You Trashed My Christmas - The 2015 Christmas Compilation

It's becoming a Christmas tradition for people to say "It sure don't feel like Christmas;" but this year, when the current weather in Manhattan feels like it was shipped here via time machine from Memorial Day, and the only white stuff for miles is the blizzard of dandruff blowing off of Donald Trump's hairjob, it's even more of a disconnect to match my inner clock to the calendar date. 

Which is probably why the first stab at this year's Christmas Compilation felt like Music To Nap By. Not that naps aren't a bad thing (except when you take them alone); it's just that when it feels like June outside and the sun still dips below the horizon around 4PM, your brain either short-circuits or shuts down—or both—which means you need an even bigger kick in the musical drawers to get up and party.

So (three versions later) here it is, this year's mix of all-girl goodies, back-of-the-garage boppers, and blues-heavy rockers, in two zip files. Shout-out to Venice Beach Barry with Track 23: Steph, Shannon, Megan and Leesa with Track 11; everybody watching The Flash with Track 1 (Gorilla City on Earth 2!); and everybody in Oz with the Bonus Track.

I wish you all the best of the season. Merry Happy, everybody.

 

1   Caitlin Snow Explains Christmas – Danielle Penabaker

2   You Trashed My Christmas – The Primitives

3   Santa Bring My Baby Back To Me – The Love Me Nots

4   Run Run Rudolph – The Dollyrots
5   Santa’s Got A GTO – Ramonas
6   Rockin’ In My Stockin’ – Grub Dog Mitchell
7   Don’t Mess With My Tequila – Backstreet Girls
8   Check it Out Santa – Snooky Pryor

9   It’s Bad To Have The Blues At Christmas – Charlie Daniels

10 Christmas Blues – Canned Heat

11 Mystic Snowman –Lez Zeppelin

12 Dance Of The Sugar Plum Fairies – The Fedora Club

13 Baby, It's Cold Outside - Louis Armstrong & Velma Middleton

14 The Ghost of Christmas Past – Deidre & The Dark

15 Christmas Sweater – Alaska Thunderfuck, Courtney Act & Willam

16 From Head To Mistletoe – Courtney Act

17 Mistletoe – Colbie Caillat

18 Mistletoe On Death Row – Dale Watson
19 The Heartache Can Wait – Brandi Carlile

20 Christmas In the City (Remix) – Elizabeth Chan

21 Christmas In New York – The Ellas

22 Hanukkah In The Village – Rachael Sage

23 Christmas in LA – Haley Deakers

24 Trim Your Tree – John Verity Band

25 Light My Tree – Ashley Davis & John Doyle

26 Happy Holiday Y’all – Robert Earl Keen

27 Dirt Sledding – The Killers

28 Alone On Christmas Day – Phoenix

29 I’m Gonna Be Warm This Winter – Kylie Minogue
30 Cold Cold Winter – The Pixies Three

31 Yabba Dabba Yuletide – The Brian Setzer Orchestra

32 There’s Trouble Brewin’ – Jack Scott

33 Xmas Record Hop – Black Knights

34 Christmas Is Knockin’ At Your Door – Rockabilly Boogie Band

35 Sleigh Bell Rock – Three Aces And A Joker

36 Up On The Housetop – Reba McEntire

37 Too Fat For The Chimney – Deborah Conway & Willy Zygier

38 Fat Santa – Fruteland Jackson

39 Doing The Santa Claus – Huey Piano Smith & The Clowns

40 Because I’m Santa – The Dollyrots

41 Bonus Track

You Trashed My Christmas Part 1

You Trashed My Christmas Part 2

No Single Victory

for Warren Ellis

                           Lots of small victories is better than one big one.
                           No single victory changes everything. Lots of little 
                           ones change a whole spread of things.
                                                  —Warren Ellis

 

No single victory changes the world.

   Victories are like snowflakes—each one’s part

Of a great blizzard, flake after flake hurled

   Against grief and loss, like a lonely dart.

