by Richard Loranger
November 10,2000

. . . to spin a web that is a man,

and spin it free, that it resemble him,

that we can sense his nature, that

he can sit down next to you

and scratch his head,

he can lay his arm in your lap,

he can sit in front of you in silence, contemplative,

and slowly open his hand, show you the palm . . .

You are in a room on a Friday night in Manhattan.

Does that make you any less present?

Here is a man who walks into a room and does a backflip right
back out of it . . .

Here is a man who paints for 4 days without sleep

in search of an eye . . .

Here is a man who starts to dance

alone in a room with no music,

just flailing

fire-eyed and grinning

because he is in his body,

no other reason . . .

Here is a man who starts to grin because

you’ve walked into the room, a grin exploding

past the walls . . .

Here is a man who dissolves walls,

who doesn’t need them . . .

Here is a man who runs through the woods chewing on bark
because it’s there to taste . . .

Here is a man who stands in the rain all afternoon

absolutely still . . .

Here is a man for whom bullshit is not an option.


So if we do nothing else tonight,

let’s make bullshit not an option.

Where were you all afternoon?

Where are you now?

Locate yourself.

What vectors are under your skin?

What pieces of life are hanging around?

What do you come down to tonight?






contentment . . .

a mirror,

a tint of glass,

frayed sleeve of a coat,

a noisy truck,

stray comment on the train,

a piece of cornbread,

the mess in your room,

a paper on the floor,

someone’s shoe,

a photograph,

an old song,

an old desire,

a distant horn,

a ringing phone,

a missing ring,

smell of salt air . . .





A sparrow flies through your back,

right between the shoulder blades,

right through your spine,

splits into four inside your chest:

two shoot down your arms and out your fingertips,

one darts up your spine and out your forehead,

one flies out through your gut . . .



You’re in a room on a Friday night in Manhattan.

We all are.  Here we are.

I say you’re beautiful.

I could be your next lover.

Any one of us could.

But that’s not important.

There are your hands.

You can rub your face.

You can taste your saliva.

Feel your feet.

You can stretch.

Take a breath.

Get comfortable.


I spoke of a man who brought us all here.

You are that man.  Sitting here.

Arms and legs.

I could smell your skin if I like.

I could ask you to sing.

I could hand you an orange.

There is a human being here.



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