the handbill said the seats were at the end of an arrow...

image by Anne Garland ©

A Wolf Moon accordion play-poem in three parts: a bedroom with a desk, a carpet, and a window sill

A bedroom with a desk

< tear roses behind fans >

(Act I, a lady waiting)

I knocked once, you said to come in

I was carrying a silver butler tray  

tea, cakes and crudités trempettes

on little plates, savory to sweet

you said you like to snack late at night

you said you liked your divinities praised

you said digestible entrance exams

can strip mine humanity

into exit remarks

if we didn’t misbehave

once in awhile

morning is a long ways away baby

you say with a smile, apron gather me

fill me with each bow and sweep

of your fingers, pick up pieces of delicious

make every thought, idea or glimpse

be caught near my curved horizons

my shadows are waiting, to be sated

by my aching arches

and your palace palate

surrenders to them

night time is the right time

to harvest what isn’t seen in daylight

after the Sun burns petal time

in arcs and cries across the sky

above the many reaches of desire

from millisecond-ed to immortal

the trees know everything and nothing

they know cycles and release

that breathing is the circle we feast around

we age ourselves against pointed stones

we draw down within, we map direction

we bleed out of our animal skins

we stretch experiences over hollows

we harvest the dead and dying

we scatter forests of made up words

we drum beat feted feats

we mimic each exhale’s soft parade

we say to ourselves this is what we want

beyond anything we can bargain for

a carpet

< cut lights, bridge the orchestra, ready >

(Act II, lovers and lives in a variety of scattered beach-combed rumpled things)

small pieces of life are laid out on tables

crowned sounds, percolate music

for those of us that stand on the corner

while we are wading through the mist

for room between each declaration

hoping silent wishing works

and the keys and strings

of the curtains billow direction

from the side stages

to the ripe movements 

we open ourselves to

we are supposed to be

invisible footprints on each other

a smile says, we are the same

as sand and tides

and we will not be there

in the morning if we wait to feel

until we wake, we try to remember in shapes

in truths and moments when we eat she says

feed me what you prepared and while I chew

slowly savoring, you should start eating me

with your eyes going beyond capability

rendering arrival after arrival

serving tray-quiet assured intentions

the place where night pauses

the Moon knows how to play

when we feast

when we touch every sense

we know from head to toe

from past lives 

to what there is 

to know before time 

is in the drifting off post orgasm

lulling us to near velvet 

to become wrapped in sleep

I catch my nostrils flare

my descent into the ascent

of your fragrant echo bouquets

when there comes the first knock

a pinging bent metal sound

the kind old radiators make

when a giant furnace kicks in

and the echoes of time repeat

a house ritual breathing

radiant heat tickle-fingers the rise of articulations

compressed air and water are brass tacks

and the forge iron lungs

with bellowed names and twined bodies

this is hunger in the dark, waiting

I listen at the curtains

billowy, imaginary air ballets

a stillness of watching life moving

incremental glues affixing ourselves

onto the escape of silhouettes

we must know each traverse 

we must know each linger

each slight rope pull of bells inside us

is every complexity simplified

into purity through wanting

the cast marbled sky illumination

in the deep theater background

is the painted noise a Winter’s night provides

the driven base yoga disco slow biscuit dough rises

finding perfect ways melted butter says more

I lick my lips and mouth the air a kiss

and you turn a smile into a wink and say

would you warm my tea and feed me sweetly

if it pleases you to please me into rain

I want to make sure it is a breathless place we end up again

the air rises in articulations

of compressed air and water

in brass and iron forged lungs

catching the audience fidgeting

might be time for mimes and intermission

a window sill

< cue the headlights and the moan frequency machines, ushers, hurry the audience back to their seats with cloth dusters please >

(Act III, a long hallway and bay window want in as well)  

the windows are old farmers

and the glass is the rain

they want to watch too

so leave the door open

they say humanity doesn’t see

except when we are fucking animals

the transparency of life

as well as we used to

they say electricity

became a racket

gas and oil, lit the way

right round the time

bedrooms were built

for intended chimney exposure

brick and mortar limitations

to the harnesses energy

forcing our ways back

to simple thatch and sticks

into small agrarian enclaves

traded precious opportunity

for unlimited sense of wonder

a world that had forgotten what was big

sandy erodes and next of kin

we left ourselves to fetch the pail and milk

pocketing beans for warm February days

poking fingers into potting soil

filling small bathroom Dixie cups

we found at a garage sale

sprout seeds in these large bay windows

a twenty four hour grocery store

blinks its shell life litanies

across the street from us

bright and unnecessary lights

supermarkets are subsidized memories

the window keeps saying, that’s why

we want to watch you two

we wouldn’t trade our thin topped panes every night

for the vicarious pleasure of trying on

your feet, hands, arms, eyes, noses,

legs, tongues, lips and ears

if we thought everyday humanity 
could read the invisible sheet music

and actually practice being a receiver

of energy instead of pursuing

a consumable, combustible kind

of dependence we often confuse

as an emotional necessity

where are you going you mumble

I say to heat the kettle, I’ll be right back

you slowly pour your hands

from a crescent gate and traced

palmed down grace

to your belly and heaved breasts

you tie me in them 

together in a prayer position

you whisper kisses and say come back

and taste the salt we’ve left behind

act one is a high tide, still coming in

and I laugh, you’re right, I’m just reading my lines

and improvising my sins, memorizing where to get lost

inside wanting you, boiled down to one

slow squeezed thought, released

I turn the burner on listening careful quick

to the click of electric ignition and a gas blue light

I see the icebox has a pink lady apple

to slice and arrange on saucer dusted

with cinnamon and sugar placed

with a rolled napkin rose on another tray

just maybe I think to myself

can I parlay this tea and fruit

with the promise of making breakfast

when we awake, wearing one

of your borrowed little robes

with nothing on beneath

into a blowjob, another squeeze

and hand organ joy between

the dip of an egg

and the rest of breakfast

ingredients lean, know just how hungry

you might be, after your dreams

have settled and the typewriter sits waiting

while you remember calling its name too

in the middle of the night, eating the secrets of language

from the inside out, from the red shift to the blue

< bow, ask the audience to burn the house down, spray the confetti and champagne >

EJR ©