In criticizing the manager, you, yourself, are managing

Orbit, the stars, the moon, some planet in deep spaced-out eyes, well,
if we’re all standing clever, on this sphere together, then why are so many perpetually drawn to the chalked marks made in our own blurred peripheries?

We’ve both got reddish, curly hair, but she’s much shorter and her voice is much louder when she screams out for the other performers, bringing eyes back to her,
bare midriff, she in gypsy, belly dance shrills, coined-medallion, swags and bells and me, in black turtleneck, navy, silk-shelled on top.

I read the words, improvisational to poetry, to dancers, just that, a dance, and those who want to call it ad-libbing, but can’t seem to help themselves from managing, better idea’s to patterned ways of how it really ought to be going, ending, beginning, ending again, rob us of spontaneity!

And, you will say, “she directs,” she directs me, end with the beginning, but I like better my moldering body and wax of jade leaf, a glossy, seeing way of being and not some orchestrated, militant calls to an audience, pre-packaged, boxed and easy to digest gobs, as if, as if all those three-channeled space shows of our youth weren’t an insult to our intelligences!

Also, she wanted to end with us holding hands and a very deep bow, as if we were the show and on the Grammies and taking a naked, gold statue to press to our stubborn hearts, gather dust rather than play God’s that send select audience members on a rocket-ship ride, rightfully giving the who’s whom see, visionary experiences, only to those aware of angles outside of their own swirling, congested thoughts.

We are so the same!

Photo Credit: NASA/unsplash