Marysville, Oh Holy Land: LOREUM | 9-16 APRIL

AN EVOCATIVE EXPLANATION OF THE VIDEO PIECE MARYSVILLE, OH HOLY LAND, BY GIULIA MENEGALE, EXHIBITION CURATOr

Marysville, Oh Holy Land

Make me man of bear than rather man of wolf
or rather, make me man of nature’s loving kindness than man of men and steel
or rather, make me man of the real
As I feel, oh holy neanderthal, the prostrating, humble cult of bear
Where, they stack their dead under feet of beasts with bodies bare
not of man who steals the pups of wolves and makes them starve for meat
4 legged slave with teeth at their feet
came beast, came wolf, came dog, came stray
come dog, come wolf, and come away
to make the wild your’s
and trespass past all walls and doors
but when you see a horse in pasture
Did you ever ask her?
Or do you see her for her meat?
or do you take a fence post in your teeth?
and pull with the power of a pack
’til fence post, gates, and locks will crack
like a river down a mountain
or the tide harnessed to a halogen moon
reflecting tomorrow’s daylight, tonight, and soon
come freedom like a free horse
rushing/marching/flooding down

to my forgotten-valley ghost-town
dredged of gold and damned dry
for my flat and barren fields I cry:
Marysville, Oh Holy Land
with Histum Yani Presiding
and respectfully, ancient Maidu residing
dried up ancient sea of California
but when gold glimmered in the waters, came man of wolf
with a glimmer in his eye for greed, and shovel in his hand
and the bankers/breakers command, to “head west young man”
in the golden gateway, “there are gold in them there hills”
rob the river naga of her gifts
the revered, severed serpent, now sits in cuts and shifts
gone, the drawn rattlesnake in dust, gravel in the gulch, and guts on the roadside
where the waters all were dammed and dried
for new land and conquest never rests
lake bed, bottom, and dead with dread that tests
the strength of bricks of clay
Never will I see a day,
a palace, not a stack stone
but the hands that hone, cut and carried, working muscle to the bone
A true temple houses free birds singing hymns more old
not made of gold, not the towers of rich men and their goals,
but we the horse of broken spirit since we’re foals
Do run faster than the man of wolf

and only wish for green pastures without fences
so rich men, we demand you lower your defenses.
but forgive me listener, I’ve only known the wild
So you may think my tongue is soft, my speech/heart broken like a child
but I know from all the blisters and the digging and the dirt
that those who have endured have done so with the hurt
so forgive me all the gentleman, I’ve only known the wild
and that is why I speak out of turn, am angry and not mild
and I will say that you may stay and witness all the show, but you should know
I hope you know, that who I owe
are all the angels of the earth
who’s names you’ve never known because you’ve never known their worth
You say I have no people cuz my people have no home
but gutter, green, and roadside, do my people roam
Such people sleep outside with starlight in their dreams
and rubbing eyes and tired feet and arms from holding everything
oh we, those who touch the dirt for others, are made dirty by our doing deeds unfit
hands are bound, soul is tired, words are bitten, and where we sit is shit
a peach pressed in our palm for picking
but we have always pressed a poem on our tongue
and burned our fields of dreams when young
and always read the scriptures on our eyelids when glaring at the sun
but when was the work ever done?
but a promise made

a vision is a promise made
and one that boils over when you’re cooking in the shade
A vision is a hope you have you fear will never happen
but it is not fear but desire,
and muscled arms from working that wield a sword with fire
and work, more work, and working
and hope, and hope, but no,
Because rarely do we taste the fruit from seeds we sow
and this we too deeply know
we must be hopeless to be fearless
so we will not fear when hope fails
but rather use our last breath to push upon the sails
but a bird with clipped wings
only sings
when there is some daylight out the window
so aye, I and we say, the dawn is now
Not the “why?”, but the hesitation is the “how?”
do we speak
or stand if we’re weak
and if teeth are too broken
for our words to be spoken
we whistle wind through harmonica smiles
and make hooves from the callouses, running for miles
make angels of your lovers
sisters and brothers

and the rambling beggar as genius-poet of ‘others’
let the gas station light at 3:00 AM
Be that flickering light within
and the shopkeep the guardian
the Walmart clerk and street-sweeper
the oracle and gatekeeper
let no one who profits become a prophet to preach,
or teach that the world is not wrong
Stuck in your throat is a song.

- Loreum