| texts from the invisible world BARK LAKE, BC AL-MAH LA COSTA PERUANA INVISIBLE WORLD THROWING SKIN II BANGKOK BUSINESS ASHES ALMOST FORGOT MY BONES I AM AT YOUR SERVICE SURPRISE COOKED SAUVÉ AS(H)K © tanya evanson 2004 |
BARK LAKE, BC I It was pre-millennium May, a snowcap bathed in peach As we left Vancouver for higher ground, all the radio stations went dead The stillness pushed me into that deep cove of mind, you know the one With that attitude of a killer spreading love gently like a touch of madness Sitting with you in the forest, I lost the wetness in my throat Couldn't get it back, like an undigested bit of beef I saw your face pulling into that ego of urban pubescence Immersed in this new ecosystem of BC's gathered seasons You can't imagine the rock You can't imagine the strength of a morning pent up in its own vivacity You can't imagine the earlobe tug of late afternoon wind The muffled roar of indiscernible animals, caramel belly of a beachcomber bird Hands together in prayer, my blood standing on end You asked me what I like, in a serene stare As if you haven't known me for the last four years I say, "The scent of cedar, the swell of waterhip" Something between us had died This I knew from the flies hovering above our bed II With all this knowledge, I could not but react with a hard grace Offering myself obstacles to slice a water so glacial I foamed at mouth and vein, consolidating all organs All consciousness of this Birkenhead Lake ache Nature was my support, my only congratulations With Her muting of things Her mumble of rapids, earthquakes, killings Only She had the permission of touch, to fall in and to feel pain And how many times can I repeat how She fucks me in half How She fucks me in half With that jam of a branchwide finger The tilt of wet attraction I'll leave you now, burnt red in the metropolitan sun There is more to know than this needlesharp split in the Vancouver eloquence I need the physical world, the ritual arts, inescapable works And after having had your presence like the howl of all trees I'll let you go, at the end of the insolent day I'll let you go, at the end of this pre-millennium May A snowcap bathed in peach Vancouver, Canada 1999 AL-MAH This is a tale about a cowgirl, and what a cowgirl she was. The kind you find trying to do her best in a low atmosphere ghost town where sky is star and you can walk into downtown cores, but there are no cars, only rust. She was the kinda iron-clad, nubile cowgirl without a driver's license, living about in a characteristically red zone of chakra. Rooted there, monthly, at the very least. "What a nuisance this low hang" - she thought - that waning Moon 'bout a crescent-full, even at noon. Fingernail clipping with a hangover. You look back, Al-Mah is full, hysterical, dreamlike, a good friend of mine. "Why go? When you can stay awhile," he asked, pulling her up to the seaside. His name was... she couldn't quite remember now, but she had been bleeding at the time, that much is true. He was a teacher off the beaten path in Yelapa, the Mexican Riviera. He instructed children in great cosmic chemical reactions on the tip of a roadless town, at the edge of a half-Moon Bay of Banderas. Ojala que she accepted his invitation. She was careful. Though traveling in an age of economic enlightenment all she did was spend spend spend her time dodging men offering their seed left, right, centre, at the beach, club, bar, restaurants, streets, cobble-stone beats - anywhere a cowgirl could possibly meet her cowboy. Who was this cowboy anyway? "We are birthing a nation of unknowns," she exhaled, releasing infinite atoms into air. This, alongside the continuous passing of babes pressed to full breast. "We are over six billion red planets, so similar to Earth! We show evidence of music, dance, seasons, equatorial tilts, polar caps, canyons, crust, core, testimony of a warmer, wetter past, 'cause now we in a cool, dry, Western land, and we are lost at best, a vague reflection of even our closest satellite: Al-Mah." That low hang - waning Moon 'bout a crescent-full, even at noon in the blue sky of Puerto Vallarta. "Estoy quemandome." She was burning up when they became lovers through the eyes. It was June, the time of elections. So she resigned her superior post and became that cowgirl. A low pressure, carbon dioxide cowgirl. And the Moon? She just laughed, saying, "You’ll never be white like me." Yelapa, Mexico 2000 LA COSTA PERUANA Una piel agrietada de sol Se presenta en el camino de la costa Peruana Nos lleva a las dunas de pastel tiznadas Una eternidad de arena fina A lo lejos olas sustenidas de agua saltado Te llenan y te despejan El desierto y el oceano se juntan En la costa Peruana Por las Islas Ballestas, los flamingos en risa de una pierna Y los foques con heridas de lancha Dientes felices, lamentos humanos De macho y de hembra, en la costa Peruana Movimientos maremotos de piedra y grasa Un desierto de contaminación pura Conchas en pilas al lado del camino Como tumbas reluciendo en el sol central de la costa Peruana Peninsula de Paracas, Peru 1997 INVISIBLE WORLD We pulled into the Amazon basin of Las Pampas with that swing of machismo and warm beer, you know the kind of jungle town where heat tells time and a Caribbean flavour pulls into play, to mind. We boarded a dugout canoe and sidestepped onto cyclones, indeed, we are. Blessed as all web-footed birds, Yacuma River was low that day, my friends. We glided below the aerial roots of trees, panoply and canopy. The water, a pure milk coffee, swallowed us into foam. I placed the lips of my fingers and the piranha snapped from the river's glass ceiling, sharp marine mouths into hand, catfish, minuscule shark. The sky, a wovencloud. Roots, the scalps of slain