At the lightbox, flickering, I have control over these people, over the particles circumnavigating their bodies. Her face is powdery and I am attuned to her down there. She has quiet grace as she speaks, every once in a while dangling tears out of her eyelashes. I am a witness to this eternal cycle of laughter and crying. Oh, this play is nothing more than a joke. Again I feel the muscles in my cheeks jaw relax and these tears just parade out like no one's business. I hate this pretending, it is a nightmare, something you force to be real. I fear the images I recalled to bring that teetering, on the brink feeling. It was an overcoming emotion that comes uncontrollably and furiously, ripping at the insides. And yet we force ourselves to do it as actors. As people who enjoy being provoked and prodded on some stage in the middle of a concrete villa we call high school.
back to poems