The Play (Prelude & Act 1, Scene 1 (Poetry))

I think I got drunk and tried to recreate Midsummers Night’s Dream by the Bard as a younger man. 



Enter, stage left,

A procession of gnomes

Miniscule green legs bound in woven leaves,

Bare chests rattling,

Grasping desperately for air

As they chant


“What won’t you do,

what won’t you do,





Yes, yes, you,

Tell us, tell us,

What won’t you do?”

Taking up the rear

A blindfolded young monk,

Guided by the terrapin hand

Of a hippy queen.


All beaded dreadlocks

And pot smoke,

Her massive pupils

Hold the fourth wall hostage.

She takes center stage,

Cue orchestra,

Bring up sore lights,

She decrees


“Let the ruckus begin,

let us call upon the werewolf moon

let nature win,

let god hear our pagan tune,

let us hear, just exactly,









Act I, Scene I


Rhythmic knocking

Of wet knuckles, striking up

A one on, two off beat

Against the somber steel hull.


For the second time since Sicilian shores,

The moon’s mammalian curve

Fully reflect yesterday’s spent breath,

Carried away from the solar heart

on the cusp of a predestined sigh,

Rejected from the lunar surface

and fluttering limply to rest

on the smoothed hat of the white-washed captain.

His sharp face, lights up

On a one on, two off beat,

With each thoughtful drag off

Hand-rolled cigarettes.


The only map to be found on the boat,

Carved into his forehead

By times shaky surgical precision.


Two bearded fellows, all woolen sweaters

Corduroy jeans and bare feet,

Stare at the distant starting point

Lamenting lovers left behind

With the magenta clouds that put the sun

To sleep for the night.


“Jesus fucking christ, she was a beauty,

I mean, her eyes, I still see them,

Just as they were as the wind snuggled

Against the sails cheeks,

Flooded green pools devouring

My heart.”


“Ah, yours certainly was pretty,

but there wasn’t a ounce of wit

in those tits you fell in love with”


“Watch your fucking mouth!”


“haha, I’ll see what I can do,

but I do know you better than you know you,

listen, my friend, for mine,

she was a little less pretty,

but goddamn well read.

We walked upon that deer trail

That wove through pastures and orchards,

And she told me tales

Of injun princess’s, feudal japan,

She quoted Langston Hughes,

Praised Twain’s bitterness,

Why, she performed Macbeth in its entirety,

Using wild raspberries she crushed

Between her thumb and forefinger

To stain her hands and lips.”


“you don’t need a fruit-stained college bitch,

comrade, when on shore leave

its all about a loose whore

with giving hips.”


Their voices spread from the stern,

Chasing the fleeing reverberations of the wake.

Dolphins turn away from their strong language,

Taking their handsome dance

To gentler seas,

Turning their romance away

With up-turned bottlenoses.


Waking to the curt laughter

Of childish sailors and their captains rancid smoke,

A college dropout, a self-taught Buddhist monk,

Stretches his coffee limbs,

Scratches his chipped beard,

And takes in the set.

Stars, dotted brush points consume the horizon,

The water whispers forgotten dialogue,

Licking its cat tongue along the entirety of the exterior.


“This is what I wanted” he says,

testing the muscle of his jaw

while his eyes come to rest upon

captain’s broad shoulders.

“Excuse me, Mr?”


After a long pause,

Illuminated by ocher puffs,

Chapped seal lips bark



“yes, yes, captain,

how many nights before this archaic shoreline

disappears, how many nights

until my view is nothing but

the atlantics embrace?”


four drags later,

“that depends, how many more nights

do you want to retain a sense of self?”


“as few as possible,

I want little to do with myself.”


Eager to toss their human cargo overboard,

And equally eager to poke the bear

At the helm,

Sailors one and two

Meander over, whistling a tune.


“Why, what are you running from lad?”


“nothing, nothing at all”


“Oh, come on now, every man’s made a mistake or two,

Daniel here has a baby girl,

Dark-skinned and dark-haired

With a little rosy spot

Right where her third eye should be.

She’s probably twirling around right now,

Petite bronzed feet kicking up dirt

While enchanted tigers growl up a silk song.”


“don’t be so quick to judge, Jeffery,

what about your stint in Mexico’s

finest jail cell, for, oh let me think,

drug trafficking?”


“My only crime is failing to live up

to expectations gifted to me.”


“Have you tried Indian-giving,

It worked for Dan here.”


“You ignorant shit!”


“Don’t answer them” the captain drawls,

“I would hate to think

I was dumb enough to believe

This boat had room for the fools three.”

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