Manifesto/Manifestations  

That the radio is on, and it’s dark, and you’re lying back, and you’re listening.
That your eyes could be closed, or they are open, and you’re leaving yourself to the manifestations of your
              imagination as you hear my voice speak, speak, speak.
That I could be your guide.
That I am trying to lead you with words.
That the human body is capable of so much more than the limitations of existence.
That this act is more than and simple set of instructions for assembly:
              1. insert Tab A into Slot B.
              2. thrust.
              3. repeat until satisfied.
That we move beyond physical pleasure eventually.
That our minds are expansive
              in ways that we never paused to consider them to be.
That I’m with you in Rockland.
That I’m with you Portugal.
That I’m with you in bed.
That fingers marking a trail ups your side,
             over the railway tie rib cage,
             destination: clavicle,
             is not just a figment,
             but rather a furtive reality.
That the range a voice can carry, the distance a voice can be heard from,
             borders on infinity, lies on its fringes,
             echoes eternally. Makes us GOD.
That everything said is significant.
That every utterance is its own history,
             writes itself as such, becomes a chronicle.
That my monologue takes on the form of flesh
             begins auspiciously enough at the little toes
             and proceeds to wrap itself around bones,
             working its way upward until it becomes human.
That I could be your lover without ever having met you.
That I will most likely never meet you,
             but vault myself at familiarity nonetheless.
That the time it will take you to realize that I’m connected to you
             is infinitesimally short, all things considered.
That in actuality we were never separated.
That the On The Air sign is a preamble to meaning.
That art is every day’s potential.
             It’s tonight’s potential realized by the sounding and resounding of my voice
             from the top of a radio tower, through the sheerness of atmosphere,
             through the machinery of radio
             and finally through the openings of skull.
That art is not just the pursuit of an aesthetic, visual, aural, or otherwise.
That art is a synonym for…
That art is the synonym.
That I am synonymous with you.
That you are synonymous with art.
That we don’t physically die until our bodies say it is time,
That all time is all the time—
             the stretching of our perfect manifestations
             attains the properties of vectors.
That we are not scalar quantities.
That true love is an expression of 1.618, the golden section, in terms of its cadence.
That I’m not so much as imagining the scenarios
             or our matching nudities
             so much as willfully constructing their cohabitation.
That this isn’t an exercise in rambling
             for the sake of my own vanity.
That I’m no more of a solipsist than you.
That although this broadcast booth is only room enough for a few,
             it’s dark an empowering
             and tonight it might very well be housing millions.
That when I speak
             I am speaking to you.
That it’s as much my voice you hear
             as it is yours.

© 2006 Michael Appleby