PATRICK RYAN FRANK AS THE INFORMANT
Smaller than all the things I'd never done,
I went unnoticed. But then that Russian's death
and I was asked about the stolen guns,
the cocaine and the meth, and all that happened
happened again in this high whisper, clear
as whiskey in an offered glass. Full
of names, connections, I couldn't stop, felt then
as if a red bird lived inside my mouth—
we sang together from our tall stool,
and men in gray suits held their breath to hear.
PATRICK RYAN FRANK AS THE RUSSIAN
The empire falls on him like snow in an orchard;
everything goes strange and stiffly white.
He wanders cities made burlesque with money
and music and the howling vagrant dogs.
He is a soldier in his Cossack boots
or a pale, blonde woman selling cigarettes.
Often, he's a boy, working alone
in a vast, half-fallow field, almost lost,
and there's a sky like the back of a jigsaw puzzle.
He's sure that in the distance, it all comes clear,
but here it's about to storm. A rust-red bird
is crowing a time that no wants to hear.
I was once an actor; now I'm a failed actor. The only parts I ever get are the ones I write for myself in poems. I do all of my own stunts.