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Art Gomez
The two are within a block of each other
near the northern edge of downtown.
Whether in cahoots or competition,
both stake a claim on their respective stages.
One, a conductor at her podium
who stands mid-intersection
directing nonexistent traffic.
What plays in her head is anyone’s guess.
The other, a fly fisherman
whipping shadow-cast figure eights
over the empty street; determined to find meaning
when there is always a catch before his release.
As cars arrive to nudge both experimental theaters,
a dance ensues to the tune of one long echoing symphonic honk.
Twirling, arms waving, she casts a spell
over her orchestra pit to silence the critics.
To hide your isolation, you become
Tame and loquacious, bowing to the men
Who bring you ornaments and poverties.
Your cryptic melancholy dwindles then,
Solved by the distant contrast of your words.
Your loneliness, with an amused relief,
Sits listening to your volubility
And idling with an enervated grief.
The play does not begin until you say
Your last "good-night," for you have only made
A swindled fantasy regain its parts.
Throughout the night you held an unseen blade
Upon your lap and trifled with its hilt,
And now you lift it with submissive dread.
Should you attack your loneliness and grief
Now that they are asleep? You shake your head.
They have moulded my face with a tear and a sneer.
They have sandalled me with caprice,
And the heart they have given me
Is a bag of red tissue-paper.
Their loves are ragged and fat
And seek the consolation
Of a tinkling effigy!
But even an effigy may wink
An eye at its slinking masters!
I can laugh at their frantic, tattered arms
Spinning me into impish posturings,
And jeer at the faces behind me!
After my play I go to sleep,
But they must sit, heavily looking at each other.
I dance:
I exist in motion:
A wind-shaken flower spilling my drops in the sunlight.
I feel the muscles bending, relaxing beneath me;
I direct the rippling sweep of the lines of my body;
Its impact crashes through the thin walls of the atmosphere,
I dance.
About me whirls
The sombre hall, the gaudy stage, the harsh glare of the footlights,
And in the brains of thousands watching
Little flames leap quivering to the music of my effort.
I have danced:
I have expressed my soul
In unbroken rhythm,
Sorrow, and flame.
I am tired: I would be extinguished beneath your beating hands.