the curtain’s wearing down
the wood is getting squeaky
i forgot my line
“line?”
the mask is falling off
the paint is chipping
the backdrop's missing
i forgot my line
“line?”
nothing looks the same
it’s felt off for a while
make up running
crew is gone
i’m alone
one man show
“line!”
i forgot my line
full house
crowd is here
show must go on
one man show
i forgot my line
they’re watching
they’re waiting
waiting to laugh
waiting to smile
where is my smile
what was my line
one man show
all alone
show must go on
so weak
so bleak
try to speak
“line?”
eyes close
head falls
deep breath
shoulders drop
i can’t pretend today
“And scene.”

Dramatic I strike my deep bow
Stage lights warming the back of my neck

      Another show finished
              And time for the next

I change costumes and greet the regular cast
Shaking hands and reading scripts

      Finally… my cue, I exit stage left
              Passing the curtains, Sighing in relief

When the sun sets, flecking clouds with diaphanous light and birds whistle daytime’s last summer psalms, we call it night.

We’re moonbathing and Sunny’s features are inlaid with glamorous silver-blue patines. We’ll reawaken soon, our time is measured in assignments, not in hours, days or even seasons.

Responsibility is a villain of our own devices. You can run from it, bolt your door against it, only to find it’s right there - in back of you - smiling like a tiger or a parent.

Unfortunately, the university isn’t a hotel. It’s more of a competition, like those survivor shows.

We’ll enjoy the moonlight, for a few, laconic moments, for it seems to possess a sweet power to cool and calm, but soon our purposes will call, irresistibly, and we’ll return to the performance.

The great gaudy flage is screamin' blood in the streets
                                          loose yawn of a gob on him
                                              all bombast n' swagger
he makes a barrage of nuisance
     channels through the public
         and scatters a juggler's performance spot
                  lobs away his change hat
then, roughly over the cobbles  
                                        he hoicks a resuscitation doll
         and stamps down a posing boot
                                                 on the 'defeated form'

an unprepared scoop of tourists
a pause for silence and begins a rant
a great performance
of well harassed combustion :

"i smear to god all the phalluses
      [he roars, all saliva]
i smug to god
             a full jug of uglies
tug on       [makes the hand gesture for male *******]
i **** off the forger
would slug it in the mug
                          if it ever did form a tissue oath
took a plug at some drunk straggler
called the baffled *** 'god-father'
            and spate spume on his fallen anatomy
[with one hand he indicates the mannequin at his heel]
       amen ******* !"

he bows
a long quiet
some people clap awkwardly
two police officers appear and hook him by the elbows
(it has been this show before)

a kid
with the throaty sound
of a tuned engine underfoot
cuts through my sleep
deprived eardrums
an almost tuneful exhaust note
rasps under acceleration
rippling night air outside
God I wish I was young again
when that sound alone
under my command
made me feel alive

Two women in a timeless love
Two broken hearts coming undone
Once upon a time they were little girls
Now they're full grown
Learning a script they've always known
Rehearsing till dawn
Lines forever drawn
Two women in a timeless love
Roles recorded on their hearts
Two healing hearts performing as one

There is nothing so trepidating
as the emptiness

The blank canvas
the ghost-white page
the empty stage

There is nothing so trepidating
as the silence

Just looking
eye to eye, heart to heart,
for connection

There is nothing so liberating
as the void

the vast white desert of the canvas
the glaring blank of a page
the unadorned blackbox theater

There is nothing so liberating
as the silence

Just the rhythm
of  beating hearts
breathing

There is
nothing

There is nothing
so trepidating

There is nothing
so liberating

I pound the pillow, curse the clock and mock injunctions to rest.

The sun finally rises and its rays slantwise fall through the curtains as I dry my hair.

A meal, like a forced dose, we soak ourselves in wasted, nervous time.

Finally! We arrive at the competition...

Tension is here and tireless pressure.

The players waiting stiff as straw, tongues playing over dry lips.

Teachers and coaches unapologetic in their pallor.

Music drifts behind us and occasionally gasps as imperfections play like daring circus tricks.

The sparkling prodigy returns disappointed, grimace of a smile, stricken, he stares away as we search for words, oh! clumsy, unrepairable prince!

Suddenly, its time and I wonder why we are hurrying, feeling weak, momentarily frightened to go there.

On this stage in this great, hushed hall, enormity suddenly dawns with mass enough to crush me.

At last I sit before this odd Steinway music machine - my dearest mechanical friend.

A tremble resisted - the reward of mortal afternoons - endless practices fruit.

Eyes closed I prepare my best self - pushing all fear, all doubt, to the margins - and begin.

I hope, to recreate, one note at a time, Chopin's ancient impact - with hands flying, like tethered birds, I hammer out his timeless melody explosions, his streams of crazily exact math exam fiery semiquaver motions.. then, almost suddenly, I'm done.

I stand, joyously, nearly crying.. The world hasn't ended.

if I were to get famous
for some talent that
I haven't discovered yet,

and stand in front
of an audience with
hundreds of people,

I don't think I could do it.

but that's not because
of my stage fright.

I don't need to imagine the
audience in their underwear,
or whatever trick performers use.

I don't think I could do it
because my eyes would never
stop scanning the crowd.

even in a sea of
people who love me,

I could not stop
searching for you.

and it's so much easier
to imagine that the audience
is wearing something dumb

than it is to imagine
you being a part of that audience.

I couldn't trick myself into
believing that you are there.
you're not.

my imagination can't change that.