Advice to a Barista who thinks I have an Answer

You're not just standing there
like a dead Constellation.
I see
the lost Art in your eyes,
feel the parts and pieces
that give meaning
to otherwise hum-drum
Mondays,
turn Tuesdays
into a rubies,
the Pollock, finger painting fury
that came as easy as breathing,
where will that go?
Do you know?
'Cause if you don't,
it'll fly into oblivion
like the Passenger Pigeon.
The world will crush you,
twist and turn your quirky smirks
into furtive looks and frowns.
You'll forget the quick lightness
of your being,
the unrehearsed hip twist,
slide and spin,
open-eyed, question mark
gesticulation,
"Room in your coffee?"
I get you - I do.
Please, do more
than I have done.
Daydream often.
See the beauty in foibles.
If not a mountain, climb a foot hill
now and again.
Don't wait for Deus Ex Machinas.
Wave to midnight.
Be passionate.
Be who they say you shouldn't be.
Just be. Yet,
I know,
it's so damned
hard.

The End of the Year

I find myself
alone, drifting slowly
like an Inuit
on an ice flow
away from 
familiar pin-prick lights,
curling chimney smoke,
home fires
I might not
see again.
The unknown flows like an ocean.
I ask,
Do you know?
But the stars won't speak.
There will be a time
for this and that
a time to take action
a time to swim
to a distant shore.
There will be a time.
But this isn't it.

Great Blue Heron

Watch the mirror-top,
catch what you can,
Great Blue Heron
standing on straight, re-bar,
stalks of marsh grass legs,
prehistoric, as still as the Stone Age,
waiting for silver
to dart into range,
strike without rage,
cold, spring-loaded kill,
no feeling, no meaning,
nor malice,
smooth as an arrow
slices the afternoon,
the epitome of cool,
but not too hot,
control - complete,
swallows its shiny meal
in a quick flick of beak,
masterful, succinct, savant,
finishes the flourish
on strong, sturdy wing beats,
glides out of range
into sun set mystery.

Building my Dream House

If I had the wood, I would,
but knowing I've developed no skills,
nor desire to pound nails,
I'll just write a few lines and
eat my banana.

Social Media

You can't save him.
He can't save you.
Push button, pseudo-celebrity lasts
as long as it takes
to fill a water glass.
How's your hemorrhoids?

Charlie's Dream Poem

I think it still exists among
the moth-balled things
in yesterday's attic
in the land of lost letters,
dust-covered photos,
clothes fitting Studio-54
fashion.
Lyrical piece,
sung one night
while studying
the canvass -
your ceiling.
Food was the subject,
how it filled your dreams,
became the ceiling,
inspiration
sustenance,
meaning
purpose
hope.

Charlie,
do you still write
poetry?

Wallace Stevens

I detect a butterscotch and whiskey ambiance,
sounds hushed over plush Turkish rugs embellishing
the Manor's Maple floors, thick draperies darken rooms,
deaden, dampen stray, superfluous noise.
Here, poetry resides in privacy and privilege
as deep and uninterrupted as the North Sea.
I entered once or twice, crept about
on padded feet, awed and deferential
like the Help waiting to get paid.

Girl Ditches Boy

The day he asked,
"Do you still care?"
you giggled, turned away,
walked into a dirt devil
throbbing in sunshine,
abducted,
taken to a place
where words, oaths, promises
carried no weight,
where the wishes
of a foolish boy -
heard no more.
Heart-break,
your mother at his side, calling,
"Talk to him - he's traveled so far."
You, fleet swimmer, surged beyond
the boundaries of crashing waves,
found peace in the open sea,
knowing no allegiance, whether
Jesus, Big Bopper, Big Dipper,
or Rama-lama-ding-dong.
It might have worked, you thought,
but those hands of his - too damned clammy,
then fled the scene,
a smoker on break
racing to
sweet, fiery freedom.

