BUTTONS FOR BUTTONS
In the balcony, someone’s shouting to the stage: pretend
A hundred brides scatter in the desert
I wrote this play while I was falling in love
are improbably falling in love for the first time. Now
I get sick all over the dust when I
go to the dust in the daytime!
which means she is very much in love, but
feet have been cut off, she’s had a tough time.
A hundred brides swell a cave with giggles
If I pretend, as I sometimes do, that I’m not
it’s not acting, there’s no script, or more importantly
a character who does just that, she’s pretending she’s not
crew how to leave. She says:
I am not allowed to be here!
After each performance I go backstage, she’s crying.
in the desert, in the gazebo. In my mind we
The brides remove each ring, & swallow it
A real-life audience, after one of my plays, will always
How I can make this happen to me?
Which, I think, is an important question to ask
—meaning, their only stimulus: my play—an expensive
How does that thing move, all by itself.
I picture such an audience as a reddish approximation of
& I suspect this has something to do with my love for
& you keep one hand on a white lacquered box
When a play works, the audience
When a play doesn’t work, it’s like a metaphor for a poem.
Here is my favorite character I ever made, the dramatis personae
But if we stop!
& then the cast should jump onstage, foolishly, & the lights
they miss their cue, no one shows up, the poor
make sure of something. He must be so confused!
range of emotion than its actor. Son has desire & terror &
in his blood & something sick in his face like a skull, & he is
even his cells give & are stripped. He is drawn in the
Your mind goes on a spree into space, through scaffolds
Lisa Ciccarello gave me the title for this poem a number of months before the poem itself was written.