Indians, molten into the fibre, broken un-like elastic. El cielo tejido de nubes. Pasamos por raíces aéreas como cueros cabelludos. Todo suspendido y todo fundido a dentro de la fibra. Roto no como el elástico. Threatened by knowledge, we receded into Bolivian night. Directed by his bare feet in the wild, our guide's face hinted at Black features. There was also talk of a slur. He was sketched in art, a machete man with protruding jaw, hairless, taut. A guide with sense of direction, a guide with no sense at all, clutching cobras and anacondas both mirrors and enemies. Nude among poisonous trees, he stuck his foot onto fish spines as they lay out to avenge their own gutting. From the canoe, I threw my skin to bless trains of turtles, high ass red monkeys, giant white combed manguari, massive open-mouthed caiman crocs. Capybaras, an unsure species lying somewhere between the guinea pig and the hippopotamus. Clicking sounds abound. At suntanned river bends we swam with freshwater dolphins, extinct at the thought. They rose from underwater hammocks to show us changing skin colour from pale gray to luminescent pink at will. And they're still blamed for unexpected pregnancies in nearby towns. At camp I ate piranha for irony, Bolivian wine for beauty and night frogs on my shoulders to round out the meal. We climbed up to a silvered sunset then down to our canoe in search of croc eyes at night, the red glow of deadly pustules seen easily in dark. We drank water from tree trunks and swung on vines knowing that humans be damned to hack at these forests! Damned by disposition, DNA or demonology. Back at the village, we slept for long hours in Amazon sun in a courtyard full of mango, avocado and monkey. A bliss so throwing it put the invisible world into view for a fortunate flash. But luck has its limits, and I see now that these travels will soon begin to bite at me with the jagged teeth of a bitch who's lost her puppies to the dollar. They'll wear me down, question my service, my accountability. What can I say that hasn't already been said? What can I do that hasn't already been done? No matter, I pick at a tick on my right inner thigh - a swing of the locks - and I join in the fruit of life. Las Pampas, Bolivia 1997 THROWING SKIN II No dreams to speak of As early light threw me out Like unwanted skin In places of fields, quadrants of Earth Split with loose rock walls, broad cacti Women get off buses in the middle of nowhere Walking into highland shrub and hidden homes A sacred lake to the left, cleared as topaz An occasional garbage dump for bones and batteries We pass llamas, vicuñas, handless homeless Weavings and gangs of oversexed dogs Bolivia, on a cellular level surpasses even the solid meditations Land here a rootblend of corn and quinoa A diet for starched women, loose bellied from births Short in stature and strong calved from high altitude work The breast, central and exposed Sweating a mother's milk perfume Porkpie hats off to the side in salutation Brown forearms slap the child silly Overturn the land, from barren to big with child Women, we keepers in culture, in language, in dress You shout at me with Quechua lungs, "¡Gringa!" I am separate with sepia skin, dull green hills, swollen veins of road And a rich backpack against the skyline, easy to the touch We scratch the mother in straight lines She offers a new vegetable skin At least hers, is never devoid of melanin Copacabana, Bolivia 1997 top↑ hell is business in fine clothing. though people are good to me and national-blue orchids grow by the side of expressways, we flourish in the beauty methane. heat. motorcycles and surgical masks on all the downtown faces. tuk tuk taxis. i catch my first elephant in Bangkok traffic. a cut brings sweet pineapple to glisten the tongue with swollen. enrage the edge of lip and mouth with desire. here, the king is God. and the God is headless. heads cut of Buddha statues. graceful Thai girl hearts turned to stone for the golden king draped in orange robe. imagine the reverence. the flavour, the abound. laundry hangs from all possible hooks, absorbing the thick wind. Patpong girls urge me on. my black-lung highways span the rivers. i buy my own masks and my own cigarettes. my tom yam gung never comes, and when the alternative arrives, it takes my breath and makes it phlegm. we are near the golden triangle. my fine clothes in decay. cars know no lanes. motorcycles, no boundaries. no safety but from air. advertisements for skin lightening cream send the venom right. while whole classes wait, at five-minute traffic lights. Bangkok, Thailand 1999 top↑
ASHES for Ted Joans ashes ashes! once the product of combustion our energy is now low. no tar baby broom would even do! to clean up our mess, sweep away crying moon fingernails slicing into chest. ashes ashes! once the product of devouring we is now sand through sheet, through warm earth fires. so i will go south to find me some heat and maybe even some brown people to eat. ashes ashes! we are branching out! through hemispheres only, i remember the indigenous geography of lands of oceans of fears. of we/we of/di-cho-to-mize/sweet grind, smooth pelvic grater and my cloven hmm becomes a musky metaphor for our future. ashes ashes! how do i forget my category when it is sometimes i who put me there. spanked outta my own rooms with your smooth glow of hand on the skin of my class. ashes ashes! my s.o.s. is your breathing. that quick-split emotion. right under that swelled curve of neck into blade of yours the magic of you the magic of you inside me like a lung ashes ashes! love is energy and does not die i let it fly i let it fly i let it fly ashes ashes! what happens when we come to the last breath? when the machine does no good. how