Sunday, August 19, 2007
A poem, first draft:
CURTAIN
PROLOGUE
You lost her twice.
The first time at 15,
when you believed being cool
was beyond you.
Then again at 22,
when a move made too much sense,
but the seven years since
has stripped away any sense
of an ability to sense
and perceive innocence
because every broken heart
makes it harder to choose correctly
when a special situation presents itself.
SCENE
Meeting a mutual friend on the subway
on the kind of day we all imagine in cliche.
It is morning.
You are on the way to school.
She is standing next to your friend,
five-foot something with brown hair in a bun
and glasses that make her library hot.
Her chest is ample,
and she has not yet grown into the ass
that will inspire introductions to your friends
just to prove it actually exists.
Jocks have yet to make bets about bedding her
and this means that you've still got time to dismember a bird
because you found a prayer the second you saw her.
You are only a sophomore -
wise enough to know this won't end well,
but foolish enough to try.
You pop the cherry of your acquaintance,
and faith scores a point against cynicism
because it is the first time you know what people mean
when they talk about breath being taken away.
It is the only time you lie to her outright
because she asks if you're asthmatic,
offering an inhaler,
and nodding yes is an easier answer.
You convince yourself she was laughing with you
when it only makes you choke harder
and she becomes the only girl
to take your breath away two times at once.
SCENE
Train rides.
SCENE
Small talk.
SCENE
She EXITS.
You have nothing new to say to your best friend,
so you tell him you hope you can make it to her party.
You say this while blushing.
He notices.
Of course he notices.
Scheduling conflict.
SCENE
New semester.
EXIT
Train rides.
EXIT
Interactions.
END
ACT I
CURTAIN
ACT II
SCENE
It is seven years, two college experiences
and a fuckload of technology later.
CUE
Reconnection.
CUE
Curiousity.
SCENE
Halloween.
The East Side.
It is warm.
You're a Newsie.
You hold an address
and papes
with a cigar stashed somewhere on your person.
Elevator goes up,
and you're there.
She's a faerie
and you forget you should breathe
for the first time since 15.
You recover in time to talk
because you remember living last time,
and you still had not been instructed
on the physics involved in inhalers.
She rolls blunts like breakfast cinnamon,
introduces you to her people
and you take the train together
when it's time to go home.
SCENE
Hanging out.
SCENE
Mad movies.
CUE
Holding back.
EXIT
Your chances.
SCENE
Big snowfall.
First day post-operation
you're allowed to open your eyes.
Glasses gone,
you go along
as she captures the community on film.
The scene so perfect
all you can do is observe,
a ghost of your ability to alpha.
ENTER
Job prospects.
EXIT
Brooklyn.
ENTER
Upstate.
END
ACT II
EPILOGUE
When you live larger than 8 millimeters,
second chances are short in supply
and often speed by
because 24 frames per second
only fools you into thinking
you're seeing the speed of life.
SCENE
We met.
SCENE
We left.
SCENE
Reconnect.
SCENE
I regret
that each scene to be next
features another actress
in the role that could have made her
a star.
CURTAIN
CURTAIN
PROLOGUE
You lost her twice.
The first time at 15,
when you believed being cool
was beyond you.
Then again at 22,
when a move made too much sense,
but the seven years since
has stripped away any sense
of an ability to sense
and perceive innocence
because every broken heart
makes it harder to choose correctly
when a special situation presents itself.
SCENE
Meeting a mutual friend on the subway
on the kind of day we all imagine in cliche.
It is morning.
You are on the way to school.
She is standing next to your friend,
five-foot something with brown hair in a bun
and glasses that make her library hot.
Her chest is ample,
and she has not yet grown into the ass
that will inspire introductions to your friends
just to prove it actually exists.
Jocks have yet to make bets about bedding her
and this means that you've still got time to dismember a bird
because you found a prayer the second you saw her.
You are only a sophomore -
wise enough to know this won't end well,
but foolish enough to try.
You pop the cherry of your acquaintance,
and faith scores a point against cynicism
because it is the first time you know what people mean
when they talk about breath being taken away.
It is the only time you lie to her outright
because she asks if you're asthmatic,
offering an inhaler,
and nodding yes is an easier answer.
You convince yourself she was laughing with you
when it only makes you choke harder
and she becomes the only girl
to take your breath away two times at once.
SCENE
Train rides.
SCENE
Small talk.
SCENE
She EXITS.
You have nothing new to say to your best friend,
so you tell him you hope you can make it to her party.
You say this while blushing.
He notices.
Of course he notices.
--You like her.SCENE
--Huh?
--Like like her like her.
--Uh ... yeah, I guess.
Scheduling conflict.
SCENE
New semester.
EXIT
Train rides.
EXIT
Interactions.
END
ACT I
CURTAIN
ACT II
SCENE
It is seven years, two college experiences
and a fuckload of technology later.
CUE
Reconnection.
CUE
Curiousity.
SCENE
Halloween.
The East Side.
It is warm.
You're a Newsie.
You hold an address
and papes
with a cigar stashed somewhere on your person.
Elevator goes up,
and you're there.
She's a faerie
and you forget you should breathe
for the first time since 15.
You recover in time to talk
because you remember living last time,
and you still had not been instructed
on the physics involved in inhalers.
She rolls blunts like breakfast cinnamon,
introduces you to her people
and you take the train together
when it's time to go home.
SCENE
Hanging out.
SCENE
Mad movies.
CUE
Holding back.
EXIT
Your chances.
SCENE
Big snowfall.
First day post-operation
you're allowed to open your eyes.
Glasses gone,
you go along
as she captures the community on film.
The scene so perfect
all you can do is observe,
a ghost of your ability to alpha.
ENTER
Job prospects.
EXIT
Brooklyn.
ENTER
Upstate.
END
ACT II
EPILOGUE
When you live larger than 8 millimeters,
second chances are short in supply
and often speed by
because 24 frames per second
only fools you into thinking
you're seeing the speed of life.
SCENE
We met.
SCENE
We left.
SCENE
Reconnect.
SCENE
I regret
that each scene to be next
features another actress
in the role that could have made her
a star.
CURTAIN
Labels: poetry
