Show must go on


With lucky socks and left hand shoe
string tie smell the curtain singe beneath
searing red lamps

Piled together, motley freaks clammy
in off stage nausea that’s
when I text her x’s and o’s
It’s all break a leg or not
And I switch off.

And I switch on
to that creature born
of makeup, smokes and stale coffee
pacing thin leopard

I will pull up the boards with my friends
Raising each riser and rafter
to each conceived end

With plastic stars in our eyes
and blue camera flashes

Tungsten tears and sweat
without ceasing or backing off
We rise and challenge as to battle
to fight for other sad clowns

Our pulse rising to heights of curtain falls like an angel’s blaze in flight

On with the show.

Poem in memory of Wolf Rick Patterson, dear friend and passionate showman.

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Do I see the forest or the trees outside?  I’m in the city so with a number of moves it’s really the same sorts of views.  I only ever had one that wasn’t other apartments and that was the basis of the little moment had by “Jack”.  It was a low ceiling basement suite of a century old house.  I still loved that little place.  The home of my old film project was based on that place.  It had a windowsill so wide and deep it could almost work as a single sized bed and it faced ground level so when you looked up you saw the light of the sun blazing amongst the tall blades of backyard grass.

Now it’s a different patchwork of life beyond the walls.  Some are lit, some are faded in the light buts it always still the same maze of a world that is only viewed from that spot.  In the place you sit at the end of the day it’s like the world makes that degree of sense that lets you sleep.  All the troubles can be moved away far enough, the world quiets down to a flicker and somewhere in that maze of sunlit grasses, the hope lingers in the sweet topsoil.

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Writing prompt : the walls


They sprinkle around the place, changing with the years like my life is marked by sections.  It’s an apartment in the morning before a shift.  I’m hardly a wealthy man but I’m less and less tolerant of posters.  I had one in a bathroom with a part torn for the light switch.  Far less acceptance of white walls then.  I accept them now.  The change in the sky colors against the bare slate of the bedroom above our heads.  It rumples soft peach over the folds of the strewn sheet.  It’s a good place to have coffee.  I need to go.  My cups almost empty.  Later today is laundry day.  I’ll have lots more to say about them, hung up like soft soldiers in the failing light.

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