Being nothing, Saint Genet possess nothing, while we secretly pursue the imminent possession of everything. Doubtless, there are sorrows here; manifesting landscapes that are both banal and beautiful. Doubtless, there are wounds here; unique and different hidden these wounds are always hidden. They are our solitude and our most certain glory. They are me you all of us. Doubtless, there is blood here. With blood and a puddle of gold we mourn the marriage of our invisible and anonymous patriarch, to our disowned and silent matriarch. Each nearly, nearly invisible. This is essential.
Preferring nothingness to being, tension to enjoyment, substance and will, soul and consciousness, magic and freedom, concept and judgment collide, gnash, beat upon, and scream out again and again until misery has twisted itself into ecstasy revealing our coded and cursed black history. We revel here, serving no one; and if our oft’ feeble hands have hinted at poetry it is the poetry that unites us whether we are swine or not.
Our audience meets the great apostle of singularity; he holds a sword, not a mirror, to the throat. As the room slowly fills and silently we drown. Me, you, all of us our hearts pounding, know that no one has the right to forgive, no one has the right to forgive, and tomorrow dawn will break, no one has the right to forgive, tomorrow dawn will break, and nothing is beautiful save that which is not.
We must believe that. Must we not?