I went to the theater on page 118 
in a book at the end of the street.
I waited for Thespis and for the sleep 
I lost one night to return. 

I was quite ill with secrets
one in particular; a dead theory 
on the basic fire principal.
Now without spark.

I drifted off 5 times
during the last soliloquy
and then never fully woke up
Apparently having gone mad
I simply chose not to be.
My love had gone mad already. 
In the 17th century.

The theater was ablaze;
with thundering applause.
The Greek tragedy on stage 1 
was a hit with the tuxedoed elite
The English play on stage 2 
not so much with the card dealers
As I recall
It was all so clearly garbled.
And I wondered who dared 
not to love Thespis as much as I? 
Sleeping quiescently;
and no longer ill with secrets
while people stepped on my
white chinchilla fur which fell
from my shoulders
at the exact same time
the last three curtains did
The two theater ones and mine.

I was dead  and also dead boring
But I saw it all looking back.
I Just didn't give ovation for it.
© Jobé 2022
A Dictionary Prompt

The imbroglio between egos
was served with raw oysters;
How smashing
The New York literary scene was.
In May 1925, of course.

Perhaps it was Zelda 
Who ate the egos
until way past midnight.
Leaving the writers
without paper
The paper without pens
And all of the oysters 
On the half-shells
spoiled on beds of wilted lettuce.

One can never have
too many pickle forks
Or real pearls to go with them. 
© Jobé 2021

Skeleton Key
Sitting like a Buddha
And rhyming rats to death
Saturday is quite the book
With pages opening a vein
To the raison d'être of all
The people I am
Thousands of words 
Bleeding as one and
Sitting like a wounded savior.

The Maiden's hysteria 
Was not in the womb
It was not even
According to the Greeks
It was just vanity fair
To be a pub scarecrow
And also a bird of prey
Said the Rook to the Vulture
Sitting like a jeweled Bedouin
And somewhere in the woodlands
The Master wrote in thin air
The bow, the barrel, and the bit
Will unlock the unknown
Secrets to the Universe
But not the grave 
For it belongs to the Vulture,
A quill pen, the day after
And a crowded sitting room.
© Jobé 2022