It may feel pointless, like fighting the tide.

   It’s not. No single victory will fail

To tip the scales a little to the side

   You fight for. Each one is a precious nail

In Failure’s coffin, or a tiny knife

   That scrapes against the comfortable chain

That our kind jailers like to call “real life”—

   That keeps them safe by keeping us from pain.

      And if we choose to fight until we’re free,

      That outcome takes no single victory. 

 

Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells

The Day We Give Thanks We No Longer Live With Our Parents

And the day we all listen to this. Because, like a good Thanksgiving dinner, it can't be beat:

Alice's Restaurant

Autumn Movie Rundown

Wondering what movies to see before they all get crowded out by Hunger Games 4 and holiday Oscar bait?

 

The Sure Things: Room and Spotlight

The less you know about either of these, the better. But even if you read the novel or read the Boston Globe fourteen years ago, you will not be disappointed. Spotlight is the best reporter movie since All The President’s Men, and a way better Boston movie than Black Mass. And Room is alternately sad-heartbreaking and joyful-heartbreaking.

On second thought, just leave him there.

The Crowd Pleaser: The Martian

AKA Mars Needs Potatoes.  It’s smart and fun and uplifting while you’re watching it, but on reflection it’s like the outer space version of one of those star-studded 50’s Cecil B DeMille extravaganzas, where the whole is smaller than the sum of its parts, and the thrills are ultimately bogus because let’s face it, none of the A-list actors are ever in any real danger. Except Sean Bean.  (Poor Sean. The older he gets, the more I wish he’d been James Bond instead of Pierce Brosnan.)

The Smart Thriller: Sicario

Remember how LA Confidential kept turning into a different movie every twenty minutes? This film doesn’t have that many jagged moves, but the movie it starts out to be is as different from what it turns into as Alice’s Victorian England is from Wonderland. A morally ambiguous poisoned cookie of a film that truly deserves to be compared to a Graham Greene thriller or a John le Carrè novel, unlike

 

The Faux Thriller: Bridge Of Spies

Be warned. Reviewers calling this film “morally ambiguous” or comparing it to John le Carrè are drinking the Spielberg Kool-Aid. There is never any question that Tom Hanks’ James Donovan is morally correct in everything he does, and having at least one person every ten minutes confront him by acting like a goose-stepping anti-Communist d-bag is not drama, it’s propaganda. Watch it for (a) the skillful way that Spielberg makes that propaganda feel like a real ethical struggle, instead of a foregone moral conclusion, and (b) Mark Rylance’s Rudolf Abel, whose every line and look hints at a fascinating but unknowable inner life.

The Comfort Thriller: SPECTRE

Part of the thrill of seeing Casino Royale was thinking: “Holy crap—the Bond movies can go anywhere now!” Part of the disappointment of seeing SPECTRE is thinking: “Crap—they’ve just re-set the Timothy Dalton status quo.” (And—I know it’s a big spoiler, but the pun is too good to pass up—they’ve also turned Blofeld into Bro-feld.) In a way, it’s the first old school James Bond movie Daniel Craig has made, which to me—given all that Casino Royale potential—made it like the British version of Mission Impossible 5: Our Hero Goes Rogue Again To Save The World.

The Thrill-less Gothic: Crimson Peak

Absolutely gorgeous to look at, this film would have been an instant classic if the script had been given as much work as the art direction.  But the horror movie of the trailers is actually a Gothic Bad House story, with a heroine who is like an American Bronte cousin, ghosts (all female) who actually aid her, and a mansion that is, at one and the same time, both claustrophobic and as wide-open as Grand Central Station. I walked out of this film wishing I could cast Tom Hiddleston as Percy Shelley, Mia Wasikowska as Mary Shelley, Jessica Chastain as Caroline Lamb, and Tom Hardy as Byron, and just have them tell ghost stories for two hours.