            

Elegy

Maybe you knew what love wasn't
when I charged in, believing,
Omnia vincit amor, my Dulcinea,
wise beyond the hills, you saw through
high school Hamlet, knowing it is just
a four letter word, though you didn't say it.
What could you have known? Girl, thirteen, 
dirty-blonde halo, wind-whipped Brillo, 
tossing like a curly salad, a no rhyme/reason
uncombed treatise always incomplete. 
Did you remember long forgotten 
Immanuel Kant as you glanced
through dust-flurried shelves in the back of
Barnes and Noble when books, coffee, cafes 
became the rage again? Something about Beatniks, 
wasn't it? Kerouac, Corso beckoning like  
Ferlinghetti's city lights, pure poetry to the uninitiated,
dithering idiot dilettantes who drank the electric koolaid
acid test, and said, yum, yum, yum. I'm not saying 
I believe what Capote wrote, only I'm not twenty-one and stoned,
living in that lonely home all roads lead to.
I hope you found one, and were happy- whatever
that means. Perhaps, once, you thought,
a grocery list can be a poem, 
lemon is more than just a color,
and sometimes, some loves
never die.

Things We Said Today

That summer,
I sat at breakfast, sixteen,
munching Captain Crunch
a stranger in your house
kitchen glowing like a grotto
knowing only your mother
who came to town
every week
with a Bible group
giving smiles freely
words of comfort
wisdom
made me feel
the world was
not so bad
but not quite as good
as booze, pills,
the assault of rock n roll
blasted away loneliness
fanned hormonal fires,
Kinks, Clash, X-Ray Specs.
I wanted a ride
to a higher side,
desired
a little loving
and a place
to crash,
but not home
where hearts ache
and boredom fills the air
like a sticky August afternoon.
I wanted an end
to the ceaseless beatings of
deep, dark, depression
lying awake at night
on a sweat-drenched bed
eyes open, on the ceiling,
not knowing what or who
to believe,
my mind moved quicker
than Hermes' feet
far into delusion,
mindful,
but not feeling
true Jesus peace -
so I daydreamed,
heard sneakered-feet
beating
uneven rhythm
down a staircase -
kitchen spoons
on cardboard,
a girl's voice laughing,
crashing on a landing,
rubber soled music
from another room.
I rose on beats of
my vulture-winged heart,
waited while a form
darkened the doorway,
inched silent movie slow
into light,
first the eyes,
doe-brown, delicate, 
sneaky grin
under curly
dirty-blonde hair.
In diffused morning light,
you stood
"Portrait of a Woman"
by Romero de Torres.
I fell hard, Wow,
this is it,
too young
to know,
the beginning
is the end
of everything.
          

Sonnet 1.1

In black, rich earth he plants his eyes and seeds
furiously, digs deep hole after hole.
More motion than thought, he rips out all weeds
blindly, instinctive like a busy mole.
He moves and talks not missing a beat, quick
in his answers, perfectly measured, selling
a point you know not true, wonderful trick,
so good, fools even him in the telling.
But doesn't he see as the time creeps more,
the truth will be revealed in a bit
and hiding the obvious is a chore,
like all habits, it is so hard to quit.
He digs and digs - this is the life he made,
oblivious, he has planted in shade.

When You Die

I will rummage
through the attic,
rip open boxes,
sift through papers
you touched
with pen,
find photographs
of you 
on some cold,
pine cloaked coast
standing on rocks,
smiling
in that quiet, old
Yankee way.

I really
don't know
who you were,
white haired man,
eyes mucus-glued shut,
flat on back
in hospital bed
where she held you back,
wouldn't let you go,
air tinged with
feces, farts, and urine,
skin Andy Warhol white.

Who, exactly, were you?
I wish I knew. There was a time,
but I didn't take it,
let it be wind-blown
like pocket lint
rolling across
grass.

Now,
I will never
know, you are
too far gone
mute like the gray sea,
brain battered
by disease.
Do I love you?
Do I hate you?
Perhaps, I should have
seized the moment,
asked you,
how does September sun
feel on your face?

