What makes a shape to last
As plaster wreaths itself in dust
When earth is fired
Or retired by the next wave?
And who will save
The moment when a god is slain
Or slakes an earthly virgin’s lust?
When does a story told
Through colored composition hold
A moment’s heart?
Or start another school
And who will rule
Tomorrow’s silent silver screen
When narrative serves more than gold?
How can an empty crease
And feathered quill release
With ink and skill
The thrill of secret love?
And who will move
The kings and queens to come
And make of sorrow slight surcease?
Where have the bodies hung
In frozen air, from stages sprung
With sharp sinews
Or music, heart to steal?
And who will feel
The rhythms yet to beat.
And hear the melodies still unbegun?
Why do I need to ask?
Uncap the pen, remove the mask.
Grab hold the thought
And caught, flinch not, nor blink,
Or who will think
To build, from vision, art
And put the shoulder to the task.
Inspired by a visit to the Art Institute of Chicago in June 2003. Never let it be said that I rush my verse out the door. Also I predict this will look absurd when auto-copied into Facebook.
Man, those color-changing creatures sure can be hard to find sometimes.
Bustin’ out rhymes
After all doesn’t pay.
His disguise is remarkable
Here and now gone! He just
Good luck, DC! We’ll catch you on the flipside.
Or rather, if you give a director a huge budget…
Saw Ace the other night at Signature. It’s advertised as a story about planes and war and WWI flying aces and stuff. About 20 minutes into the show I was thinking, “Either we came to the wrong theatre or this sure is a huge frame they’ve put this story in.” It seemed to be set in the 50s, and didn’t have much to do with flying. Well, except the set, which was all metal and riveted, with two enormous metal contraptions on either side of the stage, all set about with doors and lights and flapdoodles.
Turns out it’s really a story of a boy learning about his past. And said past does have not one, but two flying aces in it. And sure, all that the setup is more or less necessary to build up empathy for the characters, but it musta coulda been done quicker. As the story went on, it got much better. The songs tended somewhat toward the insipid, but the book (with the exception of the part where Ace pulled up and flew up to heaven or something) was really very good. Oddly, the book was written by the lyricist and composer. Perhaps I’m just spoiled; not everyone can be Sondheim when it comes to words. Maybe you have to be Joss Whedon (or a close relation) to do that.
Continue reading ‘If You Give a Director a Cookie’
Okay, let’s try this Dr. Horrible banner thingy again:
Yeah, so Dr. Horrible. Sweet! It ain’t gonna be free much longer, so get it while the gettin’s good. If it’s too late already (and I’m pretty sure it is), you’ll have to pay for it. May as well; you get higher resolution and you support this new media thingy.
Continue reading ‘Happy Endings Aren’t, Anyway’