Dreamed 2009/9/16 by Wayan
I clutch a clod of chocolate clad
in purple glitterfoil.
I love true bitterpure cacao,
but this is a milked and sugared
jag-asteroid of oil. Yet I peel
and gnaw on this crag too sweet
We unavoidably block a few trains,
just a meter high. Well, not true snows,
just glued fine-shredded memos.
It's far too warm and stuffy
for truth in this overlit corporate lobby.
The Teller stretches her rangy legs
She speaks of a newly minted clutch
Our endangered polar pack
of secular saints now chillily stands
--glum ol' clump o' chumps!--
in a blizzard on a white-out curb
in some megalopolic Yankee slurb.
Forepaws flail, through sleet they bellow,
But cabbies all figger these shivering buggers
You know their tale will end in froze.
For haven't we heard this hoary story?
Or Little Match Girl, its grandforemother.
Although these corporate waifs have more
insulation--sans thumbs or toes,
Feh. They're stories. Can't say I care.
WHO WHAT WHY?
Inept guys, stage/dais, climate: Last night I saw a comedy trio at the tiny Climate Theater in San Francisco. The rest of the audience apparently loved them, but I had trouble with the play's structure. The climax (admittedly funny--a heckler in the audience takes over the plot) wasn't worth the long setup where they turn bad enough to justify that heckling--they weren't bad enough to be good.
Brilliantly portraying dullness is still dull. I mean, I can see stupid on the street for free. It's intelligent I long to see.
Adulterated chocolate, when I want the real thing: the play's humor felt as calculatedly adulterated as cheap chocolate. Since I'd prepaid, I just sat and consumed filler and sweetener...
Miniature railroads: I admit the comedians did Shy Male Geek quite well. The kind of geek who builds miniature railroads into whole empires in the basement. I should know; I was one. Did their humor hit too close to home? Could be. Or it was just too familiar to me. I learn more from other types of craziness than my own. I know my own.
Stuffy corporate lobby: the theater really was hot and airless. Maybe the real reason I couldn't work up a laugh was CO2 poisoning. Maybe those guys were profoundly original.
Yeah, and maybe I'm a polar bear...
This is Poem #54 in the Dreamverse Project.
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