I've the book in my hands. I've been presented as the reader of the poem. How to interpret this cerebral, obscure, layered text. It will be incomprehensible. I give a short history of the meaning of Aaztlán (SP) and the Chicano movement. A part of North America that is not now part of Mexico, but long ago... They'll be impressed by my knowledge. It's also incumbent upon me to give a short history of the ephemeral print history of this book, its publication by Weird Tales. Perhaps this context will help them when the words begin to spill out.

Turning the pages, looking for the text. Page that is a leaf. Page that is part lace doily. My eyes will find the right page. Flipping. Tiny, dense, square type.

As reader, I stand on a low dais in front of wood and glass panelled doors that can open and close. People will mostly enter the space behind me and to my right. The seating, large, carpet covered steps, rises in front of me and to my right. Gentle, diffuse, pooled lighting.

The audience is bound to shift, drift in behind me as I read. And they'll leave, too. Can they really want to hear this reading, which will surely go over their heads. I speak to them, take an informal poll of their desire to hear poetry or do readings themselves. I request information about time constraints. Surprisingly, the majority is intent on hearing the poem.

I return to the task of finding the text among the pages so crammed with type, brown and brittle with age.

The broken space inside me. The walls. The spread. Say the words I associate with the image. Say them in the order my eyes move across the objects in the drawing. This is how this image is read. Or better, simply describe the whole of the image in my own words. This is how the image is read. I have been used to the poem being the precise words of the author. But these images can be described in whatever words the reader chooses.

As reader, I stand in my damaged feet in loose, white, cotton socks on a wood floor. Lucky I can't feel my feet. In front of wood and glass panelled doors. Audience members drift in and out. More joining than departing.

Horses burst through doors in front of me and to my left. Dappled white gray horses. The listeners up in front of me and to my right are still attending to what I'm reading. The exuberance of the sports enthusiasts outside can't be quelled. The crowd roars. Tremendous haunches, backs decorated in red and gold. Prancing hooves.



~~~~~~~~~

Balancing being a body and exploring the life of the mind.