Denial (1st Draft)

"This is my job," she said,
pushing a spoonful of purred kale
against resisting lips,
shaking his shoulder,
"Wake up, wake up,"
like a stone breaking calm
on a morning lake, 10 p.m.
Over and over, loosening, finally,
the spoon glides through.
I feel the ripples, look away
to the screen up high,
baseball game. He stirs,
moans, sucks the metal.
She smiles, bright-eyed,
cooing, "Yes, dear, good."
I feel the sick, angry
awareness of days spilling into days
like Buffalo's blood
pooling slowly on the Plains.
How long has he been dying
lying in the living room, hospital bed,
existing like a slow-motion sunset
she hopes will hover forever?
Always an arm's length away,
ready to pull him back,
leaps from sleep when he
coughs or hiccups.
For god's sake, let him go,
but she won't,
feeding and feeding
believing each gulp, salvation.
She urges him on,
mouth open and close
like a goldfish breathing,
and when he follows suit,
claims victory
like a defeated ruler,
enemy at the gates.

Forgotten

They exist like gypsies
under the shady Maples
by the abandoned factory
where the shopping mall
was never built
and all the plans
for a brave new world
trickled across the gurgles
and hiss
of the river.

That Which Was

Like those
who scratch out
faces in photographs,
I imagine a landscape
where you exist no more.
It is lovely, lit by
late afternoon, slanting light.
Shadows lay like panthers
around hedges. Out back
where the lawn drops
forgotten into shrubbery,
Blue Spruce shoot
straight into the sky,
sudden highs
during depression.
How unfulfilled I was,
so unsatisfied. I existed
in your shade, perhaps,
because it was easy
like mushrooms growing
on the dead forest floor.
These days,
I thrive in my own light
never blaming you for
who I couldn't be
or things in me
that never took root.

To a So-Called Friend

I wish it was one of those things
that stood solid and beautiful
like a bridge
to the assumed.
You never have to ask,
friendship should never
be questioned,
so I won't,
the answer lies in silence,
two years without a call,
emails never sent,
just those shitty little comments
you kicked up like disgusted dust
on Facebook.
You competitive son-of-bitch
can't be glad
for someone
you think
has outdone you -
and what the fuck
does that
really mean?
I was thinking about contacting you
when I visit,
but I don't think
I will.

Aristophanes Didn't Fly The Friendly Skies

What is all this fuss, that flying is a must
like an Eagle in the sky,
I can only ask, why?

an airfoil is good if functions like it should
but what if it springs a leak?
You'll sink to miserable streets.

Blame it on the speech of a once illustrious Greek
who said cloud life is better,
but knew nothing of jet setters

or how one gets unraveled when on airlines one travels.
The word "Coach" he never heard
'cause if he did, he'd think twice about
flying like a bird.

Like a River

After Roberta died,
I talked to Paul,
at 80

playing tennis
like a fit
45 year old,
loving life with his
new girlfriend,
gliding
through streets
in shiny, black
limousines,
happier than Dad
could ever
be.
Paul lived
the Dream,
while Dad
tumbled drunk
into sunset,
sad,
morose,
broken.
Once,
Dad had it all -
laughter,
love,
Straight-A
student.

Why couldn't
he deal
with the ideal
accepted
like a Disney
dream?
Paul asked this,
but what destroyed
Dad
was like asking,
who killed Jesus?
I know, but I don't,
and neither did
Paul,
old family friend
from their days
of dreaming,
our conversation flowed
serpentine,
river 'round oxbow,
gradually

becoming
the sea.

My Father's Face

It was sky
but shattered 
into a million
pieces,
was twirled by
the wind
across the plains.
I waited
for days
and nights,
but it
never came
back.
I can wait
no more.
All that I have
is sky.

The Tendril

feels
emptiness,
extends
a green filament
to parts unknown,
does not discriminate
whether alive
or inanimate,
imparts a touch
without expectation
or thought.
Could this this really
be love
or just
Manifest Destiny?

