Thursday, April 15, 2010

Beneath the Proscenium Arch

I see their glorious painted faces, thick with foundation and bright with lipstick. Sweat glistens at their hairlines. Strong emotions are portrayed in these canvases. Their hands are open, arms drawn back in fear or rage. Porcelain smiles stretch largely between their cheeks in joy or song.

I can hear their distinct voices. Even the most tiny whisper exaggerated. Clear consonant pronunciation, ringing sopranos. Every emotion channeled perfectly through their vocal chords.

Their clothing is fantastic, overtly suggestive. Elaborate costumes that scream mother or priest or little girl or hero.
Behind them are dramatic places, arches and columns, green meadows and cloudless skies, old world villages, hospitals, retro living rooms.
Brilliant colors and bright lights drift over them. Unnatural hues and intense whites.
Upon scarred wood, they dance and move, sometimes running, sometimes waltzing, sometimes scuffling in a geriatric manner. Black electrical tape marks beneath their ballet shoes and pumps and loafers and socks and bare feet.

This small collection of people can hold the world in their palms. Dangling you over uncomfortable tension, dragging you through enhanced sadness, chasing you through uplifting happiness. They touch you through their portrayals of love and pain, drawing out every single note in each emotion's complex melody, without even revealing what their real names are.

I see them. I hear them. I want to be them. I used to be one of them.
The uplifted, the damned, the elite, the misunderstood.
These introspective psychologists, these entertaining therapists.
I will return.
I will be one of you again.

Sunset City

I can feel it

The sun sets in the west
Over a dusty city.
Its heart beats and it is alive.
Its veins crawl with vehicles.
Its lungs swell with voices.
People jump across the synapse
Of crosswalks.
I've lost you in the city
Among the throngs of beings
Hurrying and snapping pictures.

I can see you

Your cheshire smile in a sea of faces
Slowly dissapated
With time and distance.
The yellow taxi took you away
Into the heart of
The dusty city.
Among the lights and energy
The bodies, the cars
The pavement is hot from the day long sun
And the running
And the snapping pictures.

I wont find you
Unless I look.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

A Hopeful Summer

Glowing golden, gently gliding in the humid air against a deep fuschia blanket that is slipping to darker purple. You flit between the others, dancing with them, exchanging friendly luminated greetings. I could just pluck you out of the sky and put you in a jar, my treasured firefly.

Solemnly singing, quietly chirping in the cooler grass beside bohemoth trees that are swinging slowly, to and fro. You lament to the others, chirping with them, sharing saddened warbling melodies. I could just scoop you off of the ground and put you in a jar, my cherished cricket.

If I could take you and hold you and keep you and protect you and enjoy you and cheer you and love you, I would.