Saturday, October 31, 2009

The old stage.

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,
Time travel--

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.


cap'm said...

Jasmine rice with a whole white onion along in the cooker;
thick cut pork chops pan fried in olive oil and rosemary;
cold no-shoog apple sauce;
asparagus urine-bombs.

Love from the whole crew

Bryan said...

Nothing quite like asparagus piss! Thanks for the nice tidings, Cap'm & as many right back at you!