ALL RESPONSES |
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You hold the sun in your hand, peel it open
and place a slice on my tongue
Ask me not to speak, to feel instead, tell me
everything burns when it has room to breathe
I want to give you today, this unnamable day
my thoughts like cirrus clouds, your body
the new moon. I will watch the night
push the sun out of the sky, wait
patiently for you
to come into view.
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lights dim slower
than a kiss of the past
until
I am
in a great space
not made of
dirt
air
silence
tapping
anything of you
but everything lost
with
or
without
you
a place dark enough
to wonder who you are
the sun
a moon
Tuesday's horizon
night
fingers
sadness
clouds
kisses
poems
the body in darkness.
the lights
turn on
slowly
the red curtains part
so I can see your face
and the play begins
again.
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Good evening.
There is nothing here.
Echoes. Heel-scuffed floor.
Scarlet curtain hangs,
hiding certain things.
Shadows on backstage door.
An audience of seats,
breathless. |
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Life’s so theatre—
Even dreams wait
for red curtains rising.
Action begins
when tush meets plush.
Bodies lower,
cushions click,
lights dim.
Ready?
See the years roll.
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Never open a play
with blotchy weather
skies or watery clouds--
save that crap for Act III
when people are tired
and just want to go home
Never have an actor speak
abstract words like angel
or desire or darkness or beauty
because no one really talks like that
in real life, do they?
Never write a play about cigarettes
and iceless bourbon or blue raincoats
it’s all a goddamn cliché,
isn’t it? real people drowning
in the real world’s dark beauty
they don’t need someone
else’s lines to testify how they once
held little bits of time in their hands
when they were once together
and whispered words to each other
like baby, dear, love, or darling
all those words they thought
they were at one time
all those words they can now hear
in a darkened theater, forgetting
everything for a couple of hours
before they go back out and get punished
for their own hesitation
now that’s real theatre |
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Insanity is but the sane gone mad.
And madness only is exceeding rage.
And sanity, insanity unhad.
And sanity unhad is but a stage,
Whereon our overgestured acts of life
Unmask, and leave our souls
with roles
at strife.
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Beware of the theater! The eater? The theater!
Beware of the theater! We ate her, last night!
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So many kinds of theatre--Have you heard
the story of New Zealanders, trying to save a whale
and her calf beached on their shore? The humans were
at the point of giving up, the whale, too, when a dolphin
came swimming along and talked to the whale, talked
in a language hard to understand on a human stage,
and the whale turned to follow the dolphin, the whale
and her calf slipped into the bay, swam into the ocean,
not to be seen again. True story. As the curtain fell,
the New Zealanders stood cheering. Rows of them,
on the beach.
Then there’s the theatre of war, terrible
scenes, full of bombast and inaction or action and blast,
deadly outcomes. The blood’s red darker than the formal
theatre’s cushy red velvet seats and mechanical devices
manipulating the daily, what Shakespeare called
all the world: The front door which opens to the guest.
The kitchen where love & hate plays out. The bedroom
where houselights dim, and in the living room, that
so aptly named room, the moments we live for when
happiness prevails.
Yes, theatre. We can’t live without it,
seeing what characters we all are, each as in a dream,
starring in our own major roles, learning from the minor roles
we played to reach our present age. Why wouldn’t we
decorate the theatre in red and gold? In shining wood?
The actors on that man-made stage are ourselves.
We are they. For two hours we are solidly one. Why
wouldn’t we, being the nature we are, elevate this to light?
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Entrances and Exits
After you quit the theater
because (you explained)
you were not
“the garrett type”--
Tragedy (always a favorite of yours)
insinuated itself
into our tiny apartment,
only this time
there was no deus ex machina.
There was nothing grand about our finale--
we stumbled over our lines
and took far too long to exit.
Years later--
I’m still trying to perfect
the well-timed entrance,
the dignified, confidant exit.
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Act I is the longest, a
40-year stretch of fresh
path, crisp grass curving
into view, each sight
bright like the last and
the next – every sparkling
creek, each restless pebble
in the shoe something new,
something pressing into you
like the shaping of clay.
You trip on stones, hidden
dips in the path, over words
and ideas that thrill, that
trill in the chamber between
belly and throat:
love and nakedness, first
apartment, achievement and
paycheck, new car and a drive
to a coast, signing sheepish
at that first hotel, your thrilling
date waiting out of sight.
Act II hits hard, the lights still
dim from some intermission –
a divorce, surprise layoff,
the ruddy clench of a diagnosis –
it snatches you from the grass path, leaves
you in a holding room next door to
your life, the clay now hardening,
the chamber shifting to a space between
throat and thought, where breathing sometimes
stops. You spend this act relearning
to breathe, reviewing pieces of the path,
fingering stones, pressing hard for their meaning:
a favorite friendship gone sour, the first
death of a friend, debt incomprehensible,
his leaving, his leaving,
photos lost to a wet basement,
love and nakedness.
