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July 29, 2005

Ping on the wing - dead engine

The tall masked figure in dark turtleneck, jeans, holds the mike on stage. Shortcuts, walks and whispers, harshly, frantically. The man holds a chapbook. Below is a semicircle of chairs. Eight women sitting, blondes and a japanese, dressed in pastels and wearing hats, small toy purses, legs crossed and black wayfarers. They are waiting, impatiently, for the speech. A chair is empty. Lights go dim. A man on a stool, a viola doing the balancing on a foam rest, away to the East. He attacks a G9 chord on the amp, repeats it twice then the figure starts spitting words from behind the mask.

ping on the wing
to humor me, fresh me and surprise,
have a seat, don't be a stranger, repaint air-base in orange, aluminum
and peel me to breathe and back into clouds,
ten years and one does what one can,
ping me to sleep peeling your cheeks,
have a seat, write down the address and get the check.

ping on the wing
here in midmorning with a list of dates,
have a seat, not that big of a deal, writing legal essays on your day off,
please me to sip drip hip at the museum's gallery,
and the water silently waiving and swig,
cross-dressing, string on a tape,
have a seat, toss a coin to settle the slam.

ping on the wing
and the air is moving and we're staying on the road,
see thru the near-explosive burst of sunshine swinging the mood upwards,
ping on the black strip I see you blow in,
double park while I do the port-scan and shave,
the bookshelf to the right of this wall and a drinks trolley,
serve yourself and smile.

Lights go back up and the swingy strings stop. There are nine women now sitting in the shade. The ninth woman is dressed in black. She lifts the sunglasses up, approaches the black figure and gets the chapbook. Then opens the purse and picks up another chapbook and hands it out, then goes back to her seat. Lights go dim, again.

© Fortunato Caragliano

Posted by lck at July 29, 2005 09:52 PM