in the always space

i sit and hear their voices, again and again, and for the last time, again // i feel the rage of this green little room, the pulsing presence of the stage, the fullness of heart that everyone traces in steps around a tiny little theatre // i remain grateful for every experience, every last word, every first syllable, every gesture towards something;; and here the cataclysm of sword-edged wood climbs towards the sky, prison bars words away from you — and here the light splashes and pools of darkness capture these tiny song monologues, these vignettes; these emotional explosions;; this play a beautifully rendered one i am grateful to have been a part of

and here again; the rubberized canyon – the vault between sustenance and reticence – here the words turn towards their affectation, towards the pronunciation in the mouth, towards the impulse to intuition, to the firmament of reaction ;; here the ben franklin bridge curls sideways across the scope of the river- pulses under the valley of the clouds and leads me towards my theatre tucked away in a pile of old red bricks, thick with history, thin with fatigue, baked to the crust with power and beauty. here my words resound like a bouncing ball freakishly defying gravity — here the seats slide upwards on a rake and the boney structure of them all fills the empty space with beautiful cacophony. and here the peeling plaster of the rusted red brick walls catch my syllables with perfect sing-song reply. here i am grateful once again, in the always space

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