 

The Near Ms: Suffragette

Sometimes the way that a film is, well, filmed, gets in the way of the story it wants to tell. This film is all hand-held cameras, natural lighting, immense close-ups, and swift editing, which actually kept me at arm’s reach instead of bringing me closer to the characters. In other words, it’s a period piece filmed in a modern-day manner. You may have a different opinion about whether or not this works, but I walked out thinking that if I stripped the dialogue away, I would have no idea what was going on in the story. That said, there’s a great story here. I just thought it paled in comparison to the way this one is told.

Mortality

 

Everyone says “Don’t say that!” when I say

   “I don’t have much time left” or “If I live.”

But thinking that there’ll always be a day

   When I’m around is foolish.  Life’s a sieve.

Days dribble out of it until they’re gone.

   We only get so many, and don’t know

The number—yet we act like we’ll see dawn

   After dawn unending in this brief show.

And that’s delusional, like living near

   Volcanoes and ignoring earth’s deep drumming.

No matter where we go, it’s coming here.

   If it’s not here already, then it’s coming.

      And when it does, I know that it will be

      The one thing I’ll live long enough to see.

 

Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells

You Were My Dream

You were the dream I woke up from, the warm

   Comforter magic-carpeting away

My worthless doubts, till hope became the norm

   And you became the sun that lit my day.

You were the sun that had to set, the light

   By which I saw with total clarity

A world of victories without a fight

   And lucky stars that only favored me.

You were my sky of dead and dying stars

   Whose winking was a comfort from above—

The smile that cut away my prison bars—

   The soul whose quest I never wearied of—

      My soul, my smile, my stars, my bright sun beaming,

      Who always loved me back while I was dreaming.

 

Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells

 

The Lady Talks Of Wisdom

 

“How did you get to be so wise?” you said.

   “By making tons of mistakes,” I replied,

“And it’s not really wisdom—just a head

   That catalogues the stupid things I’ve tried

And says DON’T GO THERE.” “So: experience,”

   You said, and I said: “Yes, the painful kind.

The kind with scars, the kind that builds a fence

   Around my feelings, swears all roads are mined,

And tells me not to dare because I’ll die.”

   “Not by my hand,” you said, and opened yours;

And even though I knew it was a lie,

   For vows are nothing but disguised trapdoors,

      I put my scarred and hopeful hand in his.

      It was not wise, but then love never is. 

 

Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells

 

An Open Letter To Journalists Everywhere From The Republican Presidential Candidates

 

Dear “Journalists”:  After that last debate

When you refused to let us bloviate

About our plans to build a wall in Texas

To keep out all those border-crossing Mexes—

Attacked, with hand grenades of verity,

Our made-up plans for real prosperity—

And asked us to renounce some old quotations

Or sketchy corporate affiliations—

After all that, we think it’s crystal clear:

You need to be reminded why you’re here.

It’s not to nitpick record or credential;

Your job’s to make us all look Presidential—

To feed raw meat to our best attributes

And not reveal we’re all just empty suits.

Glad-handing is the purpose of this show.

Ask what we stand for, not what we don’t know.

You hear “debate” and you think “controversial.”

This isn’t a debate—it’s our commercial.

We must be treated deferentially,

Not asked hard questions about policy.

The toughest question that we want to hear

Is “Sir—I have to ask—are you sincere?” 

You say the people want honest debates?

That’s not the way this country operates.

The people want to know that what they fear

And rage at can be made to disappear.

They don’t want details—they just want it done.

That’s why we don’t need details—we’re their gun.

Just like those folks need us to point and shoot,

We need you not to question us, but root—

Root for the values that we represent:

For cheers, reward; for questions, punishment. 

The people know when they’ve been served thin beer.

We’re here to tell them what they need to hear,

While you treat them like they’re dumb and uncouth

Because they’d rather dream than hear the truth.

The truth is that the truth’s not mandatory

When all you’re doing is telling a story.

