The Playwright

This episode - where I battle the television
- as I appear bold red -
what a stereotype! the tv
a sagging oily shade of man-made

You can tell by looking at my eyes
I'm thinking two different things
See: left eye on the island
right eye on the mainland
or left, contemplation;
right, action. It's no use anyway
trying to pin it down.

I myself was dangling
like an earring, too many nights,
an accessory
in someone else's seductions

how I wore the bold red lipstick
but dreamt of the lines
in the palm of the buddha's hands

I can't quite square it away
that lack of fluency I worked
so hard to cultivate. You can
see it in the dark rings
under the left eye
tired from being dragged to all
the right eye's affairs

When it was me versus the tv
I lined up as one combatant
but I was a whole red army
each of my contradictions
a separate soldier, adding
dimensions of complexity
far more than a flat screen
could handle

my stunt double and me. my
personal trainer. my personal
assistant. myself. my chef.
my ghostwriter. my wardrobe
coordinator. my editor. me.
my crabby roommate. my
ineffectual confidante. my vapid
lover. my voice coach.
and me. and the tv. this was
a crowded scene, but such
a good one!

I don't know what good is
anymore, of if I want it
in my life. Goodbye, good.
Good riddance.

I am the choppy sea somewhere
between the island and the mainland,
red like a bathtub
infiltrated with blood.

In this scene, this quiet
battle, in which desire
overcomes its stutter, in which
beauty bows to its beholder,
this scene, this unchoreographed
interlude, this night between
forgettable days, year
between forgettable years,
island between negotiable oceans,
this scene, where desperation
slips up and modesty
suddenly screams to be noticed.