Act III is starting, you’ve only
just settled back to watch close, to pay
attention to angry words, to slightest
gestures, to leaving too soon
and to the deep saturation of reds
rubbing velvet on your skin, the reedy
baritone of the oboe that accompanies
your story, your greatest loves crossing
the stage, and the seated, whose lives you will touch:
fresh hands of a nephew, a sister divorcing, a friend facing
your brand of cancer, the widow Parker still
gardening at the end of the block, and your mother gone
but still here, hoarding paper napkins and silk swatches;
all love, all nakedness.
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Take to flight, black on carpe diem red and back
to me. You’re
spreading along my lap, your smile, white ethereal capsules;
a linen blanket in the light.
The littlest fight I may have had left
stumbles across the floor.
A show for all to watch, your skeleton eats for weeks
on the rinds of antique clocks and transmission valves.
You are
the parts that people forgot they needed.
the parts that people leave behind.
In the midst of radio signals and alto bellows,
your performance is transparent.
Clearly your hands do not lie where they should.
Clearly your eyes do not see in the dark.
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because you said yes. because the
night was cool at last after the storm.
because you wanted to rest and you
had no more cards to throw on
the table. because your name had
shape-shifted into story. no longer
yours or his or belonging to any
one you recognized. because the green
of summer stained your dress,
your knees where you knelt, your
mouth swollen from kisses, your
feet bare. the sand rattled in
the bottom of a straw bag that smelled
of sea shells and nail polish. because dreams
no longer came to whisk you away to
hope and all you had left was a broken
emery board to smooth away the places
where your nails had split in an
attempt to escape. because you drank
yourself into happiness and humming.
his hand on your bare arm, talisman,
guest. because you could no longer wait
because you said yes, because you
wanted it, because you said yes
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I kept the single copy of her alternate graduation picture
the one she thought did not reflect that something I'd call the eternal sparkle.
I kept it because I thought it reflected something not less nice but something much deeper, something that might better reflect her life's fortunes.
It is hard for a man to admit how much a girl-child means to him. Oh, yes, we say it but at a level where the full significance of it does not reveal itself as it perhaps should.
After the first high-school play she spoke continuously of wanting to play Laura, and a favorite present for her would be any glass animal but especially a unicorn.
She was going to major in astrophysics, the last of those several dreams high-schoolers seem to indulge in, but chances to be in the chorus of that play or another she could not resist.
Religiously, I attended the rehearsals and the performances, and the talent, small but definitely there, was visible, and more significant roles did come up.
And then came the fulfilment of a child's dream. For me, keeping that single copy of the unwanted picture became an unexpected verification of that at first irrational surmise. Living with her through every rehearsal and the opening night brought me one of those extraordinary, teardrenched experiences of a lifetime not all fathers may be fortunate to have.
As she grew to full adulthood, even the subsequent occasional role in summer stock and other places across the land would not give her a greater satisfaction. The pursuit of other significant roles of womanhood have left only fading reminiscence of what once seemed to be her ultimate desire.
What I am left with is a wish that every human being would be given such a unique chance for any parent to share with a child something as undescribably and painfully precious.
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We suck our cancer from the soul-staved spigot,
greedy, infantile, gluttons for the fat of
organs,
reed-thin and howling, throats split
to the mottled slag of
moon
-faced and turned toward the wailing wall.
Come,
I will follow:
down the cemetery path,
down the rabbit hole,
down your rattled strand of mind.
Careless, naked before the coming storm
and the faceward rush of shoveled loam.
These are the times we live for,
Are they not?
And which times to we die for, but every time?
Every thundered tick of the mantle clock.
Every thin-blue pulse,
temple
-bound, our souls expire.
Even our hair grows us to the grave.
Our nails grow to scratch the rock, screeching
Please don't leave me,
No,
It's not over yet.
Knowing could we but howl down the Worm's open yawn
and sluice the unravelled gut of time,
What gods could we then make,
What universes we would wholly love.
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To draw out the pulse of it
to innervate the latent flow
to keep the bloody story alive
where it can be spilled again
where it will stain once more
To wash over the crowd
to penetrate crusted skin
to oxygenate imagination
and the old tale's tell
will be remembered anew |
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the curtain falls away
little
by little
the play fills out with words
little
by little
(hush
hush now
hush now child)
you are your majesty
distant
disembodied
and staring from the stage
distant
disembodied
an actor turns a page
distant
disembodied
(hush
hush now
hush now child)
our monster rears its head
the rape confuses us
“but this is America..?”
we raped before
as Minotaur
why would you think
that with the mask pulled away
we would turn our cheek?