Real voters don’t believe that it makes sense

To subject our beliefs to evidence.

The error that you’re making here is grievous—

We don’t want them to know us, just believe us.

That’s why we need these dumb debates so much—

They help us to display the common touch,

So even though we have a ton of cash

From rich white backers, we can speak white trash.

And though the masquerade sticks in our throats,

It’s what we need to do to get their votes:

We run the whole machine and act like cogs—

We’re overlords who act like underdogs—

So honest folks won’t give us the stink-eye

Or plain despise us ‘cuz we own the pie.

In fact, deep down, the poorest of them love it

When we pretend they’ll get a big piece of it.

And even when we have to go among ‘em

In those depressing hick towns where God flung ‘em,

And hold our noses like we smelled a fart,

They know we have their best interests at heart

Because we say so, and they cry “Amen!”

Write that down—it’s why God gave you a pen. 

So here’s the deal, you crypto-left-wing moaners—

You treat us like we treat our well-off donors.

Show us respect, and we’ll keep you around:

When we say something dumb, don’t make a sound.

We’ll let you put us anywhere you’ve got

As long as you don’t put us on the spot.

Just be aware that you will face our wrath

When you subject our fiscal lies to math.

The people hate the scoffer who detracts.

It’s propaganda when you check our facts,

And facts are never trusted by the pious

Because they always have a left-wing bias.

Just nod your heads at all that we proclaim

To help our donors in the people’s name.

Nobody likes your smirking cynicism.

Echo the press release—that's journalism.

 

 

Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells

 

 

 

The Wall

 

Where does it come from, that invisible

   Wall, that drops down and cuts me off from being

Touched by the joyful or the pitiful,

   And makes me blind to all my heart is seeing?

What triggers it? The fear of being hurt?

   The greater fear of feeling happiness?

Or is it just that I’m an introvert

   Who shies away from anything’s caress?

And when I say “Why bother?” or “Who cares?”

   Whose voice is that? Is it the inside me?

Is it the shell? Or one who never dares

   Because he’s too beat down for bravery?

      Who am I, that I need a wall of gray

      To save me as it shrivels me away?

 

Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells

It Came From The Garage - A 2015 Halloween Mix

It's Halloween!  When we all treat processed chocolate like one of the three basic food groups.

 

Halloween!  When we lose count of all the little girls dressed as Frozen characters and the big girls half-dressed as things we don't want the little girls to see.

 

Halloween!  When we all dress up like monsters so the monsters won't come and get us, which means we'll all be seeing a ton of Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump masks over the next few days.

 

Halloween!  Where we listen to, uhm, uh . . . song about how women are all witches?

 

Yeah.  There's not really a tradition of music-listening for this holiday, which means I had to dig a little to make a mix for it.  I tried to stay away from the obvious, assuming that you're all as tired as I am of hearing Bobby "Boris" Pickett singing "The Monster Mash," never mind all that women-are-witches crap, so I'm guessing a lot of these will be new to you. 

 

1   The Outer Limits – Opening

2   The Beast Of Sunset Strip – Teddy Durant

3   Tombstone #9 – Murray Schafe and the Aristocrats

4   Rockin’ In The Graveyard – Jackie Morningstar

5   Graveyard Stomp – Billy Ghoulston

6   Plan 9 From Outer Space

7   Pet Semetary – The Ramones

8   Devil Gate Drive – Suzi Quatro

9   Voodoo Voodoo – Lavern Baker

10  I’m The Wolfman – Round Robin

11  Werewolf – The Frantics

12  Maria Ouspenskaya Says It For All of Us

13  Werewolves Of London – Warren Zevon

14  The Mummy

15  The Mummy’s Bracelet – Lee Ross

16  The Mummy Walk (Walking Death) – The Contrails

17  I Was A Teenage Monster – The Keystones

18  (I Was A) Teenage Creature – Lord Luther and the Kingsmen

19  Screamin’ Ball (At Dracula Hall) - The Duponts

20  Bo Meets The Monster – Bo Diddley

21  Midnight Monsters Hop – Jack and Jim

22  The Purple People Eater – Sheb Wooley

23  The Purple People Eater Meets The Witchdoctor – The Big Bopper

24  I Put A Spell On You - Screamin’ Jay Hawkins

25  The Outer Limits – Sign-off

      Bonus Track

Here's the link:

2015 Halloween Mix

Play Submission Blues - The Synopsis

Writing a synopsis is like embalming

   A newborn baby while it’s still alive.

