Spring 1990 • Vol. XII No. 2 April 1, 1990 |

From the Proscenium

[about 1989] My Dear Sir— The year thus far has gone Blank. True, it is a new one, but it is too cold thus far for any Weather to take hold. The high winds blow the pilots out at night & sometimes I have gone shimmering into ungentle sleep. I know you like to hear about my seasons here; it is one thing we can speak of equally. Regarding my Tudor Disregard for the words which rorschach out on me in ink—exhale & listen closely to me now or cut me loose. All gods secretly wish to be women—baroque, fecund, vulgar, sweet. It's an old script I read aloud & the theatre is empty tonight. I play for the Balconies, all velvet-backed maroon chairs, slightly hyperbolic like a coast guard sailor calling out to fog through a primitive megaphone, looking out for One left by the wreck, still clinging to some godforsaken rock. Rouged in the face so the facial features can be seen in storm. How can something this Small take up such space? A Soul enters & a roo

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