When I was 25

The world was too big
and I didn't know what to do
so I burrowed way down low
inside love
like a naked Mole Rat,
crazed, frenzied,
demented
and blind.
I was a boy, really,
told so
by a woman,
on the phone,
she needed
a man
with money,
" 'cause romance
don't pay
no bills."
Addicted bitch,
but not too high,
wise, even, perhaps,
knowing her own
coked out mind,
spared me,
the stupid kid,
down the road,
my death
when she rejected
my gift-wrapped
bleeding heart.

Tim and I went walking

in late afternoon
along that street,
we watched the sun,
an old hiker
sink homeward
behind trees,
and we,
on the verge
of possibility
and mystery,
marched through
yards where hedges
glowed sci-fi yellow.

We zoned in on
the road,
searched
for a slip-stream
of brunette,
blonde,
or red-headed
hair
undulating
like a flaming
match head.
We could have cared
less
which shade of want,
a scenario
blazed through
our minds:

Car passes,
head turns,
inviting eyes,
bright smile.
Fifty yards up,
it decelerates
to a dusty
stop. Now,
what do we do?

But there were no takers
on our way toward sunset,
only the neighbor wife.
"You guys need a ride?" she smiled.
Suddenly serious,
we shook our heads, no,
and she zoomed away,
probably pitying
two young buffoons
lost in Jasmine
like perfume-drunk bees.

Dusk met us
at the corner store.
We flopped on the steps,
drained of energy
like the sky losing color.
We became night,
humming in our own hives,
not exactly delighted nor defeated,
just two boys
waiting to chase
another day.

Daily Musings

Draped in shadows,
I disregarded the sun,
and remain a stranger...

Joe said,
he who wanders
the avenues
with no eyes
on Nirvana
is an owner-less
dog
on a leash...

In case
there is
no
here-after,
I regard the remark
but  rescind
the fine print...

If Immanuel can't,
who can?

I feel abandoned
like a house
left to the woods

A question to an old friend

What were we learning
while we walked those summer roads
kicking up dust and dreaming
of things we didn't know?

on my way to work

Soaring above a rocky bluff,
vultures high and distant
seem small,
straight-winged mosquitoes
circling in formation,
Calder-esque,
a slow twirling ballet
dancing above
dilemma.

The Woman Who Camped Alone

The drooping
Stars and Stripes,
newspaper-sized,
yellowed by time,
sticks in the Maple,
a reminder
like a note on a fridge.
Perhaps, she recalls
when they sat by the fire,
eyes in magazines,
compatible and content.
Does she pine each time
she pours the coffee
or stirs the stew,
smells
that hint
of Sage?
"Everything
in our life
was spiced
just right."
At night
she lies
tent-less,
head propped up
in the back
of a Subaru,
her face painted
Billy Holiday blue
by the light of a lap-top
she pounds upon,
hopeful,
excited, even,
like an astronaut
ready for take-off
or a Heaven-lusting poet
writing sonnets
to the other side.

Acceptance

He stoops low,
one knee to the ground,
shovels dirt
into a mound
like a grave unsettled,
plump
and black.
He buries bulbs
deep,
explains why
he must stay.
"If I could, I wouldn't,
but I'm needed,"
I listen,
shoot a stare
into the sun.
Inside,
the dying one tries,
but she holds him back
in the living room,
side by side,
an arm's length away,
they live in a dream,
No beginning, no end,
oxygenated and waiting
for this, too, to pass.
She takes his temperature,
blood pressure,
writes it down.
No one will see.
They told her, no use -
it will do no good,
but she's guided by fear.
Outside,
I squint and listen,
his litany drones on
like highway noise.
He feverishly
digs the earth,
and moves his lips
like a salesman
pitching
for the umpteenth time.
Don't you know I see?
I want to tell him,
your Irises will not hide
death,
decorations
to trick the mind from
the truth.
Who is this for?
He is there.
I am here,
and a cross examination
will only further my reputation as
Shit Storm Maker.
So I nod like the doomed - Yes. Yes. Yes.
I feel the sunlight
warm the the lids of my eyes.
They are closed like tombs,
but I think I see the sky.
I do.
I spin to tell him,
but he has turned away,
head down,
lost in the certainty of dirt.
This is his sky,
his ground,
his truth,
and I am
only a visitor.

