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bad choices on slow nights - puppeteer cont’d
Category: Writing and Poetry
bad choices on a slow night: the perfect assistant hunt
the desperate one the one on the left pole of the bi-pole stage dancing without energy glassy tombstone pupils eyeshining red blue stage lights & spot hatton the puppet master wanted her the one with less than stellar judgement & enormous college bills it took five questions to three people to learn about the english major with art history minor the hunt for replacement assistant for show chores was over how fast would she join up run from her stage to his what line would it take to trigger a hasty exit looking for culture in all the right places but cannot see it in front of her what stellar judgement that she would dance here totally nude here like the sign outside said with their eyes on her body crawling like snails across it leaving that tracked over shuddery feeling only a shower could relieve what stellar judgement did she overcome that she would have her shirt drenched night after night to a forced smile & grin as the man exhorted applause out of the zombies yes she would run in a new york minute if she met another runner quoting a few words of mayas caged bird she would attach herself to him a departing bus or train with her name on it a shotgun seat to see the past roll by & future ahead like the choices she passed on the way to here roughed up enough to acknowledge such fulcrum moments now & the red-eyed devils to punch her ticket shout all aboard track zero a few educated & experienced words worth of hope that she had better prospects intellectual assets besides the ones on gyrating display that stage (no pole) she had wanted in the beginning come on this is reno town of last stops & pick up lines go to die girl wake up before you get the imagination working overtime he is as grimy as the rest are you out of your ever loving mind gal look at him look in the dictionary under d for disappearing act girl so what if he can quote the sweetest ferlinghetti he is drinking like a fish tilting that bottle in the parking lot but he talks in contracts of human bondage she said thats maugham you know never mind you lost on a dream girl the big brown nippled girls in the back shake their heads they see the decision she is propping up they want to call her kid but they are kids themselves & on slopes of even less control we see what is in your eyes its no good girl no good dammit girl no use talking to you hugs from the young shrugs from the thirty somethings with bigger sagging things to worry about than a pretty man up front with a hunting look to him the kind that know a walking losing streak with brains when he sees one no mouth on her too quiet to be a sister you can tell the rabbits ready to run rub up a client but wont sit on a dressing room chair without a towel on it first everything is temporary starting out but there are little poetry books in her backpack & she always needs a ride somewhere always wants someone to watch foreign movies with her says she knows why the caged bird sings on the other hand he is tall black hair falling in his eyes long armed long legged (confident without swagger & no peterbilt belt buckle or ballcap) sideburns boyish clean of face a brogue a cowgirl could ride barrel races around facing front or back but the dylan he whispered as in dylan thomas had her packing up her things in a rush it cost hatton ten to get close it was all he had but there was grant money from at least six countries for an assistant with a clear head & hands that did not shake & the right forms & did not link homer with jethro before greek poetry the perfect assistant from san diego out of minnesota deadended in reno who did not feel like east was backwards in time & direction & the southerners were not the countrys burden & austin was not the only liberals in daylight place in texas the bottle took his shakes & sweats away but also the patience for explaining in those arts grants application forms though the lines were pat golden yankee doodle george m cagney dancing & flags flying for the classics a ten person troupe two alive eight wooden plank wobblers made his life like the captain of the african queen made his life like the bus driver in night of the iguana one step ahead of chaos one step ahead of the ghosts he could get the bus there & his voice alone could fill it but there was a fuzzy concept of reality involved random bouts of dissociation liver damage lucid living dementia & assorted other perks he traveled better in europe & points east looser pharmacy rules & hatton loved to pick his poison yes this over educated reno pole dancer would do fine if he could get her to shut up once they got past the state line & through california up past alturas to ashland oregon ashland would put the dramatic stars in her eyes for a good deal of time it was a good grant application postmark too one of those united states wolftrap ravinia cultural signpost places slightly better than the house on the rock or the giant ball of twine last bad choice of ralph & em ralph had taught hatton how to put a caricature leer on a block of wood carve it into a stiff upper lip pine face emily had taught him the ways of bureaucracy & a crafty way to access people with money hatton had the looks to get them to pitch in do their share for the cause of good theater everywhere they ran to enthusiasm with a high degree of come one come all center ring whistles & whips hatton could outdo the music man & all seventy six trombones right there in river city the trouble with come one come all it included everyone did not exclude the killers of change artists the virally stupid the raise the hair on the back of your neck stupid the rabbit eared whadusay stupid from two bar booths over it was always too late when you were surrounded & too stupid yourself to look where you were going while mocking local speech patterns while ignoring the georgia backwoods poets that rocked harvard while only hearing dueling banjos & gaptoothed guitars if you think the black artists were solitary in local art you miss the dickeys & never glimpse the byron herbert reeces the clark ashton smiths in the hills or the stunted closet suicide girls in upstairs windows the ones who would kill like lizzie borden if forced to read one more scripture or scrub the floor again on chafed knees for jesus sure they let you trade hats let you talk & talk & talk but you are not going backward one step the hard truth you are not leaving this place the place is getting smaller colder more humid than possible as the laughter continues becomes poking becomes groping becomes a backdoor rush & a scream as trucks start for dotted line logging roads sorry dont cut it no more girl but this will ralph closed his eyes under the hood they had put on his head hoping his ears closed harder
6:41 PM
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