A body lies on the road. SAM is sitting on it. It is his corpse. He gets up. Looks at the body, and looks at himself. He feels himself for fat. He goes stage LEFT. As he reaches the end, he stops. He then goes stage RIGHT. He stops. He looks out toward the audience. He goes upstage. He goes downstage. Finally, he glumly takes a seat on his body again and sighs heavily with his chin in both hands, elbows on his knees. He stares at the ground and takes no notice of his surroundings.
Enter CHARON, stage RIGHT. He is wearing simple brown robes and a walking staff. Middle-aged and balding. He drags his feet, hunched over and head down, like someone who has been on his feet for a long time. Noticing SAM, he straightens himself. He takes a scrol
celebrate it yesterday if you want to
and make tomorrow its 50th anniversary.
wear a mustache
on your hind quarters
and speak only in sexual gestures.
have a translator present.
every dalikrab day
needs what every other
dalikrab day was missing.
to make this easy on you
i will tell you that every
dalikrab day so far has
been missing everything.
light incense made from cow manure
and filter your water with the
put that in your pipe that is not a pipe and smoke it.
draw from imagery that has nothing
to do with you. like nudity.
leave the house for once but remain
under the same umbrella.
praise our leaders with signs of support:
"i have a mustache on my bottom!"
"you and i have a lot in common!"
"may i eat your dog too?"
"life has not been the same since i saw your sex tape!"
I populated it with animals:
a mouse for a housekeeper,
a lizard in the kitchen cooking eggs,
a butler wolf whistling and saying 'sir',
a chinchilla to sweep rooms' corners,
a giraffe wiping windows,
a black Labrador pup to clear the chimneys.
The house is old fashioned but it runs to time.
A sloth winds the clocks;
a badger delves the vegetable patch.
Everyone gets on fabulously
and will eat eggs together at breakfast,
gossiping about the awful state of my head:
how the tubes in my brain need scrubbing out,
you can tell because the plumbing gurgles
and the lights in the attic flicker at unexpected hours.
The landlord, a snub-nosed monkey, is convinced
that nuggets of knowledge are lodged
in the mulch of my swampy mind.
He sends search parties of ants scurrying
down my ear holes, dredging the depths.
He thinks I'm a goldmine to be gutted.
I'm with the mouse. She says my taste isn't bad,
though for the carpets she wouldn't have gone with green;
and the journey
Mr Sensible likes his coffee flat and dark, the same tongue-searing temperature every single morning. He gets up before the birds do to have his shower, and thus always smells of a mix between roasted coffee beans and that strange almond stuff he uses for his hair. He is clean shaven, and his hair doesn't flop down over his face. He looks his age and acts his age.
When you first meet him, you don't like Mr. Sensible much. But he can carry good conversation and he admits he has a smile he saves just for you. He never has to chase you because unlike most men he can keep up. You go out together without the company of others as friends at first. He shows no romantic interest in you for ages, until one day someone tries to ask you out and he slips his warm hand into yours.
Mr Sensible always has time for everything because he's always a little bit early. He has time to zip up your dress and compliment you on your looks. He doesn't shower you with affection because he knows it si
and live in them by themselves until they burn down
from a dead gas pilot and 80’s paperback philosophy.
In other words, out on one hundred highway north at dusk,
which is a daylight’s ride from the sack, the dunes simply
spill out on the road; the crazy thing being, nobody’s worried.
Keep driving until the damn thing just ends at the last rogue pier
on the island’s tip. There’s a dark night beach on the right
and if you wade into the waves, about 130 feet, east by northeast,
you’ll find a miraculous shoal where the salt from a trillion graves
will wash up on your thighs and the moon searches the dark pitch
of water like a frantic mother. Pick any wave and follow it fondly
until you forget of me,
beware of flying iphones and crashing
police boxes and bright blue suits.
every friday finds the physics room whispering
tonight's the night,
and your brother always looks exactly like you but you manage
to be similar and different at the same time,
and you steal his shorts even though you hate him--
that is absurd.
we all had happy childhoods didn't we, and
this is when we're supposed to be growing up isn't it
we have conversations in panera about the mechanics
of lucid dreams and cloning mammoths
but we run from stone angels and we run
through car dealership parking lots and we make scenes
in public places and that is absurd too.
2. let's paint our walls with faces we read about in box-shaped diaries;
paint them portal blue and funeral blue and sunset-after-the-rain blue--
draw our hands on the sky that you're flying through,
don't forget to pack the smell of my skin the the back
of your mind and remember to meet me in all your stiff-
Upon a throne of ivory,
Dwelleth he at every hour,
His shadow falleth down to thee.
And his very shadow's crown
thou blindly wanderest along,
until thou seest its piercing end.
Thine eyes thou humbly keepest down,
although the urge is truly strong
thy field of vision to amend.
"Your majesty?" thou callst for him,
as thou drawest nearer to his throne.
The light beginneth just to dim
as earthquake in its dreadful tone,
a roaring sound of rumbling stone,
it covereth thy fearful moan.
Soon thou seest two skillful claws,
which keepeth each a wooden stick
with strings robustly tied around,
to which thine arms and legs are bound.
They languish, tighten, thereby cause
thy rotten limbs to punch and kick.
The King, he wanteth thou to dance,
to the somber war beat of his hands.
Submissively thou wilt obey
in spite of what the future brings.
Thou either beest his molding clay
or hangest by thy puppet strings.
Next, please. Good afternoon, young sir.
Good afternoon, doctor.
Please have a seat. Now what seems to be the matter?
I've been having some troubles recently with my, sanity.
Oh. Well. Let's have a look at it then, shall we?
Certainly. I keep it here in this jar.
Hm... (surveys jar) It appears to me to be in perfect condition.
Ever since I lost it last week it's been acting in a very unstable manner.
No, that seems to be all right. How are you coping?
Not too well, I... (bursts into tears) Well look at its beady little eyes! "Are you fit for this?" they say! "Are you responsible?" Doctor, I don't know how to manage any longer!
There, there, I see what you mean... You must realise there is a way out of this.
(sobbing) There is?
Yes, you see... Sanity is not so much a separate living organism as the result of a physiopsychological homeostasi