A Conversation Translated Into a Note

It would be helpful
if you were to leave
because things can get
quite claustrophobic
for me.
My lies are deep,
cavernous,
and your presence
impedes my ability
to out-run
them all.
An upper story,
four-bedrooms
is not enough.
I could use another
floor,
and you do
block my way to the attic -
a wondrous place to slink to
and hide in
Dashiell Hammett shadows.
Ah, to wrap myself in forgetfulness
and smoke a bowl of
nothing-can-touch-me.
You must understand...

Remembering Tim

Tim came down
like a belt of sun
over late afternoon water,
graced us for those
long, lazy days
of walks and dreams.
At Mac Donald's
he groped the girl
late night drunk,
his face as dour
as the undertakers
at graveside.
I still laugh,
such shenanigans
never go unnoticed
when immersed
in the heart break
of the
everyday.

To an Old Friend

I get you,
the down-turned
nervous-furtive
bird glance
kid
swinging elbows back and forth,
hands dug deep in pockets,
head bowed to the shadows
you crossed
along the road.
Much has changed -
I know,
the jibber-jabber reasoning
tightened up
to a smooth, rehearsed
package of perfection,
natural, it seems,
but it ain't so.
I know you from
that middle aged man
gone round in the middle
scowls you shoot
below furrowed brow,
bullets that disarm them
before they
fire first.
I know the game
the psychology of the everyday.
It's hard,
so hard.
But remember
when you're with me
you can
please
just be yourself...

1st Draft of Scene1/entire Play...

He plays his song to the scenery. Towards the end, a woman enters. He doesn’t see her. She smiles. He finishes playing. He clutches his guitars, bends down, picks up a half pint of whiskey, takes a slug. As he does, the woman claps. He’s startled, coughs, and nearly drops the bottle.

Woman: Very nice.

Man: I didn’t expect anyone…

Woman: I didn’t expect to hear music today.  Did you write it?

Man: I did.

Woman: It’s a beautiful.  I’ve always been amazed by people who write or play music. I once tried playing the violin, but that ended in disaster. I can only imagine what would happen if I tried to write a song.  What inspired you to write that one?  ( He pulls out the copy of the obid from his pocket)

Man: She did… (He hands her the copy. She reads)

Woman: So sorry… You were very close?

Man: I knew her when I was young, but I’d lost touch with her. For some peculiar reason, I just happened to be searching the internet a couple of weeks ago, and I found that. It got me thinking….

Woman: Wow. Of all things…

Man: I take it, you live close by?

Woman:  I live there.

Man:  In that house?

Woman:  Yes.

Man: That’s where her mother and she lived.

Woman: Really? (She looks at the article again) Christian and Mary... Well, I bought the house from a couple with kids, and, I think, before them was another family.  I can’t say I remember those names.

Man: That was a long time ago. They had horses – two as I remember. The right side of the yard was fenced off…

Woman: I heard about the horses, but they were gone years before I bought the place.

Man: It looks pretty much the same.

Woman: Not much changes around here. It has a slower pace of life. That’s what drew me. What do you do?

Man: The best I can. (He smiles. She nods). You mean, what do I do to pay the bills? In two weeks, I start a new job – software developer.  I’ve been out of work for two years, so I suppose it’s time to get back to it.

Woman: You don’t seem so thrilled.

Man: I’m not, but se la vie. What do you do?

Woman: Photographer – portraits a specialty. That pays my bills.

Man: Are you thrilled?

