BREAKING GLASS:
a still-life performance poem
Curt Darius Williams

You are walking along in the city, or in a park, or on a mall or campus, and you see a display that makes you stop. Kneeling against a tree is the figure of a person. Turned to one side; shirt ripped off and thrown on the ground; hands tied behind the back with white duct tape, matching the color of the dress pants. Around the neck is a dog's chain choker collar, and the dog leash to which it is attached has been tied tautly around a limb. The figure's head is bent, as if the neck has been broken. But if this figure is dead, it is probably from the slash marks all over the back and shoulders. Blood veins a path all over the flesh, streaking the white pants and spotting the shoes. You notice a lot of the blood is coming from the head. There is white duct tape covering the figure's mouth, and written on the tape is the word "RACIST."

Sparks of light are spotting the figure. They are in the hair, on the shoulders, and some along the arms and back. You look closer, and you see that the sparks are shards of broken glass. Surrounding the figure in a circle are more shards of glass. Blood-stained glass is everywhere, as if someone had smashed a huge window pane from above. Staked in the ground to the right of the tree is a sign that reads: BREAKING GLASS.

You notice there are papers and glass picture frames against the tree and on the ground. You get closer. They are awards for academic excellence, diplomas, mortar boards with tassels, applications for financial aid and credit that have "DENIED" stamped on them in red ink, even though the forms haven't been filled out. There are half-torn employment applications and resumes, and at the right of the tree is an open, empty attaché case standing on its side. Everything is blood-spotted.

There is one more sign above everything, written in blood and glass. Just as you begin to read it, you hear the sounds of African drums, then a whip crack, and the voice of a man howling in pain (Fishbone's song "Ass Whippin"'). The sign reads:

Curt Williams
Boulder, 1991