Tuesday, May 20, 2014


My disabled mother disappeared by The Hudson River inside a playhouse off Broadway.

 

Grief was kept from clouding childlike faith I would find her soon. Still felt guilt to have allowed her to go by herself to a ladies room.  Why did I allow myself be hypnotized by an audience and a movie screen, both props for stage actors?

 

I noticed tourists had notebooks.  A middle-aged white-haired woman had a cold stare when she saw me read her handwriting that went beyond borders of the page.

 

The fourth wall broke. I looked up and saw sky over West 38th street in Manhattan.

 

The small theater was out in the open air surrounded by cars, citizens and cameras.

 

Suddenly, a second-story subway train pulled up to a bus stop. It had no windows except for one to provide a view for pilots to travel cross-country and oceans.

 

A bedroom door opened and I sighed see my mother in the city that never sleeps.

 

All the city of the naked world is a stage where life movies on.

 

I dreamt writing this in my notebook.

 

See book. Read film.

 

Run, story, run…

 


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