Woman: Like you said, se la vie.

Man: I think we could both use a drink… (Offers her the bottle)…

Woman: What the heck. (She takes the bottle). To dreams…  May they never die… (She takes a slug, hands the bottle back to him. He takes a slug. Screws the top on, puts the bottle on the ground)

 Man: That building over there. That’s where I went to school.

Woman: Really? It’s a resort-spa now.

Man: It was a pre-seminary. I went for a semester. That’s how I came to know this place.

Woman: You wanted to be a priest?

Man: I thought so. Most of the boys went there to take advantage of a cheap, private education.  By the time I got there, no one was going into the priesthood. The semester after I left, they closed it down.

Woman: So you never become a priest…

Man: No. Days after I got there, I realized I’d made a big mistake. I don’t know what I was thinking. As I remember, I had this crazy idea about being a missionary; going to exotic places to help or save the people from God knows what.  What I came to know is that religious life is all about discipline and falling in line – there’s very little idealism. I was too much of a rebel for that. Besides, what I really wanted was a girlfriend.

Woman: So you saw her from the distance, waved to her, she waved to you, and the rest was history…

Man: Not exactly… I didn’t meet her until after I left the school. I’d made friends in town, and came to visit during the summer. It was then that I met her. She was a friend of one of my friend’s sisters. I was staying at their house, and as I was sitting at the table having breakfast, I heard someone entering the house. It was a bright voice, sunny, but a little raspy, edgy. I sat up in my seat. The next thing I knew, she was standing in the doorway looking straight at me. Our eyes met, and we had one of those instant attractions. Just amazing…

Woman: Then what?

Man: We spent the rest of the day together. It was all so innocent. I don’t even remember if I kissed her. We walked, talked, joked - I don’t even remember what we talked about. And the light – I can still see it, like a golden halo all about us. It was a pure summer light, but not hot and oppressive. In my mind’s eye, that day never ended – it disappeared into another realm…

Woman: Obviously, you’re not together, so then what?

Man: I went home. Over the next few weeks, we exchanged a couple of letters. Then there was a phone call from her. I was so excited I almost couldn’t talk. Again, I don’t remember what I said, but I do remember that, somehow, I had the need to make her jealous, so I mentioned another girl. It didn’t seem like much at the time, but after that, the letters and the phone calls stopped, and I knew something was off. Being the crazy kid I was, I got on a bus the next day, and went up to see her. I tried with everything in my power to convince that I was the guy for her, but it was no use. The last image I have of her is right here – walking away from me and disappearing into a cloud of dust and sunlight.

Woman: So apropos. The girl of your dreams disappearing into a dream – no beginning, no end. It just was… (He picks up the bottle of whiskey, takes a slug. He offers it to her. She takes it, takes a slug, then hands it back)

Man: Anything like that ever happen to you?

Woman: My parents were very weird. They didn’t come out and say it, but they weren’t comfortable with me fraternizing with the other side. There was no, Darling, you’re forbidden to date, but there was an undercurrent … An unspoken rule of sorts… (She picks up the bottle. Takes a slug) But that didn’t mean, I didn’t stretch it a bit….

Man: Weren’t we all like that? You’d tell your parents, you were headed to Tommy’s house, but really, you were headed to the city. I did it all the time, and my parents usually bought it.

Woman: As far as my parents knew, I was that nice girl who took home A’s and B’s, and would someday go to college.  As long as I didn’t get into trouble and I did everything that was expected, they didn’t bother me. It was a very strange existence. Sometimes I felt more like a pet, than a child.

Man: So what sort of things would you do? Skip school, smoke pot, get drunk?

Woman: None of the above…

Man: Drop Acid, Snort Coke, shoot heroin?

Woman: Oh, no. I wasn’t into drugs.

Man: No?

Woman: No. They didn’t agree with me.

Man: So what were you into?

