non-reacting
presenting an acting exercise

— it’s windy outside.

non-reactors finding.
searching.
stillness in the storm.

Show business isn't as glorious as you'd think,
There's not much glory that comes form this stage,
Yet us actors trade all the lovely pieces of our life,
For a split second of grace and beauty.

Don't mention the back stage,
No to an actor at least,
I'm afraid nothing good happens there,
At least for us, it's just heartbreak and longing.

Last night my poem hit 10,000 degrees,
Does that mean I burned myself a place in HP?
Or am I still on the path of becoming,
Hoping to get a lucky stroke and blow up?
Almost everything I post gets a reaction now,
I'm a name people know,
But does that make me somebody though?
What if I'm an actor,
Just playing his part,
I'll disappear when the director yells, 'Scene!'
If my art is recognized,
I've accomplished something real,
While living a dream.
But I am author enough,
That I could have a career in this?
Or will I start this journey,
But hear them yell, 'Dismissed!'

night bleeds indigo and gray, and
a california chill seeps deep into bone.
white hot spotlights melt through my joints
as I watch you through half-closed eyes,
ignoring the ache that creeps into
the chambers of my heart.

among strangers, only your face remains clear
while my vision dims like dying lightbulbs.
for a moment i forget my lines;
but i am not an actor.
then we share this golden-lit bus, you & i,
skin sticky with sweat & iced tea.

five steps between us feel like miles.
knees bump over gravel...
bump, bump, bump...
through cuts of moonlight and lonely cigarette trails,
i wish you'd turn my way.

and my tired eyes will wander the aisle
while the voices between us fade like old leather seats.
footsteps mark time passing
on this midnight bus ride.

shadows will dance under streetlights,
and the words i want to say catch in my throat
like dewdrops at the sound of your laugh.
spring feels distant now,
and still i'd wait for you.

brushing arms leave trails of fire,
hands running through tangled thoughts.
my body resides between Newport's shore and sea.
i remember a friend's words:

"what else can you do but admire from afar?"

days later;
missing the midnight bus ride back home.

I'm one awful actor,
You can see it in the red of my face.
One look at your face,
There goes my whole facade.
I won't pretend I know what I'm doing,
I just do what I'm feeling,
It's one wild ride.
Feel free to stick around,
But you'll feel it in the morning.

I didn't make the cut again,
I guess that makes sense.
I don't look like the characters from the original film,
I'm not blond a skinny like the prince,
I'm not built and burly like the craftsman.
I'm not pudgy like the shopkeeper,
Nor am I silent like the king

But I can act,
I know I can.
Because everyday I act happy,
Wake up and do it again.
I act confident when I'm up on stage,
But maybe they couldn't see it,
After all, I hide it so well.

Vanity lights.
Production sets.
Heat on high.
Dim lit.
Fame is all in your head.

Truffles in the air.
Wine stained carpets.
Knife over the bed.
Lipstick bruises.
The low numbers aren't fair.

A throbbing migraine or two.
Smoke envelopes the halls.
Hushhh, play another lullaby.
Of course not all dreams come true.
There'll always be a new one, more than you.