 Don’t tell my sister about your most recent vision. Don’t tell my family—they’re all wicked-strict Christian. Don’t tell the hangers-on, don’t tell your friends. Don’t tell them we went down to Ybor City, again. Don’t tell the dancers, they’ll just get distracted. Don’t tell the DJs. They already suspect us. Don’t mention the bloodshed, don’t mention the scams. Don’t tell them Ybor City almost killed us, again.
We are the theatre, they are the people—dressed up to be seated, lookin’ upwards and dreamin’. We’re the projectors. We’re hosting the screening. We’re dust in the spotlights…we’re just kinda floating.
Don’t drop little hints. I don’t want them to guess. Don’t mention Tampa, they’ll just know all the rest. Don’t mention bloodshed, don’t tell them it hurts. Don’t say we saw angels, they’ll take us straight to the church. They queue up for tickets to see the performance—they push to get closer, lookin’ upwards with wonder. We are the actors. The cameras are rollin’. I’ll be Ben Gazzara, you’ll be Gena Rowlands.
Sometimes, actresses get slapped. Sometimes, actresses get slapped. Sometimes, fake fights turn out bad. Sometimes, actresses get slapped. Some nights, makin’ it look real might end up with someone hurt. Some nights, it’s just entertainment, and, some other nights, it’s real.
They come in for the feeding, to sit in stadium seating. They’re holding their hands out for the body and blood, now. We’re the directors—our hands will hold steady. I’ll be John Cassavettes—let me know when you’re ready. Man, we make our own movies. Man, we make our own movies. Man, we make our own movies. Man, we make our own movies.
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