Woman (after a pause): Learning to be someone I wasn’t. (Takes a slug, Hands it to him, He takes a slug)

Man: To revelation. (He lifts up the bottle. Takes a slug) It takes a lot of guts to come to terms with what ails us.

Woman: That girl you came up here to win over... Don’t you think, in a way, you wasted your time? When she stopped calling you, didn’t it seem obvious that she wanted no part of you?

Man: I didn’t care. I was young and dumb.

Woman: I’m sure there was some girl in your neighborhood who‘d let you get into her pants. It seems like a long way to go for nothing.

Man: It wasn’t about getting into her pants.

Woman: Isn’t it always, when you break it down?

Man: Is it? Look, maybe I should go.

Woman: Stay. I’d like to talk more.  I haven’t had this much to drink in a long time. I didn’t know what I was saying.

Man: Well, it is strong stuff.

Woman: And it went right to my head. Here, take it (hands him the whiskey bottle). Truly, I’m sorry. Who am I to rain on your parade?

Man: I was a stupid kid. I knew perfectly well that she wanted nothing to do with me, but I still made the trip. I would never do anything like that now.

Woman: Some people have no capacity for rejection. Maybe she did love you, but she was incapable of expressing it...

Man: Or, maybe, I was deluded, and she was wise beyond her years…

Woman: Or, maybe, she was just a foolish kid who was too stupid to appreciate who you were…

Man: Who was I?

Woman: A true romantic from the sounds of it…

Man: I was told that a lot. One of my friends used to say that I could bring the spirits up or down depending on my mood. You know, this really isn’t about her. It’s about experiencing a sensation I don’t often feel anymore. It’s kind of like what you’d feel like when you first drank alcohol or started going to bars – like you’d discovered  a new world. But that feeling only lasts for a couple of years. Then you spend the rest of your days trying to recapture it. But you can’t. You never can. What if we took off for a few days – you and I?

Woman: And go where?

Man: Any place you like. Okay – anyplace within a 60 mile radius of here. You pick it.

Woman: But I have things to do – I have a shoot tomorrow.

Man: Cancel it.

Woman: What about you – don’t you have things to do?

Man: Not for another two weeks.

Woman: But we don’t know one another.

Man: we’ll get to know one another.

Woman: And then what?

Man: We’ll figure it out…

Woman: No.

Man: You said that you learned to be someone you weren’t. What did you mean by that?

Woman: I played different roles until I figured out who I was.

Man: And have you?

Woman: Yes, of course.

Man: Are you sure?

Woman: Why do I need to justify myself to you?

Man: You don’t.  I just want to get to know you.

Woman: Why?

Man: I don’t know – I just do.

Woman: The question is… Do I want to get to know you?

Man: Do you?

Woman: I’m on the fence. Play me another song, and then I’ll decide.

Man: Okay (Plays her a song)…  So?

Woman: So why don’t you make music for a living?

Man: There’s no money in it.

Woman: You have talent.

Man: Lots of people have talent. Did I pass the audition?

Woman: Yes, you passed.

Man: So where are we going?

Woman: You made it to the next level, but the game’s not over.

Man: So what do I have to do now – set myself on fire and sing the Star Spangled Banner?

Woman: Was there a time you dreamed of being a professional musician?

Man: Of course, but as a song writer. There are two types of people in music – musicians and song writers. I’ve always considered myself more of a song writer.

Woman: Did you write that song for her?

Man: I did, and it was one of the purest things I ever wrote. It might be the purest, and I had no idea what I was doing. It just came. I was all of sixteen. Maybe that’s what kept me writing – I kept hoping something like that would come again.

Woman: Did it?

Man: Technically, I wrote better ones, but never with the same ease and under the same circumstances. I captured lightning in a bottle, and I doubt if it’ll happen again.

Woman: You didn’t find love again?

Man: I thought I did, but was it – is it ever, really?

Woman: Were you married?

Man: Once…

Woman: Did you love her?

Man: I thought I did, but I can’t quite remember.

