Theatrics

He carried the pistol upon the stage
and spoke a line not on the page—
“For years I’ve been but scripted lies,”
he announced, tears rolling from his eyes.
“No more! If I cannot live as I wish…”
Someone booed before he could finish.
He scowled, keeping the pistol where it was held,
but then—“Melodrama!” someone yelled.
Pulling the trigger, his brains blew out
as the stage manager began to shout.
The audience screamed and fled the lobby
except for a couple, both jaded and snobby.
“What a tonedeaf final act,” the husband snorted.
“The whole play should have been aborted.”
“His theatrics were overblown,” the wife said.
“He always let feelings go to his head.”

Overfull

I am grasping at stones
in this lake,
not with my lumberjack’s hands,
but with a little girl’s curiosity,
wondering how this dreamy-eyed
Woolf
drowned in this water,
her belly full of rocks
and her naked Albion body
wrapped in a red cloak, a red
hood
with pockets full of
bitter chocolate biscuits.
I cannot retrieve these six stones
from the waves
and must find my own,
following the stream of
thought
to the lighthouse
so I might dissemble it
stone by stone
to build a room
of my own
wherein to while away the
hours
before the rabble
drives me to drink.