“Why did I write? Because I found life unsatisfactory”
The wine-drinkers sit on the porte cochère in the sun.
Their lack of success in love has made them torpid.
They move their fans with a motion that stirs no feather,
the glare of the sun has darkened their complexions.
Let us commend them on their conversations.
One says “oh” and the other says “indeed.”
The afternoon must be prolonged forever, because the night
will be impossible for them.
They know that the bright and very delicate needles
inserted beneath the surfaces of their skins
will work after dark–at present are drugged, are dormant.
Nobody dares to make any sudden disturbance.
One says “no,” the other one murmurs “why?”
The cousins pause: tumescent.
What do they dream of? Murder?
They dream of lust and they long for violent action
but none occurs.
Their quarrels perpetually die from a lack of momentum
The light is empty: the sun forestalls reflection.
“Luxury is the wolf at the door and its fangs are the vanities and conceits germinated by success.
When an artist learns this, he knows where the danger is.”
Jack Heller, Tamara Braun
Louise Davis, Robert Standley
and Lisa Thayer
Produced by Janice Allen
Directed by Sal Romeo
April 13-May 20
4150 Riverside Drive
Burbank, CA 91505
Call for Reservations
I am tired.
I am tired of speech and of action.
If you should meet me upon the
street do not question me for
I can tell you only my name
and the name of the town I was
born in-but that is enough.
It does not matter whether tomorrow
arrives anymore. If there is
only this night and after it is
morning it will not matter now.
I am tired. I am tired of speech
and of action. In the heart of me
you will find a tiny handful of
dust. Take it and blow it out
upon the wind. Let the wind have
it and it will find its way home.
“Time is the longest distance between two places.”
“(Explooored) TIME!” Photo by
an apple for teacher
who had a big secret
(we loved his magic)
and knew all along
how his ‘evil’ lurked
through the shower doors
it was swept aside
one, two, three
one, two, three
like a ballet
with the leaves and the dust
goblins spewing their
angry dirt– forth
innocent young boys creeping
in and out
he was the warlock
the vigilante of theatrical
nuance, the blood sucker
of fine distinction.
he had a black Victorian house
oh so enviable
so ‘Tennessee Williams.’
he was a genius, a deviant,
a mad perpetrator of wrong doing,
but it was the theatre
and it felt oh,
so harmless then…
until they kick
the chair away
and you’re left
and the theatre
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