a poem for sad boys in harpy land

with more lightning than bolt 
and even more evening than sky

we see through these eyes—
what our souls 

haven’t had the mouths
to ever say at all 

the strangest bouquet energy
falls on set

where a security-less smile
crawls 

across my face

proud to sit 
with the best view

of laughter and “Wilhelm” and “Oscar” 
and ourselves 

bend and scream 

into the genius  
shape of pain

of perfect discomfort
for the entirely un-perfect right now

Tatarsky turns into a physical palimpsest

virtuoso layering history onto voice
sliding in between these worlds 

allowing Time and all its entrepreneurial slang 
to bounce off the walls

bounce out the books hidden around the theater 
strewn around the hell scape of a bed room mind

someone sitting to my left whispers to a friend
“Honey, I think she’s waiting for Godot?”

the friend whispers back

“I think Godot finally showed up”