Too Late

Conference city manager waste treatment specialist digester needed sewer works immediately across the creek last summer smells intense several times invaded house million four four five years off Onion garlic mushroom pieces spinach we whip up dinner in twenty minutes yum talk pleasantly admiring twilight eat movie night "Aviator" here in town Iraq election makes me dare be happy for them despite their dire situation blasted environment innocence was when we were young already too late even then

Growing Up in Hanoi

Swimming in rivers of traffic Invisibly floating the road past accidents with my bicycle I can see how smiles explode, I’m dreaming my story together and getting a bit confused, but suddenly nuns in the temple Are giving me gifts of food Ancestors’ clouds for breakfast Dragon smoke for lunch When you open to love it’s crazy How happiness comes in a bunch. So, ride the tiger with music Let her dancing ring in your heart Learn how in one small silence You can cease to feel apart. —Daniel Potter

Twisted Humor

Forget about love there is too much else going on business issues marriage hangover politics diet deaths twisted humor Vermont Greece mutual friends sex enlivement fearful joy Sun Sunday stillness now we wait rehearsals election results illness insults rejection I inherit a poetry festival trust instinct reason equally

Violet in Love

Cast materializing two barely adults take a chance how subtle can I be with novices Heater serviced in this big chicken house repurposed as my studio then smell of gas drove me out tiresome phoning aborted haircut might have salvaged day of blah electric radiator between my legs I am perfectly warm I finished Andrew Holleran's "Nights in Aruba," frustrated that the narrator never does get over not wanting his parents to know he is gay, and never gives himself to love: too sad. Violet in love rediscovering men tried several chose one scared now will he call

No Other Play

an hour in the dentist's chair two masked experts looming over me manipulating power equipment in my mouth hard to relax the new tooth better I have to watch out for a tendency to pull things down on top of me when they don't go my way, lose completely if I can't win. Lagging in a teenage sailing race I tried to make my boat capsize. Frustrated casting "Butter Boy" I gave the problem a week, groused, got depressed, realized there is nothing else I want to do, no other play, no trip, nothing else as interesting to do with Alfred; then acted: further auditions tonight. Forward! The two cats joined us gazing at the moon. thin cool sunshine I plant bright primroses as last year's bloom again our town's best restaurant tries amateur beside New York dinner parties unimagined can I love country living pastoral quiet peace enough

Who Where

I am not me here I am Tom Stoppard Terrence McNally my plays on stages everywhere I am Sam Shepard working with the best actors I am in rehearsal I am writing I am dining at my club I am in Italy catching up with e-mails I flag my new blog casting hoping opportunities arise and I rise to them this metaphor fights like fish I feel too sorry for fish to fish communication enjoyed for its own sake something happening between us I would love to hear from you

Here & There

We went to a wonderful concert by the new-music chamber group Third Angle at the Old Church in Portland: music by George Crumb and his son David Crumb, who teaches at the University of Oregon. Both go in for quiet subtle effects and strange sounds, imaginative and finely crafted. Violinist Ron Blessinger and pianist Susan Smith played David's affecting September Elegy (2002) and George's confidently avant garde, soothing Four Nocturnes (1963). David's attractive Improvisations (really variations) on an English Folk Tune premiered. The second half was George's 2002 Unto the Hills: beloved Appalachian songs sung straight (and beautifully, by Diane Reich) with exquisite, delicate, abstract percussion accompaniment: music clearly written for the sheer love of it. Mark Goodenberger conducted four scrupulous percussionists from Central Washington University, playing everything under the sun, with Jeffrey Meyer at the altered piano. Hard-core and first-rate. Live music is local you have to be there each play in one theatre at a time goes forward past receding future sucking remembered fading the web is nowhere specific I am here writing now you are reading somewhere else another time only after the we everywhere "forever" no place contains us a few people see the play closes sans documentary nothing art happens once time slows observes goes home life over over slow wink my show in limbo incompletely cast I can compromise still missing two or three my son Alfred coming to play Tobyus what I most want not to give up reading other plays Frayn "Here" possible I would rather do "Butter Boy" new surprising meantime poems to jury for the festival in April heavy fog finally melts sun low southwest full moon tonight

Silver Creek

The water passes perpetual parade the stream remains changes slow as seasons the light changes faster theatrical dimming effects repeat with variations my feet are wet I am searching for a playwright, Guy J. Jackson, who wrote a wonderful play called "The Flight of the Butter Boy." He gave me the script in Santa Barbara seven or eight years ago, moved to Chicago, was seen on the street last year in San Francisco. Please contact me. what I am presently writing a long poem about my parents' lives "Holy Memory" my own life demands attention constant renovation today's crisis potential play production uncastable faltering my spring project too big too many actors carry elephant uphill die trying lower standards the Oregon motto find another simpler play but what's the point another work what I want to convey and to whom I want to do something that entertains me I am grappling with the reality of small-town living after ten years in Santa Barbara thirty years in New York before that I am surrounded by know-nothings the Northwest is proudly self-contained Durang's "Kierkegaard, Mahler, Joan Didion" beyond them wan handful playing seriously at poetry others less serious perhaps art community theatre most care only children church hunting jobs no disrespect I love my children too help tend our acres read "Mr. Sammler's Planet" grappling with the ultimate death declining fizzle unbearable news