That theatres all demand this is alarming—

   They want to read the map, not take the drive.

The build-up doesn’t matter—just the kicker.

   You have to make them feel it with a feeler.

They want the drama summed up on a sticker

   Like some play version of a used-car dealer.

So you remove what makes your play a play—

   Suspense, change, dialogue, time, laughs, surprise—

Till only the And Thens are left to say

   “And then he did this” or “And then she dies”—

     Just so some intern can, from his high chair,

      Read it and say: “You didn’t make me care.” 

Just like a single building’s not a town,

   Two lines of prose are not two hours of mood.

Plays are like vegetables—you boil them down,

   And they become as bland as British food.

The need to sum up so it can be grasped

   By baby fingers or the LCD

Is just as poisonous as being asped

   By the great viper of conformity—

The snake in the creative garden, who

   Catalogues everything by pigeonhole;

Decrees a list of facts defines the true;

   Believes that life is body parts, not soul;

      And doesn’t want your dialogue or scenes

      But just a paragraph on what it means.

 

A good play’s like a roller coaster ride—

   A laugh and scream and thrill delivery system.

And every time someone takes me aside

   And says: “These feelings I should have?  Just list ‘em!”

Something inside me dies—and when I grieve,

   It rises up, wielding a vengeful knife

Against those fools who actually believe

   A tombstone with two dates sums up a life.

When everything must add up at the end,

   Like general ledgers audited by Germans,

It’s not a work of art that I’ve just penned—

   It’s either how-to manuals or sermons.

      You want a message?  Here’s a telegram, Pop:

      THERE IS NO MUSIC IN A DIAGRAM STOP

Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells

Old Times, or, You Pinter--You Brought 'Er.

Roundabout/American Airlines Theatre

With Clive Owen, Kelly Reilly and Eve Best

Directed by Douglas Hodge

 

 

 

You shouldn’t have to think of synonyms

for “loud” and “fast” when you see Pinter plays.

You shouldn’t have to say: “Oh I see how

that line’s supposed to work.  Too bad it didn’t.”

You shouldn’t have to walk out thinking: “Wow—

that was a buck-a-minute show that made

Pinter look like he won the Nobel Prize

for The Emperor’s New Playwrighting Clothes.”

But I did, and it was. Thanks, Roundabout.

I just learned something that I didn’t know—

the bestest way to botch a Pinter play:

release the anger underneath the surface.

Do that, and all the venom disappears;

do that, and not a line will have a sting.

When you speak Pinter dialogue in anger,

then not a single play of his will work.

Especially when the director has

weird tonal background music playing, that

sounds like someone from Radiohead trying

to be Brian Eno, and score subsonics

beneath the lines to tell the audience

that there’s a big eruption brewing, when

the lines themselves should act like a slow fuse.

Having done that, why, don’t forget to put

your three characters on a set designed

to look like the Pole Star surrounded by

circular white star trails—a set tricked out

to say that there is something universal

in what these characters are going through.

But Pinter isn’t saying that; and this

play’s not constructed to support that weight.

It’s too precise to be some ur-encounter

between two women and a man, like say

Adam and Eve and Lilith in the Garden.

There’s nothing primal here except the need

to own a woman by owning her past,

and that’s not mythical—that’s therapy.

There are no gods here, except maybe for

Robert Newton’s painter in Odd Man Out.

