Program
See every path
Reaching into distant horizon
To touch the sunset
Each looping back
recursion sends out another swirl
in the Starry Night
Divine cosmos
Constellations acrobat patterns
Washed away in sunrise
Ugh. This is a terrible poem. Not even close to what I wanted.
Not fishing.
I found this on my ipad in the pages app as I worked on the schedule for this week at the theater. Forgive repetitive content and misspellings. I did not edit. Just copy/paste.
——-
Why I decided to forego Shakespeare, just this once.
Having played Caliban in a highly acclaimed comedic production of The Tempest, I was faced early on with a decision with which many actors grapple: what more could I do with this character? If it is not a matter of finances – and it is not – then with very little distance between productions of the same play, would I not simply be rehashing a role that I had already dedicated a good deal of energy and commitment? Dale is a terrific director and he has helped me grow by offering me many varied roles, but often he has trusted my instincts to the extent that I have felt he had no motivation to challenge me to do something different. This role, while the direction will be from a less experienced hand, is a challenge of monumental proportions. Scenes of torture, betrayal, madness… All of which Dale would place in the hands of Jeremy, but never in mine.
The Tempest. A show with an ancient tradition.
—
I never knew I wanted Enid. In my lonely twenties, I found myself desperately trying to define myself as other than my previous self. I have always been cripplingly self-aware. I consciously sculpted myself into something more social in ninth grade. I left behind concern for grades and study and followed desperately a path of classclownship. The intended effect of increased attention from girls succeeded in some respects. I was now the eccentric and fascinating best friend instead of the irredeemably nerdy best friend. I was rewarded in high school at the Sadie Hawkins dance. Thanks, Katie. Without you… I would probably still be a virgin, maybe even a priest (not that kind). Sure, everyone remembers their first kiss, but mine was an awakening. I wanted Katie. And I could have her. But we both knew we wanted something else as well. And without Katie the would never have been Amber, who defined my ideal of woman without ever trying. Hell, I never even saw her breasts until years later, when I cheated on Enid. I mean Clare. You’ll understand when i get there.
Amber was not what I would have looked for in a woman, and maybe she suffered from the neighbor as friend syndrome to some extent. But I wanted her so badly. She went with Scott pollard to the dance because… Well, I never asked why. I want to believe it was to be near me, but it may have been nothing of the kind. Or worse, because she wanted to be near Kregg. I dont know how he and I became friends, but he hates meow beyond what is reasonable. I did not betray him, but he thinks I did. Reminds me of Bjorm but maybe ill get to that later. Probably not. I only journal when I’m stuck. And horny. And nostalgic. I’m rarely the first, always the others.
Kregg went with Jenny, who was standard beautiful. Blonde. Fit. A smile that belonged in a frame, perfect teeth, blue eyes, high cheekbones, flawless toasted marshmallow skin. I went with Katie, who had asked me because I was funny in class. And smart, probably. But I could not have been beautiful then, could I? Amber seemed to come along as an afterthoughts with Scott, and old friend of mine one grade behind. Did she fuck him? Part of me thinks so. She was not virginal, but she kept me at a distance. She couldnt be farther from me now. She married Eric and had his kids. Maybe they’re prefect together. How would I know?
I wanted to be with Amber then and always will. The feeling is one of extended arousal. She turned me on sophomore year when my lust could ruin worlds and I still haven’t come. At least not in her presence. Except that one time
We had a toga party where ray and I babysat Ryan. He’s a rising star in opera now. And I’m still reminiscing. I wore briefs and a sheet and cursed my fat body much as I do now. I hid from the group at large hoping amber would come find me and praying she wouldn’t. She did, but even my incomparable skills at awkward seduction led to nothing more than silences and occasional ill-conceived attempts at brooding language. She went back upstairs. She wanted both of me, and I only wanted her to want the secret identity. He was private. Everyone had access to the superhero and he couldn’t love her the way I did. He was only a lure.
I wanted to jerk off in the basement thinking about her, just to be free of it. But I was afraid to get caught. I’d even fantasized that she would catch me and be overwhelmed by the raw sexual energy of it and fall into bacchanal bliss with me. If only we drank or smoked weed. Later that would lead to something.
