spoons of honey to old, crusty crackers.
A man slips his hand down the side of my,
fine, fancy, button down, Khakis
like Patty-Cakes
and Mary-Mack
and, under the guise of my server-unit,
I smile
And, say, alright to that
hope you are enjoying the part here this evening,
as the moon is longingly shining
on the long window of a cocktail event,
and I pass-out:
my reflection a waiting game
where
the hollow spook will soon fill themselves in
and, and, there will be no worries of a fine man’s gentlemanly
Gestures to my, young black ass on the dining room floor,
as I gloss around in my working girl shoes
to, offer a bite of these fresh baked crab-cakes,
to the hungry partitioners.
At night,
at night,
when the
air, heavy with steam,
and sterning waterfalls
coming from the pores,
open, atop the pink walls
a lie of separation.
I see a reflection of that instant in,
this life now.
The divine trickster met truth and,
In my absent minded ache
I hated you too,
For being a spin.
The fountain and,
Cauldron of a life before,
and how important are the reminder, of what is broken,
you silly, silken, thing.