It begins in pseudo Californian
meditation that is greatly helped
by unmet expectations.
The dressing room is messy even if
it’s all in order and the scene is set
so perfect for the weekend.
You will see the halls, so packed
they are a colony of equivocating life.
The light is dim
so nothing can distract you,
and the wings are blue and red
where they aren’t dark.
The stage is made from names
of all who stood out there,
and offered up their thoughts
in raw dimension.
Characterized in throw away lines
that echo out without the help
of speakers. There are no teachers
here, but the murmurs of the bored
on full display, the main curtain
wasn’t gray and that is all I can
remember anyway.
Venue
Teleporting Typewriter 