After that, we had the party on the pool table, the sleepover that nearly led to a three way with Amber and Katie. If i had been bold (then, I thought it was the same as being an asshole rapist just to cop a feel or even make a subtle move) the stories I would have today. The freedom from self inflicted sexual repression. Amber and I had our moment of romance novel head touching mutual longing. Famously, my words on the subject were “this complicates things”. We had the fancy dinner party at katies house. She wore tights that covered rose patterned panties. I touched her and finally kissed her mouth after what felt like months of dating. And she still seemed reluctant.
I visited her late at night and begged her to skinny dip in her parents pool. Her swimsuit was brown and had ripples in it, one piece and showed only what I needed anyway. Acres of Italian porcelain that made up her hips, her calves, her neck, her back. The bridge of her nose that she thought was a flaw that I couldn’t resist touching, kissing when it wasn’t weird. I never cornered her.
We had the super bowl at Scotts where i caressed her stomach for hours, occasionally letting my hand slip up just enough to touch the bottom of her bra, never daring higher or lower than her belt line. The best I could do to express my deep desire for her was to whisper whether she could feel “that,” my euphemism for my 17 year old rock hard erection against her back as she lounged on me. She said no. Crushing.
Even years later, when i was more or less cool. We went back to the darkness of mikes parents basement, and after seducing her by – get this – pouring mountain dew down her bare arm and licking it off. In the car we all drove in. She wanted me even after that. I fumbled to caress her from my “sleeping” position on the floor. She was above me. Far above floating in the carpet somewhere north of me in the dark. And when she accepted my caress in the dark, I hamhandedly pushed my hand down her shirt and finally felt her breasts. It was not sexy, but I needed it so desperately. Eventually, she grew irritated and moved away, I pursued and she moved to the couch. With Kregg.
.
Hours later, he reaped the benefits of my prior seduction.
These are poems I created for Marcee, with the dates, in chronological order. All of them were written under duress, meaning I needed to have a gift for her, and these were the best I had. They always express me, but don’t really speak to feelings I had for her, certainly not at the time of writing. I wrote them to “my love” because I did not feel these things for her, but for what I hoped she was to me, even knowing that she was not. She never appreciated them, but I know you will. So I give them to you, now.
10/16/08 – We had just started dating. She asked if I would write her a poem while she was away on business.
The Promised Sonnet
Of all the poetry my heart intends —
the honeyed words, all lush and sickly sweet —
there is some part of me that still forfends.
Mere letters seem and unctuous deceit.
And no such half-willed effort you deserve.
Feign I duplicitously win your heart,
so full and true my eagerness to serve
when we remain some miles and days apart.
No, words cannot be my sole gift to you,
though what more I can bring you may be hid
from me. My own self-doubting would eschew
all but a petaled flower on your lids.
Since I would feign my words offend you much
Perhaps you’d settle for a simple touch?
07/17/2012 – or somewhere thereabouts, when she complained I did not get her flowers.
A Sonnet Rather Than Flowers
My love, no long-stemmed rose is she, that langours,
trapped in glass, nor could she grow in gardens
green, amongst the crimson blooms of anger.
Her love is more than color, more than ardent,
more than soft-spun gold of wanton promise
and stands alone within its solitary,
perfect luminescence, spectrum-less
to worthy eye alone is seen, and nary
leaving trace to any sense, yet constant
as the earth itself beneath my feet,
which threats to sublimate at any instant
if a kiss from her sweet lips it might entreat.
When love is light and moves the earth as hers,
my heart’s delight and rapture it assures.
07/17/2013 – Our first anniversary of marriage. I wanted to do nothing, but was inspired by the idea of a “paper” anniversary.
To say that paper’s strength is fleeting
and but a year to celebrate it is enough
is to forget the weave of wood the lies beneath
and ties together so many strands of life
Gold is malleable and silver can be shaped
even diamonds, under pressure, can be made fragile
but paper is binding in its fragility
and paper can hold the words my heart cannot
Paper lacks blemish, like the blank page,
an unexpected adventure
and paper can ignite
like my soul when I hear your voice
when I am weary, far away
Paper presents a gift
Paper births plays and poetry
So, when they say
our love has turned to paper
rejoice that it is new and light
and still so much remains to be written
The roaring sea was once my mistress called
when I could see horizons solely from
within these callous confines. Listless, walled.
