On theatre
I wrote a play, out cold in urgent care. Heated blankets toweling my sweated hair. When staged, the actress playing Mother held a wicker broom for acts two and three, with which she beat and beat the rug—a heavy tapestry rolled across the deck. It jumped with fleas—a cast of tiny specks that leapt with urgent hunger as she swept. Lucidly, I slept. I always do, when in duress (no escape from the world of the page). So I wondered how I would create the effect on stage—what props and practical effects—and who would clean up the mess?
I quit theatre/because it spoiled other/darknesses for me.
On dreaming
I walk across the wide array of teeming arrow barns. A hundred teeming prefab barns with silver hoop-house roofs. Inside, a hundred-thousand horses, decommissioned…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, September/October 2023