It began before you were seated; and even though ushers were provided they were marginally rude. If you can't control yourself you pay through other than the nose - the wallet, sure - and dig deeply. Thinking about this, a tall clean slightly disheveled (preoccupied?) curly girl might become bored: the scene as set being half-surreal (though certainly leading) cannot claim to hold her interest: this, I mean: what you're reading. The act could be as quick as an afternoon's tedious conversation (as brief as that might be, or as long), or as long as that timid first kiss, the first short fraction of that kiss over with, you both fall deep, your clothes drop, you forget the names of your family, any pets involved, the varnished deck you look forward to. The complete set, the incomplete sentence. Nothing around you makes any difference there, in the long revel of the long part of that first short kiss. And the ushers always wait until this is over before showing you to your seat. You've read the reviews though; hence a longing stronger than God's. Found that breeze that melted you in the heat of the summer, a sleek beast stalks you - the threat of beauty - through your insolence, your disregard for everything around you. Only what fills you, who melts and who melts you, the only one - only memory wrinkled over time, some still smooth enough to rock you. And you (I) write about it, and the write contains rhyme, and it's tedious - regular peeks in the mirror. Absent from the first act, illuminated by the next (sparked by preoccupation, leaking clues (ha, to the unsolveable), bunny heartbeats, flush, bumps, orgasm) and yes it is unsolveable, this play and its rapid denoument, a Heisenberg whodunnit. Those damn ushers. I did though enjoy the flush, peeks and the flourish. You do (I do) enjoy her enjoy her. This thrift shop taste she has, the shape of her fogcutter, shimmy of her fog. The shimmer. The prose, no: the poetry: no, not that too. The third act was me (you) at a typewriter things of a play, in a play, whatever. No, a computer. I'm o my god The Danger Man, I write of The Danger Man, such a promising beginning, the allure of a missed first act, and those marginal ushers. They were rude but yes, a test only, really. No, more than only, it was important, as all around you (I) is. This Danger Man is an act, a play too, also me, marginal too. A blood blister, life gone wrong, dry leaves cracked to abstraction. I want to take a knife and. I want to write. I want to and and and and.
� 2004 by john e
