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Fiction by Vanessa Place
Art 'Lilith on the Stairs' by Daniel Y. Harris
'Lilith on the Stairs' © 2007 Daniel Y. Harris

6Looking at those images, I became an American all over again, and it is up to us to make this
Looking at these images, I became undone all over again, I am tired of acting as if I am a feeling
imagined community flourish. We must arm ourselves with information, and with feelings of
of love, when it is this hate we feel, each of us, down to our littlest toes. Many of my experiences
passions and love for the imagined community of the past and future. I keep fighting for the
involve the degradation of dreams and rot of ambition, real ambition, not for oneself, one is skin
souls in my imagined community, as if my life depended on it. Many of my experiences
searching for a puckered peace. I am sick of this group, this louche community that sucks its
catapulted lust to another dimension, to include a group of people I never imagined could be
own tippet, hoping for a pink wink. This imaginary community is an accidental opus, a fart in
there: Ooms who wear Vierkleurs, for instance. In my imagined community of American TV
the heart of art, interlarded with the small perfume of recognition. We do our hair nicely and
viewers, Love is elastic, Love is inside the outsiders, Love is the anxious craft of ten pairs of eyes
know how to get from here to there, still we swallow shit and shit pins, pricked puny things,
exchanging glances (they should recognize each other). They are “ajnabi” but not “ghair”
wanting nothing so grand as immortality, but wanting something more, something with stripes
because they are part of my imagined community. My imaginary community is trying to recruit
and a set of eyes on a plastic plate, screaming in an idiolect at which we feign comprehension.
the most powerful (black) woman in the world. A sizeable Japanese population who grew
A sizeable population lives in this ready-made bookshelf, they see no trees but trees and seek
chrysanthemums will find a place on the bookshelves of my imaginary community of coffee
glory in banal precision. After the death of their sainted selves, we will all die last, or later, that
drinking, ceiling fan loving, sutra chanting cliché’s of Western hotel users. My imagined
is our curse, we’ll have to nurse them into their final accident, the collision of themselves with
community is a geographical accident (the collision of a thought process with a work space under
meaning they will choke in the dust though they love love love the concrete, if they could do it all
layers of obeyed commands). Well, Hope dies last, and thus, I start over again, and try to be with
over they would, they believe in their happy authenticity unto death, the testicular bellow of
my imagined community on a regular basis from here on out. My imaginary community in
conceit. Nightly we pray for relief, but we’ve no idea where to find it, we’ve peeled all the lambs Reverends Robertson and Falwell’s eyes says, “Damn it, I really do want them to be happy.” The
and skewered all the citizens, we’ve put our faith in elastic bands and by our words, nothing
citizens of my imaginary community of courtesy are a billion little children running through its
stands. This is my city, where I practice chocolate ministrations and perfect the rape of gods.
streets and playing calcio in its abundant parks, and among them another small boy
They come, you know, but I come first, for we might as well admit that there’s lyric laying in it.
spontaneously appears. This is my city where I practice using skills: my goal is to balance my
And if there is any possibility, it lies in that moment when the wound is white from the white of
imagined self with their needs. Whenever listeners appreciate the lyrics of a meaningless (to
the wound, and the blood starts to peek through the pores, pebbling before it pools, before
them) song, they reaffirm an imagined community unrestricted by borders of familiarity or
there is the understanding of the white wound. Those who, for lack of education, culture, or the
comprehension skills. Those who, for lack of education, culture, color, or economics, could not
convert their imagined community into a material reality, can nevertheless substitute the self with
fetal sense insist on their own substitution, their easy lack of suffering, given this and choosing
an improvisational bricolage and learn to cope. They link their imagined community to a large
that to drink. So scrutinize your options, and remember: there is never too much hate.
sheet of paper on which they are given every opportunity to draw the land and time they call
The Gang.
“The Gang.”

[“Marry Me” with Stan Apps]

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last update: July 2, 2007