Woman: You got married, and don’t remember if you loved her or not?

Man: And you - were you ever married?

Woman: No.

Man: Then how would you know what it’s like?

Woman: I just assumed…

Man: Omnia vincit amor…

Woman: Carpe Diem, Tempus fugit… I know it’s Latin…

Man: Love conquers all. That’s what I thought, but it doesn’t. At least for me, it didn’t. The bottom line is I never should have been married…

Woman: Should I ask, why?

Man: Because it never fills the void.

Woman: And what void would that be?

Man: Substituting love for a broken dream.

Woman: So when music didn’t work out, you decided to ease your pain by marrying her…

Man: In a nut shell.

Woman: No offense, but it sounds a bit lame.

Man: I cared a lot about her. We were great friends. I thought things would take care of themselves.

Woman: You, the Romantic, who threw all caution to the wind to win the girl of your dreams, settled for a passion-less marriage - what’s wrong with that picture?

Man: She offered me hope, and I took it.

Woman: Couldn’t you have said, let’s remain friends?

Man: It wasn’t that easy. She had regrets, too.

Woman: So the both of you thought, we’re miserable, why not be miserable together?

Man: Why didn’t you marry?

Woman: Because I chose not to.

Man: Because no one was ever good enough?

Woman: Meaning?

Man: The deck was stacked so high against them from the beginning that they stood no chance.

Woman: In other words, I’m a bitch.

Man: I didn’t say that.

Woman: But you meant it… Well, I am a bitch. If being a bitch taking control of one’s life, and not settling for some second rate relationship because I can’t hack life, then a bitch, I am…

Man: I see… (He starts putting his guitar away…)

Woman: Where are you going?

Man: Game over. You win.

Woman: There are no winners or losers... Hey, I didn’t mean for this to happen like this… (He picks up his guitar, begins to walk away)… Let’s fuck! (He stops in his tracks) Right here. Right now! (He slowly turns, looks at her. She smiles) Winner, winner, chicken dinner... (She begins to unbutton her blouse. After a pause… He puts down his guitar case… He walks up to her, puts his hands on her upper arms… Light go to black)

I'm a bitch

Woman: So when music didn’t work out, you decided to ease your pain by marrying her…

Man: In a nut shell.

Woman: It sounds a bit lame.

Man: I cared a lot about her. We were great friends. I thought things would take care of themselves.

Woman: You, the Romantic, who threw all caution to the wind to win the girl of your dreams, settled for a passion-less marriage - what’s wrong with that picture?

Man: She offered me hope, and I took it.

Woman: Couldn’t you have said, let’s remain friends?

Man: It wasn’t that easy. She had regrets, too.

Woman: So the both of you thought, we’re miserable, why not be miserable together?

Man: Why haven’t you been married?

Woman: Because I chose not to.

Man: Because no one was ever good enough?

Woman: Meaning?

 Man: The deck was stacked so high against them from the beginning that they stood no chance.

Woman: In other words, I’m a bitch.

Man: I didn’t say that.

Woman: But you meant it… Well, I am a bitch. If being a bitch taking control of one’s life, and not settling for some second rate relationship because I can’t hack life, then a bitch, I am…

Burying Broken Dreams

Woman: You didn’t find love again?

Man: I thought I did, but was it – is it ever, really?

Woman: Were you married?

Man: Once…

Woman: Did you love her?

Man: I thought I did, but I can’t quite remember.

Woman: You got married, and don’t remember if you loved her or not?

Man: And you - were you ever married?

Woman: No.

Man: Then how would you know what it’s like?

Woman: I just assumed…

Man: Omnia vincit amor…

Woman: Carpe Diem, Tempus fugit… I know it’s Latin…

Man: Love conquers all. That’s what I thought, but it doesn’t. At least for me, it didn’t. The bottom line is I never should have been married…

Woman: Should I ask, why?

Man: Because it never fills the void.  

Woman: And what void would that be?

Man: Substituting love for a broken dream.