The Script

I.
You thought this would be 
a dance lesson,
things were easier then.
No marimbas, no clarinets;
only a longing for the fun
to begin.
Rain came down.
Nothing seems as remote
as the days you didn't 
have to think about it:
always already there,
gushing out. Control
was required to stop ideas 
from overflowing. 
You did your job well, 
you killed them as one kills Easter 
baby chickens. 

II.
Rasputin was on the lookout.
Magdalene had multipurpose hair:
Kumernis had it in stocks 
where and when she needed it,
on her beard especially. Anything 
to keep the Barbarians away
will do. Chopped noses, 
rotten chicken stuffed in corsets. 
We were told that the demons 
would come out in Maine. 
They hate recollections and certainty. 
Their favorite verb is sabotage. 

III.
Rasputin helps one to recognize inspiration; but, oh, what 
   could imagination be?

To retrieve, to plunder, to forge.

To be bored. 

To rip kites so they may stay on the ground.

To forget jokes and misunderstand common sense. 

To sit for four hours without getting up. 

To count words and people and only remember their 
   numbers. 

To listen closely to what loons could be trying to say.

To permutate dots so that lines are never identical to 
   each other.

To return to known places and act always the same, 
   thus the slightest change might become apparent. 

To force things to happen.  

To pretend there's meaning when all that comes out is a 
   "My dog loves me and he's no showboat."

To think there's nothing to say. 

To leap from canopy to can openers to can open her.

You've begun, now use your props.