The East Village

Maria Damon & Miekal And


In the favoritism of books, the "ancient" "scribe" was a futurist.  she
chose from the seven gates of the golden city.  i take that back.  she
did not choose. she closed the gate, behind her, in front of her, inside
her. twice the entanglement, except happen habit a stance. she sat down
by the perfume river and wept, in exile from the golden city. it was
part of her tradition, exile. muster his words, incubate their fatutous
meeting to what avail.  silent tears, years waiting, her tears were the
river, she wept inside out.  the perfume was her blood, untrapped,
innoculated, finally expelled in whirling shimmers of depth. she bled
its metallic fragrance, charged with myrrh & copper, yes, nickel taste
of blood, of speed, the harsh salt. the caustic sediment despite the
cleaving foundations of rock shrines, the temple in ruins became the
most important icon of her tribe. the diamonds
crept out of each pore, hardened by the drought outside the city. 
gladly, the diamonds were her work, her hard steel loom function,
outstripped by less sacred technologies.  it was part of her tradition,
diamonds were her language name. each diamond was a syllable. each
crytsal, an innocent metaphor for her tradition, which renewed the year
on that very day that she wrote "her tradition, which renewed...". the Y
of the word sYllable was an endless portal into itself, because of the
word SYBIL, it treated her well. she was everything she wanted him to
be; that is, she didn't want him to be any thing, so she was no thing,
no identity, just an entity; it was part of her tradition. be reminded
that tradition rankles the fabric of culture, dogs the dispare of the
hereditary. That is to say, it chewed her up and spat her out,
disheveled, raggedy, bleeding and porous oozing blood from many
orifices.  the vials on the shelves of the tomb of books, filled with
the dried blood of the memory of the countess.  some believed that 
thecountes shared her ways, but it was not so. he reconstructed her in the
images of colonial passion, not had, rather
sang to in the haste of troubadours, she got to be the exotic mistress
to his years of guilt. Not plagued but absorbed with prosperity & the
sightsung smells of lovesweat, sweet imaginings, but not hers. But
this in her self-mythologizing mind was to be treated well, because she
thought it would give her prophetic powers to be so down-and-out. 
trained in thepeculiar mysticism of blood-letting, he derived handsome
pleasures from turning her pages inward, engaged her in elipses, a
fraction of the impassioned anxieties he contemplated. did he enjoy her
hereditary suffering. if so be it, selah, omein.  she inscribed him in
the book of life, because he had not seriously wronged her. he HAD taken
her, there, the first time, many years previous; it was amazing how
difficult it was for him to grasp her Otherness.  so she sat outside the
City of God and the Book of Pleasures, which are one and the same, and
contemplated the beauty of the walls that she wanted to imagine kept her
out.  the gates called openings rattled in the prosaic wind; pages of
the Book of Life with all those dead and living names.