will i grip the event? when i can't even grip the coming Montreal, Canada 1997 top↑ ALMOST FORGOT MY BONES Almost forgot my bones In this home without no mirrors Almost forgot my bones In this home without no mirrors Of myself, my skin, my kin, my hidden Of myself, my skin, my kin, my hidden I was living in this sketched coastal town Wearing frowns, autumn water pouring down Like my new motion. It took a while to groove, near this new ocean, But my new motion moves. Since I found siblings angelic, pink-haired, Yellow-eyed, proud-to-be-poor, dare derelict. They cut me open WIDE from cunt to pride With sharp love. Pulled out black bones, took me back home. Said, Tanya, love your catacombs Them is your recesses, your abscesses of mind So frown down Cause we all know what racism undermines Look to yourself, look to yourself When you think healing is the hard part It is effortless effort Almost forgot my bones In this home without no mirrors Almost forgot my bones In this home without no mirrors Of myself, my skin, my kin, my hidden Of myself, my skin, my kin, my hidden Just then I thought to myself, who are these new folks Reminding me that I am Black? Who are these folks? Is this a Vancouver fact? Or had I forgotten this history Straight from an 1858 Act of Black foot Up from San Fran, Stepping onto British Colombian land Already meant for Indian holy hand and spirit We all colonizers, we all colonized When I search for community, Not only through skin unity do I find love Not only through skin unity do I find love I find love from above from below From four corners of streets I find movement with beats We each use to complement each other And implement change. Got any to spare? Run it through my hair If you can get your hand through it Run it through my hair If you can get your hand through it Try, because I Almost forgot my bones In this home without no mirrors Almost forgot my bones In this home without no mirrors Of myself, my skin, my kin, my hidden Of myself, my skin, my kin, my hidden Vancouver, Canada 2000 I AM AT YOUR SERVICE Your life is the only book I recommend you read. It tests you under sun, moon and edifice, Turn the page with ears open. This book contains tonics to please all tones, To solve the crime of hatred, beware the blade of it. Hatred splits bones that interfere with due process. Hatred intoxifies water, land, air. We don't care for Young people, they say. We care only to operate outside The framework of what is commonly accepted. If you ask, "What manner of study is this?" It is not magic, it is what we call Truth, It becomes one in the turning, no talisman needed. No need for holy robes tonight, dear. No need For fascination with a love story other than our own. No need for weapons to save the microcosmos We have, here. No need for time, no need for space, No need for people. No need for time, no need for Space, no need for people. And pray we don't get To a time when there is no space for people, Pray, Friend, Pray. But you say, "So and so came, and so and so passed." How did such brutality come about? I am only destined to inscribe the emotional pains Of that inadequacy. Making history personal to me. A glorious moment to frost the canopy in whips Of power and greed. On the sheet of universe We see from our nice, affluent balconies. High rises will not bring us closer to You. Will not bring us closer to God. The sun goes down On the ruins we've made of ourselves and we wait. Arms raised, eyes glazed over. What cannot be heard has a thunder all its own. Grown like our common muscle in the chest. Every pain will be dealt with. There is Art in hearing this rhythm. There is Heart in hearing this rhythm. If only death were this spinning upward, This wave Lifting into singular pulse, This sudden submission, This mouth which closes in this world and immediately Opens with a shout of joy in another. If only my book didn't take a piece of infinity Away from you, we would all be saved from disservice. And I am at Your Service, I am at Your Service. SURPRISE
From my love, my lover, my Beloved Such a love poured in from all sides He lifted me up into breast He took up the drum in my chest I am the poet that aims to ease the disease My own happiness bestowed upon this breeze Blown From my love, my lover, my Beloved Such a love poured in from all sides Knowing the onset of my travels You never misunderstood The expectation of flight Brought a succession of light From my love, my lover, my Beloved From my love, my lover, my Beloved Such a love poured in from all sides Here we do seasons like the Maya I add only blood of the kings I burn your foreskin with love Offer the resin above if only to ensure The reins You pull me in with Love, my Lover, my Beloved
There is no one, There is no one surprise like You Vancouver, Canada 2001 COOKED
In the name of Paris in the springtime. In the name of the tears shed by the prophets of God What do I do now that I've left my lover for a room with a view. I'm alone in this Paris hotel, drunk and waiting. Dervish, where is your arc of return? Where is the source of my flavour? The source of that which enriches. I remember the day when you first appeared to me in the tavern. All smooth and working a mean conga. Slim and dangerous. A grazing of your fingers on my right arm and the cooking began. You scooped me up in rituals I hadn't known before. Fed me meals of such divinity and I'm known for my gluttony. The divorce made me ugly. It increased my waist size. Created arms that did nothing above my head. Served only to lift bread and chocolate and liquor to lips. Bread and chocolate and liquor to lips. I tried hard not to be at the mercy of fragments, food or yesterday's mental actions but In the name of Paris in the springtime.
