In another life I was a dancer
I liked to whirl myself into a gauzy cocoon
I performed dolefully sometimes
Broadening beyond the brink of the stage
Spectators called this piece German Expressionism
Bystanders called it Tyranny
At that time there were no holes in my eyes
No painted pebbles or white peonies at my feet
No orchestra holding their breath in the pit
Now that I am dead, I fancy this whole scene droll
The papers reported it alarmist
My lover looked it for advice
The whole black box was bloodshot including our vapors
When the audience considered me their faces were screens
Our bodies were public weapons against oppression
And we could not leek our strategies through our tears
Our role in the polis was determined by the stars
Now that I am dead, I have no stars of my own
My recycled spirit haunts the memories of a lowly little boy
Who led his parents to my grave in the Scottish Moors
The wind screamed through purple grass to drown out his words
So his words drowned just as I
No one can help him for his has no words
No one can help me for I have no stars
Still I hold his spirit hostage ‘til he tells the world I was fleeced
By a red haired creature, a pawn of the crown
Who lured me with a soothing song and the promise of a house
Built upon the rock at the end of the world
I’m not special
I have acquired nothing of a house, nor a rock
I’ve sailed the seven seas looking for the brink
Learning only of a different end
Yes, I have been a sailor on the oil black seas
Searching for nothing of substance
Yet acquiring the tricks of the wind
I have skills
I’ve learned to throw the voices of the damned
That I use to haunt the bourgeoise
They don’t listen, but when they hear us
They go to church
I could haunt them for one thousand years
I return to my ship
Leaving only my jug of voices on the steps
I know that in another world my love wears wildflowers in her hair
Lilacs and lily of the valley donned unchained in raven locks
At night in the muted bowels of the ship I dream
Of green grass and the mineral odor of earth
I’m so hungry for it I could eat my own shit
I weave a crown of kelp and enlist it on my head
Its salt is just salt
Its twines just twines
The only blue that I find is the blue of my tears
My love doesn’t wait for me on the widow’s walk at dawn
She clutches her breast down by the hearth
Spitting up seawater until the fire is quashed
Yes, I pollute all my lovers with odd feelings
When I am in winter, they shiver
When their bladders are full, I piss
On the ship I dream of wolves bellowing for the wild
The sea’s as much wilderness as the cosmos is sea
I yearn for the feel of hot blood down my throat
Or the texture of tendons masticated in mouth
I have forgotten the feel of flesh in my hands
I am the salt on your lips following cold night sweats
I am the whistle of breath in a bottle
When the world crumbles by the slow botch of the crown
So will the glass
And the message
And the dirt
Even the dead will die with their music
IVY JOHNSON is a poet, performance artist, and writer between genres living in Oakland, Calif. Boog published her first chapbook, Walt Disney’s Light Show Extravaganza, in 2011. She is the author of As They Fall (Timeless Infinite Light), The Third Thing (coauthored with Kate Robinson, Portable Press at Yo-Yo Labs), Born Again (The Operating System), and Precious Moments (Sky Trail Press).