Renunciation
I renounce my white appearance.
Underneath I am aboriginal -- red -
Maybe. A man in search of dignity
Without identity without a land.
The aboriginal red men had their own
warped and whittled dreams - caught
in their dream catchers - then interpreted
by their shamans -- hucksters to the core.
And so what is one to be before death?
Shakespeare never answered. Perhaps we can only
loooong - that is stretch out or reformulate our enigmatic
being into a mountain or a spirit swirling around the universe.
It is hard to be really alive today. I miss the demons that
lurked in the shadowy forests. I miss the dancing dervishes who
occasionally came out of the desert night screaming loud
profane things and drawing symbols of lost empires.
Imagine a lifelong circus that refuses to travel. A circus that
only plays inside the nervous system -- me the clown. It was so
many years ago that I started the Marchus Follies in hopes that
before the show closes I’d morph into something called a “human being.”
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