hush
hush now
hush now child
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Click This Link for Document |
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America is waiting for a savior to free the slaves from captivity
America markets indulgences to finance another space elevator
Computer orangutans develop evolutionary software solutions
Computers coordinate their resources to instigate instability
God breathes fiery typhoons on the breeding hives of our enemies
God loses faith in Himself and drinks Himself into a black hole
George Bush wears his latest purchase from Victoria's Secret
George Bush classifies the entire Library of Congress as Top Secret
Rings are discovered around one of the moons of Saturn
Ringo Starr reveals the truth about the satanic Saturnalia
Wiederholen Sie Bitte Wiederholen Sie Bitte Wiederholen Sie Bitte
ettiB eiS nelohredeiW ettiB eiS nelohredeiW ettiB eiS nelohredeiW
Tolkien has returned from the underworld bearing the precious Ring
Mohammed Ali drinks from the holy waters and returns to the Ring
George Washington chopped down the cherry tree, but not the Bush
Moses climbs Mount Sinai to hear God's voice in the burning Bush
Evangelists saturate the Internet with subliminal messages of God
Black holes congregate in galaxies to wait for omens from their God
Bubba Jenkins meets his new wife surfing the web on his Computer
Chimpanzees are trained to write Spenserian sonnets on Computer
The slaves of the universe are traveling in a spaceship to America
A billion hungry hearts pump when they hear the word America |
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He tells her he’s taken years
off his life with all the shit he’s done
to his body, and she wonders if
she can put them back on, can stitch
in another chapter or two, here
in the middle, if she can change
the course so that he does not
need the days he lost everything
to eat away these days he found
who he is. Instead she'd like to
give him the sun and the window
rolled down, his elbow resting there
as the road crests a hill and he sees
the sky she painted just for him.
She sees in his smile the curve
of the horizon, and knows
that in the earth of her body
each of his dreams are planted,
that she is a garden he’ll tend,
that he wants the soil of her
under his fingernails, wants to turn
her, rake through every story
that brought her to him,
unearth every hidden desire’s
buried gem.
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I take your hand, stand at the edge of the sea
watch each wave arc and collapse, spill at our feet.
We feel the sun on our shoulders, feel the heat of
each other's palm, feel the heat of each other, and
wait. Each wave that covers our feet startles
us; cold and silver, tipped with a sense of loss
as it heads back under the next one mounting.
We wait, practice patience together until
we can wait no longer. You turn and smile
at me at the exact moment
I turn and smile at you. We run, water rising
until the waves covers our knees, hits thighs,
we feel the pull of the tide, the blessing
of the sun, know each cloud is cheering
for us, as we break the surface, our only thought,
each other, together now, dive.
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Watch the sun slant
trip westward and try not to
skip after it. Stay
right where you are
where he has found you
and let the rain wash clean
each street he’s driven down
let the world warm up
slowly, for you are in no hurry
for this, you have a lifetime
for him, you have words to learn
and memories to tack to bird’s wings
so they can fly as high as you feel
when he smiles at you. Tuck them
into the nooks of branches,
climb into the canopy,
spy each cloud now
a little nearer, knowing
each one he’s made for
you. He loves to give you
wisps to follow
loves to make you think
of heaven and
the weightlessness of desire.
Watch as the world turns green
burst into bud when he walks by.
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Today is Good Friday and I am remembering the silence
of a beach under fog. The trip down packed into the back
of a pick-up. We were exhausted to silliness from the free meal
we had put on in the park, 500 people fed on loaves and fishes.
All night the silver scales flew, all night the bread rose in ovens
borrowed at a café, to celebrate the resurrection.
The satisfied crowd lounged on the grass, were happy to dance.
Two hours clean up, three hours driving, ten of us with
long hair and visions. We put the children to bed and walked in
single file to the beach, holding hands, not able to see
one foot in front of the other. Hitting sand we built a
fire, I dreamed of King David, his harem and his sin, Bathsheba
how he wanted her more than all the others, how he killed to have her.
I tucked my feet into the white of sea foam, my longing
silky and free as the sea birds veering off the cliffs.
In the morning, the sun burned the fog. We ran to get the kids,
have breakfast while seals flapped wet paws on the rocks.
Like the first day of creation, being born, eternal youth.
It took all week to get the smell of fish out from the
fridge, the smoke from my clothes. It took the rest
of my life to realize what miracles had been done.
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one with glued white hair and twisted
like sneer hides behind his gin & tonic
his co-conspirator silently pokes the green
olive down deeper into his martini glass
they wear double breasted black suits
and Italian imported shirts & black Gucci’s
neither talks, neither sweats, each looking
like a bored hit man waiting to fulfill a contract |
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Beautiful
I went to a play in an old-fashioned theater
Full of weeping people, You, the star,
Beautiful again, every word
You spoke an amethyst, burned on the stage.
And when you died, tragically, the applause
Was like the gurgling of a mountain stream.
But louder. The review I wrote was vicious, condemning
The lighting, the actor who played your former lover,
Everything but your costume, the same dress you wore
One sparkling winter night, beautiful. |
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