The luxury of now is that the cancelled
gala has been
Put back in. The orchestra is starting
to tune up.
The tone-row of a dripping faucet is
batted back and forth
Among the kitchen, the confusion
outside, the pale bluster
Of the sky, the correct but insidious
grass.
The conductor, a glass of water, permits
all kinds
Of wacky analogies to glance off him,
and, circling outward,
To bring in the night. Nothing is too
“unimportant”
Or too important, for that matter. The
newspaper and the garbage
Wrapped in it, the over, the under.
You get thrown to one side
Into a kind of broom closet as the
argument continues carolling
Ideas from the novel of which this is
the unsuccessful
Stage adaptation. Too much, perhaps,
gets lost.
What about arriving after sunset on the
beach of a
Dank but extremely beautiful island to
hear the speeches
Of the invisible natives, whose
punishment is speech?
At the top of his teddy-bear throne, the
ruler,
Still lit by the sun, gazes blankly
across at something
Opposite. His eyes are empty rectangles,
shaped
Like slightly curved sticks of chewing
gum. He witnesses.
But we are the witnesses.
In the increasingly convincing darkness
The words become palpable, like a fruit
That is too beautiful to eat. We want
these
Down here on our level. But the tedium
persists
In the form of remarks exchanged by
birds
Before the curtain. What am I doing up
here?
Pretending to resist but secretly giving
in so as to reappear
In a completely new outfit and group of
colors once today’s
Bandage has been removed, is all.
Nincsenek megjegyzések:
Megjegyzés küldése