I want to put you in the sky and admire the rainbow.
I want you to paint my eyes with silver.
I want to laugh.
You want to tease me with bells.
You want to see me in starlight.
You want to fly.
We get to make the world, what an exciting thought!
You've made the sky so beautiful. . . .
I'm going to give my birds wings so they can enjoy it.
You've made the grass so soft. . . .
I'm going to give my bunnies tickly little noses to sniff it with.
The gifts were honor, love, trust, laughter.
We gave our people minds so they could enjoy these pleasures.
They thanked us
and then they killed each other.
We painted the women with shiny hair and bright eyes.
They walked provocatively down the street,
dulling their hair with spray-on glue
and hiding their eyes with black and blue.
We painted the men with strong bodies and sonorous voices.
They sat drunkenly in the bar,
letting their muscles wither and shouting for more beer.
It's almost as if we never gave them minds.
I ask you one day, "Why don't those men write books?"
"Why don't they share stories?" you continue.
"Where is all the music?" I demand.
"And where--" you begin . . .
"Did their souls go?" we finish together.
They don't know, we realize.
They don't want to tease with bells and hear them tinkle.
They don't want to taste the sky and paint the moon
or share the stars or smell the Earth turning. . . .
They just want to die.
They want to fight and kill and rape and yell and fuck and die.
They want to live in a bucket and chew the scum on the sides
and think about nothing
except that this is all they're good for.
All the while we haven't touched the ground with our feet.
We move to step on the land if only to bless it
and it turns to ashes beneath us.
We are sucked in with the smoke.
Suddenly we feel the burn and the hot, heavy tar binding us . . .
to each other and the rest of the world,
inescapable black tar that stings us
with punishment we don't deserve.
We know now how our people feel.
You can still tease me with bells, but only metal ones.
I still see your smile behind them,
and I feel the golden smile in my own soul.
You can no longer see me bathing in starlight,
but the moon is close enough,
and you derive the same pleasure.
We remember that admiring beauty and creating beauty are twin tasks,
and in our admiration, we seek to clear the smoke.
We wish to know the world.
We know it, and it hurts us, but we open up for more. . . .
We are stronger than that.
We teach them, we make them stronger, we shine what's left of the light upon them.
We show, they grow, and we glow.