To write one's own name on a death warrant to save another's life, To cherish the laughter and satisfaction of another above one's own, To seek a lost letter in order to read the other's hand once more, To endure the screams of infancy, the tantrums of childhood, and the insults of adolescence, This is love.
What song, I wonder, will spring sing To garner hope or schlepp some bling The zebras, they be clopping Much faster than we walking A toast to all the strangers That fall asleep in mangers If the price of milk does rise, Can the prez afford his ties? Rejoice in this Unhappy kiss Send help Poor whelp
Mnemonic Devices of the Soul by Same-side, literature
Literature
Mnemonic Devices of the Soul
(Lights up on a spartan kitchen. MAN and WOMAN stand on opposite sides of a counter island. MAN is facing WOMAN, but WOMAN is facing away from MAN.) MAN Is today the only time you've done this? Can you tell me at least that much--do you have at least that much decency? (pause) Do you not remember how many times? Is that why you hesitate to answer? (pause) I'm not asking for a catalog or a minute-by-minute rundown, but I need more information. Why is it so hard? Is it shame? Is it fear? I promise: I won't hurt you. (pause) Listen, lots of people have been in our galoshes before. It doesn't mean we throw them in the dustbin and go shoe-shopping the next day. There are cobblers and therapists that can help us get our soles back in place. Or our souls back in place. (pause) Souls? Soles? Are our souls located above or below our soles? I can never remember the mnemonic device my anatomy professor taught us for the orientational relationship between the sole and the soul. (pause)
Dig the hole. Is it deep enough, yet? Open the umbrella. Is it sunny enough, yet? Cast the lot. Is it lucky enough, yet? Waste the day. Is it crap enough, yet? Burn the bridge. Is it lonely enough, yet?
I want to jump this bridge like I have no rope. I got to cash this check like I lack no hope. Prudent vanity, up a downward slope. Inward altruism, affirmative nope. This coil's unwinding fast like a clock on soap. This ersatz poem's like a horoscope.
I hear the screams of the dead inside my bones. How quietly they rumble and roar, How ravenously they hunger for "-------." I break under the weight of diaphanous darkness. How tenderly it peels my eyelids, How honestly it hides the light of truth. I feel the worms that feed on ancestral tombs. How full they are of unfinished business, How rueful they are their dinner is cold. I wonder at the gods whose temples crumbled. How pleasant is their wrathful judgment, How honored is their forgotten sacrilege. I hate the hollow masks singing grace and hypocrisy. How hauntingly they ring with life, How freely they fetter my convicted soul. I curse holiness with fists unfurled and tears unspilled. How wonderfully they betray my frailty, How awesomely they declare surrender. I resist no more the reckoning I was dead to. How merciful are his torments, How beautiful are his thorns.
(Lights up on a long-abandoned library--more books on the floor than on the shelves, the only visible source of light coming through some cracks and edges of a boarded-up window. A generous layer of dust coating the surface of everything serves to highlight the eerie stillness of the room. But, then, SHE enters--an indomitable figure of a woman with a flurry of gem-colored feathers and sparkles fluttering in her wake. On the back wall of the library, a word is projected: "WHO?")SHE
I have a riddle. I really do have it. You might even find its answer, but you might not. I might tell this riddle, or I might not. Whether I choose to share with y