June 14th would have been Ko Murobushi‘s birthday. June 18th will be the 5th anniversary of his death.
He was one of my butoh teachers.
Last year I wrote some words for his birthday, but did not publish them at that time. I reworked them now into something better than before; maybe. The words are not adequate, but there they are.
Going through my old papers, I found a loose sheet in a notebook with a poem composed by Ko-san. It was typed in imperfect English so I gave the text some light editing in a way that made sense to me.
Does the dead mind such things?
Does the living?
I can’t tell any more.
If you are wondering, the poems do not go together. They are not in dialogue with one another. They just exist in proximity to one another on this page. Like I existed in proximity to Ko-san in New York.
If you are wondering, the poems do not go together. They are not in dialogue with one another. They just exist in proximity to one another on this page. Like I existed in proximity to Ko-san in New York.
| shared kyphosis i think of you from just two letters k o small-larger than life in the studio, on the stage human languages failing those in-breathing screeches how drunk were you you threw yourself onto the floor in a fit of lean, wondering muscle sinuous, tau(gh)t teaching i was a terrible student (still am) full of ghosts all eyes watering from cigarette smoke (and grief) a hopeless body i break in all the places you maybe never imagine existed most pathetic (more empathic) a tarnished silver i’ll not shine that bright ever too long, ever so clumsy a flabby shadow matched only at the back in shared kyphosis –tm– | trying to die, i started to dance. so today is the day i will meet the tiger. i can’t help it if he eats me- even- i don’t mind if he fucks me- we could also rend each other. i would jump into the empty sky then hanging with shreds of bitten flesh. the moment i throw my body, i grasp another form. there is no other way to stay alive. then it is as if my other self-double bears further other doubles. from the dying body diverse other selves that cannot be called but awkward are made, flutter then scatter. they are unevenly distributed, without a distinguishable border between any of them and as if they would disappear everywhere after catching the memory of the unknown. can we as limited process, as ephemeral life live an unlimited life? –ko murobushi– |