Joyelle McSweeney

 

 

5 Statements for Action Yes

 

  1. I was doing lines, it was a tuba. A Japanese girdle strapped to my girth. My black hair flipped for the flight pattern. See me from behind, in the future: the yellow brass snagging lightyears off a tree and sending them singing in a circle up the chute. Time passing was an effect of the light. It added up, and made a girth. It was in the future. It was not just for me. For all alike bent into the iridiating mouthpiece.
  1. Instead of an altar, a hole to bury noise. Also the hole to produce it. Speak into my mouth. Split screen: chambered sequence. Coned hats, wiry hair, a black and white visage, the eye ringed with coal, khol or a linked finger symbolizing stealth—no, cunning. Stiff finicular robes trace a circuit, a chronicle read with the feet through the maze. Genuflect: the genuine, ritual feeling. Putting out feelers for the ritual birds.
  1. The genuine ritual is an act written on index cards. Tied with a ribbon in a sloping box. I leave the box in the box or I pass it. When you check my inbox: Action, Yes. When you pass with your garment accurately indexing the weather, who could but zoom in on your zonam, lady, that very temperate xone.
  1. If I want to waggle it from the ramparts, fine. Fine me. It: my broken-necked children, my handworked regalia, the girdle which strangles me, my own broken neck. My friend is sealed into the hyperbaric chamber waiting for his wound to seal. I want to go wanting, my own gold staircase paved with shoes, the staircase crammed with my blonde body doubles. We are an exercise, evidence of a drafting duel.
  1. We wind the crystal stair like willow boughs like a hand wrings the neck of a goblet. Rings on its hairy lands. Split it, drink me. Grow big. Pour me into the strange, irregular forma of the tidal zone. Where the hare has rested her body, I shall rest my eggs. Resist it. Put an is in it.