Thespis

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