From this wooded landing, casting forth unfocused into the pelvic midst of night,
Not yet anointed by dawn-glow The notion of actors here,
Props embellishing this, dogeared scripts puzzling upon it as
Preposterous of notions as
Electricity or, say,
To this prehistoric medium
We venture with no mediation, fiction, introduction--
We must manage the dearness of this hour,
And never bow to curse the darkness
As it held us in maternal proximity,
When in urgency and not-knowing
We waited for one another to appear.
Applauses of brittle leaves at the moment of their descents await;
We are expected to be true.
Name That Trauma:: Richard R. on a Creepy PBS Halloween Program - Hello, Kindertrauma! This must have been the mid-to-late-70’s. There was a show on PBS that I actually saw a couple of times–I believe it was broadcast for...
3 days ago