In the name of the tears shed by the prophets of God What do I do now that I am a solitary traveler and a poor one at that, hiding under a crust of cautionary sense. A woman in the possible violence of night in new countries. Even old churches here sport gargoyles projected from above to watch over you. But I've got no one to watch my back but my own tattoo. I'm a pilgrim in new landscapes. Travel is a good ritual, like prayer. They are both examples designed to calm the body, focus the heart. Rituals are reminders. Our movement from gross to subtle. Insh'Allah, we find the most beautiful ones. In the name of Paris in the springtime. In the name of the tears shed by the prophets of God What do I do now? I will carry myself up from the ocean floor 'cause I got me energy since you closed the door! I will leave the city at full moon! Leave the mistrals, the columns of dog droppings on winding streets, gargoyles at every head thrown back! Gargoyles ain't all that! They are lost lovers jutting from memory with jaws open, ready to get fat. Keep the memory solid. Use as a tool to remove garbage from the Straight Path. Let the gargoyles keep their watch in all their uniqueness and wrath. This magic is real. It comes from my heart, it fills out my hands. Its stirs the spoon in the pot, the pencil on the page. It prevents the rot, burns the lead away. This burning is real. There is no end to it, and this burning eventually becomes sweet. In the name of Paris in the springtime. In the name of the tears shed by the prophets of God I go round and round in this pot you threw me in, and I thought I could swim. Now you're no longer the chef and I look up to see who’s stirring me and it's the hand of God working the spoon of me. I see now, this is the meal of me that I offer as alms. The more I get cooked, the tastier I become. And so I let myself be seized, none of this can be undone. I submit myself to True Love, so that the meal of me belongs to everyone. Paris, France 2002 SAUVÉ
Montre-toi jeune homme déjà vieillard. Montre-moi encore ta liste de génies. Montre-moi encore ton désir niant. Tu bandes quand tu t'écris, et quand tu te relis. Avec mon visage entre tes cuisses et tes mains d’écrivains dans mes cheveux noueux, nous serons libres de toute moquerie, promit, juré. Buvons le vin affreux d'Azrou, fumons le kif et prenons les encres et les mines en main et le délire naturel par la queue pour vaincre la merveilleuse souffrance. Tâche impossible, tâche inoubliable. Monte! Je suis une sainte qui fait prière sur ta terrasse! Prenons ensemble le café cassé au Paradis. Mettons le goudron enrobé aux lèvres afin d'inondé le corps matinal avec le brouillard musulman du Maroc. La douche viendra plus tard et me causera d'innombrables problèmes sociaux. Je me lave aux douches pour hommes car les femmes n'ont que le hammam. Déjà, les oignons brûlés d'hier soir dégagent leurs poisons. J'ai des boutons partout mais tu m'aimes et j'en suis sauvé, peu importe la durée. Comme les mouches, tu es attiré par mon odeur. Que Dieu soit Louis en observant ces touchés de fou à l’entrée de mes entrailles libérées. Je n’en cache pas ma satisfaction. En effet, je l’annonce. Azrou, Morocco 2002 AS(H)K The shell of the Beloved has fallen away Only the light remains The body imposes such a suffering. My veins exposed, This heartache is deeper than anyone suspects. You abandoned me. And so, like a good disciple, I am abandoning myself as well. It is difficult to move from you, And so I concern myself not with direction. I refuse to sleep, I'm going to protest By turning night into day With the movement of one quarter step If you can take it. Soon my feet will leave the ground And I may not prevent it from happening! Hands have applauded this Beauty Drums have been palmed in this Way I am never awake But always awakening. I'll think not of how you broke my heart Only how you mirrored it, brighter than the original. Now that you and I are divorced, I write My Book of Vows in preparation for the real wedding. I have wept unimaginable tears Perhaps, this is all my imagination |
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