Short Talk on the Lives of Performers
When I was a kid, my mother always chastised me for lying.
“Why do you do that?” she said.
I had no idea where she got the idea I was lying.
Perhaps the tongue I spoke had no translation.
Perhaps if I spoke backward, she’d get it.
Because I just told the only truth my lungs could handle.
The story I could fit in one breath.
I didn’t see many other stories around.
Short Talk on AIDS
A church bell rings for each name,
until there is a cacophony.
And, you know…
Darryl was…
And Mark said…
And Chris could…
And Philip would have…
And Maurice…
But what about Kathy…?
And Essex…?
What about Ke…?
We had that party…
And that show…
The one at the lofts…
Do you remember the docks…?
Do you remember the…?
How they…?
Oh, we loved each other…
Then…
And, you know…
Repeat until the church bells drown your voice.
Short Talk by Yvonne Rainer
The reason I dance is to understand
anything can happen with the body.
When I was alone, I faded,
a mind without a string.
But when I encountered others
I came to know
this simple fact:
we create gestures and symbols
to pull closer to
what eludes us.
Maybe that’s why
I see arabesques in my sleep.
Short Talk on My Days of Being Wild
Suddenly I woke at 4 a.m., remembering your name. Liang. I
saw you in a dream, walking toward me down a busy street.
You seemed to have a crowd of people following behind you,
as though part of a train. I had so many questions, like why
you’d agree to join me when we barely knew each other.
When my co-workers asked, I said you were a friend. Were
you? We slept in the same bed, but touched only once. You
translated for me when I went to the hospital. You called each
day I was sick. I never saw you again, not in the flesh. One
time you video-called me. Your face was nothing like I
remembered. “It feels like another life,” you kept saying.
Eventually I knew I had to cut the rope that tied me to you.
For one, I was in love with a different Liang. One who
couldn’t cross the rocky chasm that had formed between us.
Yet some part of you did. How to explain the way your name
came back to me, as though on a wave? I let it lap over my lips
until it faded, trying to remember the smell of your body as
the sun came up. Salty, sweet, like a piece of candy. I begged
God: let this name linger.
If only to improve my palette.
Jack Sullivan is a queer writer and visual artist living in a castle in the sky somewhere above Brooklyn, NY. His prose, poetry, and pencil clippings can be found / are forthcoming in BODEGA, JAKE, GHOST CITY REVIEW, and OUROBOROS. He lives with his partner Travis and their pet bald eagle Larry.