So this production’s grand attempt at lifting

this play up to the Sophoclean heights

succeeds in being just another broad

stroke that smears all the subtlety away,

an act of dramaturgical hubris.

 

And then, if you’re directing this, make sure

you put the icing on the overcooked

cake by telling the actors they can floor it

when they sit in the verbal driver’s seat,

and the play will turn into serve and volley,

not spin and strategy—a power game

instead of sniper fire—where every line’s

a rocket with a payload, instead of

the polite casing for a dum-dum bullet

that does more damage when it hits its mark

than when it's shot.

 

                              Wait—sorry—wrong—in fact,

don’t even think of guns at all. Think knives.

Albee is bullets. Strindberg is dueling pistols.

Pinter is knives, not noise. Each biting line

is part of some death of a thousand cuts,

where you drop dead before you know you’re bleeding.

It’s a knife fight, where every stab and thrust

happens so fast you never see the blade—

you only see the slicing mark it leaves.

And when the verbal bombs are dropped, they’re tossed

like nonchalant grenades into the room,

exploding not with booms but with dead silence.

The only way to tell if they’ve gone off—

to know for sure that those lines are explosive—

is by their victims, not the sound they make.

Except in this production, where the booms

shatter the windowpanes.  

Speaking of which,

windows and doors exist in Pinter’s words

through which an actor can reveal the fire

that stokes her inner engine—but if she

opens these windows or walks through that door

and lets us see the furor underneath

the “I remember you dead” monologue

(for instance), then it shrinks in size and fails

to be more than melodramatic rage

when—if it was delivered with the calm

of a casual shiv between the ribs—

it should have—and it would have—pierced to the heart. 

Sadly, there’s no such piercing in this blunt

production, though it has its little moments

when, despite all the actors and director

have done to kick him to the Times Square curb,

Pinter appears onstage in all his dark

and quiet terror. It’s not like they’re bad,

the actors; Clive Owen is smug and sleazy,

Kelly Reilly is a hot mystery,

and, yes, Eve Best lives up to her last name.

It’s just that what they’re doing doesn’t serve

what should be served up: something that looks chilled

but really scorches.  

The rule is noise here,

and what that noise says through it all is this:  

“You want to make Pinter look like a hack?

Turn all the speakers up to ten, and make

each bomb go off as loud as dynamite.” 

“Want to make Pinter look shallow?  Then make

each subtle dig as deep as the Pacific,

and fill the stage with snarling cats and dogs

instead of men and women who will hide

their inside animals behind the veil

of civilized behavior, and not once—

not once demean the anger in their souls

by freeing it.” 

And yes, it’s possible

To do Old Times as one great big “Fuck you!”

But it was written to do that while saying

“Well, bless your heart.” Anything more than that

is less than Pinter—it’s just acting out,

not acting. It feels wrong when feelings get

exposed instead of covered up in chatter.

It reads as shallow when you play the deep.

It hangs there weightless when you give it speed.

Bring it to a fast boil, and it will steam

but never scald.  To me, Pinter’s all simmer.

You can’t allow what’s cooking to heat up

Enough to blow its top; you have to keep

It frothing, so it never comes to rest.

It is the covered pot that boils the best.

 

Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells

 

Growing Old Is A Shipwreck In Slow Motion

Shipwreck - Ivan Aivazovsky, 1854

 

Growing old is a shipwreck in slow motion.

   My helm no longer answers to the wheel.

I’m at the mercy of the wind and ocean.

   Decay has made a horror of my keel.

My prow is broken and my sails are tattered.

   The surge threatens to spill me in the drink.

If I should hit a reef, I will be shattered.

   If I try to outrun this storm, I’ll sink.

I look for calm. But there is only one

   That will embrace me when this squall is spent:

The calm after my journeying is done.

   When this old hull’s buried in sediment,

      I’ll take my lifelong promised place below

      And from the great deep to the great deep go. 

