What scrapes my mind clean is the idea of what. The idea of what kills my dream. What kills my hand across my heart. The dream is in the head the head is in my skull which for the most part is a figment of my imagination. I made that up. But you -yes you- made this up for me. At first I thought that this was my idea but then I decided to tap into what you wanted to see/feel. Are you with me? -no, sorry. I actually made that up too. But what scrapes my mind isn't necessarily what scrapes yours. The feeling in my heart will be brought to you via this array of goofy props and bad music. If you wouldn't mind filling out this non-existent questionnaire I'll make sure that the information is entered into my database of useless information. Which way to the front of what does not scrape my brain is the Heaven and Hell of my world. The day exists outside of my realm yet i am forced to live inside its constraints. Drastic revisions must be made mostly to time itself. Daylight hours will be forced to remain open longer. Sleep will be eliminated and history of this will be removed from your mind mid-thought. Hands across my way, get in my way. Out of my way. Please gather your things and return home, the future has been discontinued.
from Dedicated to Scrape by Brendan deVallance, performed at the Kitchen, New York 3-29-97
