Sitting in the forest with trees and ferns Grasses long and masses crunch-squish beneath boots. On the stage. Body as object. No more or less important than the life and things, the horizon That makes up the landscape I watch this site-specific work Writing my text upon this landscape Cursive thru my gaze Typing thru the man beside me On my other side, a woman sleeping. The space to feel her own journey bored her. Is she breathing? And then I know This art is wrong The grass, the tree, the fern is NOT as important As the person Down stage right. (Can you say downstage right if you’re outside?) Because that fern cannot squish that human. That human in his boots, with his axe. That actor going home to a pre-fab home, built atop the remnants of a factory Atop the waste Buried deep in a contract—waiving his right to sue for future birth defects or cancer or whatever. This art that melds nature to human to God to magic Is wrong. The moss will not raise an axe So yes, I’ll make up my story from these fragments but He is the Center And so am I We are exceptional in our ability to destroy So fast forward Because this play or art or whatever is going on for-fucking-ever So fast forward And we kill the fern, the moss, each tree. The blades of grass turn brown & turn to dust & blow away And the air has a taste Like metal Dry. Sharp. Lungs burning. My eyes, red, full of dust With not moisture enough for a single tear. And the fear, and the shame, the realization Drops down like bricks Shattering our skulls Exploding lungs The eyes of our two object-bodies locking before The final, final curtain And the air that blows The thought that our air that passes through the space Between what were my ears The cool exhale of a blade of grass Emerging from a cracked earth Center Stage. Exceptional.