 

Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells

Translations

       for Brian Friel

              I

Green hills rear up to the sky

like an animal untamed

hills where hope and fancy lie

buried like a maiden name 

catalogued and pigeonholed

with a definite position

like the eddy and the shoal

like the devious tradition 

hills with native poetry

paved and garbled by translation

ancient earthy masonry

hidden by the renovation 

till the myth, like extra weight,

is abandoned on the march

to the street sign and the gate

to the label on the larch 

to a country where the breathless

and the breathing live apart

where the tale that once was deathless

is a legend on a chart

So the map becomes the town

and the hand that used to play

marks the shape and distance down

scaling all the land away 

grinding down the mother tongue

separating blood from kin

till the songs that now are sung

smell of drink and might have been 

till each river, pond and pebble,

stream and pasture, land and field

lie imprisoned like a rebel

underneath the tyrant's heel 

              II

I sit in an Irish bar with a dark drink

surrounded by extras and understudies, friends,

and the one girl in the cast who cannot speak, 

all of them politely thinking to themselves

what I think, wondering why the actors with the names

and reputations did not bring my words alive. 

When did they give up, the words beyond them,

and simply move their mouths, making a loud

accented noise, not looking at each other ever? 

When was it when they first turned off their hearts

and all the rest became the vengeance of

the rote mechanical, connect-the-dots?   

When did the life end, and the motion start?

Like God, I offered life and they refused it,

preferring like Frankenstein to make their own. 

Now I sit here sipping a dark bitter drink

and wonder who really makes the monster failure,

is it the fault of life or those alive 

that breeds a death from rows of breathing words?

Is it the lack in us that halts the tongue

or something in the tongue that cannot speak, 

something that plays with us, like a hunting dog

tracking the thing we aim at, shoot at, kill,

only to run away, and leave us fogged  

repeating the heart of a rote speech or a song

till the words escape us, and we end the hard day

as I end this day, sitting and drinking, 

wondering what went wrong. 

                                          And then I think,

well, things go wrong--that is the way of things.

There are no other words.  Not tonight, at least. 

So I drain my drink, and stand in a cloud of smoke,

and a girl with clear tight skin falls at my feet

and gushes while I nod and laugh politely. 

Such a young thing, to be in awe of me,

whose promise hangs behind me like my shadow.

This young thing should find some words of her own, 

not borrow mine, words that she alone will taste

forever like perfection in her ear,

and never be spoken anywhere close to that 

by even the best of speakers, actors, friends,

because they will be her own kissing gifts,

heavily lying on a stranger's lip, 

heavier than the desire for bed behind

two traded tongues, heavier even than love

whose burden is to listen--or pretend to. 

And I shake this girl's hand and watch her leave,

and stumble into the tiny room where drink

is translated; and I think to myself 

that there is a kind of blessing in bad actors.

Because of them, the lines that they deliver,

the things they say that never come alive,  

are never blamed for being less than real.

The actor gets that blame; the fault is his.

Well, I'm all for that.  I'm for anything that makes 

the play look good, the words, the thought, the work.

They all survive, even when translation fails.

And though the heart, the language of the pulse 

which cries a thing unsayable in words,

seems dead, still there is life at the hard end

of this long day's work, because my words 

tonight were seeded into rows, tossed negligently

like hopeful planting in the teeth of famine

on eager fertile ground, on hopeful girls 

with clear clean skin and shining eyes, by those

like me who write and never speak their fears,

but plant a harvest in a field of ears.

 
                 III

Speaking in tongues that are and are not theirs

making their chatter kisses in the dark

dancing apart, two strangers on display

a blood red coat against a dirt brown shawl 

everything else will not be spoken of--

the hatred and the hatred in return

rote jealousy, betrayal, drunken pride--

because the unvoiced is the unbegotten 

because love is the synonym of souls

a man and woman trading pretty names

in bold misunderstood defiance of

a blood red coat against a dirt brown shawl 

 

Copyright 1995, 2015 Matthew J Wells