performance

My soft frailty center eventuates myth
Epic death at the hands of audience member
Fiction, determining the story
And choosing my own adventure
I conduct the show
Withdrawn from my conclusion
Creating on canvas of great life details
Seeing my individual visual emerge visible
And somehow, misunderstanding the colors
The stencils outlining the live action
The living performance
A moving image
Enclosing my opening
(Folding inward doublespeak)
Makes me
Not reality
This fantastic spirit fantasy vision
Envelopes your expectant entertainment
Earthly volunteers temporarily in seated agreement
Their applause rendering darkness
Reversing accolades
Not my goal,
Nor my fruit
I insist upon an encore

Gallery 788, Baltimore

This show features effervescent photographer and my super dance pal, Lauren Barnhart

Gallery 788
*a co-op featuring local artists
BALTIMORE
Sunday from 12-6 , with performances beginning at 2
check the postcard for address details

found these on my desktop

collage with end papers by the beloved Mark Bradford...looking for new work. Anyone?



Alana Davis

work: INSPIRATION

Old stuff...breeding new POWER.




THUNDER (the Gemini)

I see your hand reaching for my thunder.
Exhausted thieves spend lifetimes dodging guilty rain clouds.
Your smile does nothing to mask your crime.
I cracked your eggshell façade and spoke all the words you hate.
Honesty love faithfulness
Your eyelids wrinkle as you continue to reach.
Still present, yet in the dark, seeing only the red beneath your lids.
I don’t stop you, and cowardly claim “reasons”.
This glory will not comfort my thankless hard work.
You have taught me to find new ways to brew a storm.
Clutch my knuckles without touching my fingertips,
While making me feel good about myself by doing what I say.
Threaten my thunder to thoroughly defeat you.
Force me to rumble to discover my enemy.

outLOOKout!

My head slips deeper into my sweater’s neck.
The familiar turtle.
I’m willing to part with my shell.
Not now, she says.
Bumps raise on my skin’s first layer.
All is quiet in this corner.
Sight beyond is hollow and unnecessary.
It’s my turn with my mind’s game.
My thought’s current tactics are patient with my recollection.
Right now.
Nothing even matters, they said.
Right now.
I interrupt myself and change channels.
Returning to my regularly scheduled programming.
Smiling like I mean it and unbraiding my hair.
If only I could slow down and return your gesture.
But I can’t recall my last move.
I revert to an old remedy.
The shell surrounds me--
Guarded from penetration and winning the game.
The spotlight is bright and the prize extravagant.
You pawn me off with the king’s jewels.
I jump, swinging my leg over your head
And wrap ribbons around the maypole.
Shouting secrets over the uneven grass,
And mouthing fantasies across subway seats.
Doe eyed deliverance!
And posture maintained; I'm a decent bluff.
My stop approaches, and the doors open.
The game is forfeited, and I lose my turn.

REVOLUTION

The returned vibration
is a familiar flag
embossed with details edited
onto yesterday's framework
by diminishing prior birth.