Twenty-First Century Unlimited was presented on March 8, 2001 at the Church of the Ascension in New York City
"a fusion of poetry, dance, music and song, Twenty-First Century Unlimited seeks to present a vision of a possible future, emerging from the chaos of the modern age."

Lais Gravier, dancer in black

Helen Watson, dancer in white

Paul Sorel, music

MacKenzie Pierson, poet


The light which wavers
against today’s twilight
is tomorrow’s sunrise.

Go. Stay. Die. Be.

The unchanging resides
in metamorphosis,
pit and fruit together.

Stay. Be. Go. Die.

Turn, beautiful future,
our gray past
is your nature.

Be. Stay. Die. Go.

Children on fire
with yourselves,
complete our circle!

Die. Stay. Go. Be.
Locked in your Eternity,
children of some future age,
forgive us who seeded you
in a bath of brothers’ blood.
Faces bright upon my vision,
black, red, yellow, white,
lost in one even golden,
on true body of joy:
how long have you slept
in our ancient hearts,
beneath the autumn stars?
You fall like endless rain
upon centuries long perished.
Earth, turn your song of oceans
through the dark sea by the sun:
sing, symphony of light and shade,
upon continents and clouds:
your music shall echo beyond the sun
with children of Man yet to come,
the bright birth of that Race!
When shall One Race come?
Beyond my years and beyond
the present smiles of children bright:
oh, children of the future age,
forgive us our pain.



All that matters
is what we
think we know.
Meaning flowers
in our minds,
a dark dahlia
in a momentary

Space itself
is illusion,
from objects
as fluid
as our thoughts.
(1 continued)
Touch anything:
like Heraclitus’
river, it slips
away, refusing
years and minutes,
fluctuation streams,
eddying among them.

A hundred years,
we have forgotten
ourselves: thoughts
lost in the maze
of tomorrow’s meanings:
mutual mysteries.

As our thoughts, mutual mysteries,
touch anything, all that matters:
space itself, eddying among them.
A hundred years’ meaning flowers
in our minds definition:
what we have forgotten is illusion.
Lost in the maze is what we,
like Heraclitus, think we know:
in a momentary, structured
river, it slips from objects.
Ourselves: thoughts, as fluid.
A dark dahlia, fluctuation streams
away, refusing years and minutes:
hothouse of tomorrow’s meanings.

Poetry by MacKenzie Pierson

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