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Jugglers' batons sprawl up and down
In the firelight. We're drumming well enough
That each of us can hold
The whole thing in our hands,
And bang it.
The blond one dances best, as if she'll fall apart,
And we will catch her with the beat.
The Cherokees seem most to not be there
But spread as thin as god.
Who's playing what? And was that me
Who saved the beat from falling into pieces?
The vibrations we are making form the smoky clouds
In wild concentric circles, spreading out around us,
Breaking in one spot,
where what we played broke down.
In the woods around our dance, suddenly ran people
Inhuman with masks wild from roles
in Chaucer's plays
On the green. They swing lugubrious
rough black heads,
The strips of torn cloth making fun across their faces
We could not quite see.
They snickered at marriage, at philosophy from its
Center point, traveling with no money
And no country, shocking towns with hair,
Criminals escaping jail,
Fucking in the alleys of the night
Until the light behind them shone.
All my lovers tear down the world with me,
Whispering like conspirators,
And show it's all a silly game, a silly play
Pretending we are different,
Not just one, and poor are rich,
And rich are poor, and law is wrong,
And wrong is law, and we sneak around
The edges of the hill that's shaved of trees,
For the shocked audiences, and we sneak around
The edges of their hiss, in wild costumes
Made of dreams that wake up history.
Tantra is a widely published artist, and writer, and is sometimes featured as both, such as in Southern Hum Magazine, Mannequin Envy, and Global Inner Visions. Her art show, "Reality Burn!", has been touring Spain for years. She is the Art Director of www.madhattersreview.com. She lives in San Francisco. She has many art sites, such as www.zhibit.com/tantra, and a writing site, www.freewebs.com/tantrabensko.