Perspective proves how peace from prison comes.
The sea demands no tribute but my gaze.
It washes corridors of thoughts like rivers,
leaves the channels open. Water does not raze
stone walls, cause the passion fire to shiver.
But water is not breath, nor air the dew
that lights upon my troubled brow.
And when your voice can summon up anew
the roiling sea to crash to sink my prow
Should the sea retract and land be near
No sailor I, what need have I to fear?
how can one day mean so much
i’ve been looking at my phone every second, feeling phantom buzzes
i slept well, just knowing I could not be with you, even in our way
does that mean I shouldn’t or should
But when I woke, I wanted it again
The simple touch-not-touch that we allow
And now with so much work ahead
I wonder what to do with all the choices, all at once
And the world wants me to stay
And the world will punish me if I go
Maybe the world won’t be able to find me
I am so good at hiding
but if I leave for the mediterranean, for real or fantasy
could you come along, and how long would you stay
A single day the centuries envy now
when phantom messages the seconds all assert
untroubled sleep this distance will allow
but still of soul should not imply inert
For when I woke, the wonder worked anew
unearthly want of games and treasured time
to gild the night and gird the morning dew
and reason bolster stronger than a rhyme
Clandestine trysts do not distress a heart
which hides in barricades against assault.
Such worldly care may seek to rend apart
but in this armor fails to find a fault.
If such a heart as mine has met its mate
then dooméd heart, submit to fickle fate.
They say a sonnet takes its cues from love:
the rhythmic beat of hearts that pound in time,
the lilting language lends an image of
two perfect souls in raptured form of rhyme.
They also say this poet’s form is dead
a limp and limping verse for ages past
but for Spenser, Shakespeare, all is lead
replacing gold as alchemist’s repast.
Nostalgia is the need to nurture need;
and inspiration finds its muses fresh
in state, a poison apple still can feed
a hollow chest, and words can minds enmesh.
Though fantasies and faerie stories thrill
A sonnet’s ancient form enthralls the will
Time is balm and medicine, they say,
for blood let by each misadventured heart.
And memories remembered fade away
that few can in nostalgia find their art.
So, too, cold reason could I let destroy
what sweet imaginings have crept within
my mind to make of you that queen of Troy.
Could silence music ere it can begin.
But sad strains stir the soul from where it sits,
stagnating slave to sense, to care and toil.
Though wisdom cautions me against these fits,
from any else, the wisest must recoil.
If under such strong storms I tread alone,
Then thunder thoughts to dust, turn heart to stone.
ZOO STORY, Marquette University
MR. MARMALADE, Splinter Group
LEND ME A TENOR, Kettle Moraine High School
MADAM’S BEEN MURDERED, TEA WILL BE LATE, Â West Allis Players
ROMEO AND JULIET, Homestead High School
SKIN TIGHT, Mercury Players
PHAEDRA’S LOVE, Luminous Theatre
FORTUNA THE TIMEBENDER VS. THE SCHOOLGIRLS OF DOOM, Milwaukee Opera Theatre
TAPS, Pink Banana One Acts
THE INTELLIGENCE BUREAU, Independent film
OLEANNA, Alchemist Theatre
A LADY IN WAITING, Theater RED
THE SMELL OF THE KILL, Theater RED
Presented in a chronological order, so that folks new to the series can follow somewhat of an arc that will give an indication of why Buffy is an important character and why the show left such a mark on the cultural landscape. But mostly on me.
Prophecy Girl: Buffy gets real.
The first season received due criticism for being a camp, monster-of-the-week serial, but as the writers began to understand their characters, something truly unique emerged. The Master (Milwaukee native Mark Metcalf) managed to be menacing and mirthful at once, setting the standard for Buffy villains, though many would surpass him in importance to the series.
The scene where Buffy learns of the prophecy and tries to quit is one of the most powerful performances Sarah Michelle Gellar has given and hinted at what the series would become. Certainly, it suffered from some Dawson’s Creek melodrama, but its portrayal of teen angst reached beyond its contemporaries into the realm of literature. And her renewed vigor when fighting The Master is simply the Buffy-est of moments. She quips boldly and fights the way we all wish we could.
