Two Ravens

Two ravens sit atop fence posts in a long, low-hilly field.
Exchanging harsh words, they argue for a little while
about bird-things of little consequence

Two ravens take flight, circling over two hats
worn by two heads, which in turn had bodies stuck under them.

Two grating squawks filled the air
as the two hats (and their heads, etc.) trudged away from one another.
About face to find the other had done the same

Two ravens land on warm-dead corpses,
their dispute now resolved.
Their souls set off on a metaphysical odyssey
Doomed to wander forever on some other plane
while the ravens clean up the skeletons.

Runaway

My dog ran away last summer
from a pair of dogcatchers.
They chased him down an alleyway,
and out into the streets.

Picking his way through the packed-tight asphalt
he made his escape.

My dog ran away last summer
and at night,
if I listen closely,
with some shamrock's luck
I hear him howl.

My dog ran away,
from fate,
from capture,
from an ever-close cage.

More Ruminations On A White Cat

A white feline appears
from behind a gravestone,

and saunters toward me unafraid.
Affectionately it rubs against my left foot.

It slinks and slithers
between my legs.

It follows
and mews.

lamenting mice lost,
and lecturing on birds found.

Diatribes it speaks to me,
professing it's love for attention.

I pluck it from the blacktop
into the safety of friendly arms.

A white feline purrs
as I scratch it's chin gingerly.

White Panther

The white panther pads

Alight against the grey of winter

Stalking through the cemetery

Walking there alongside me

The white panther slinks between

Sight and sound

The kind of pleas that come from cats

behind and ‘fore the stony hats

The white panther follows me aways

In fright he flees from bellowing cars

And into an alley he stealthily slips

A few parting words upon his lips

Half-Dozen of the Other

Six of one, half-dozen of the other;

The hours creep along,

the sharp edge of a century.

Left by the wayside, my ambitions,

for another time’s pick-up.

Table the motion.

Six of one, half-dozen of the other;

Days hobble like a herd of handicapped gazelle.

After how-are-yous

good-and-yous

we talk about the weather, and little else.

If

If winds blew west

If rivers flowed up hills

If I had not been so blessed

If I didn’t need these pills

Wishes

It's been a while since
I felt something for you
other than contempt.

I wish it wasn't this way.
I wish we'd kept in touch.
I wish you hadn't gone,
so maybe I'd have another shot.

At least I used to wish for those things.
Now I wish I'd never met you.

"It's better to have loved and lost
than to never have loved at all."

That's some bullshit if I ever heard it.

Here's The Thing

Here’s the thing,

I know we haven’t done this before,

or at least in a while.

But fuck it, it’s worth a shot.

We’re supposed to look to you in times of trouble,

praise you in times of plenty,

and think of you as being all-powerful,

but experience says you have some powerful limits.

I can’t think of anything in particular to ask for.

I don’t want a “sign”

or anything

beyond some simple inspiration.

I haven’t seen the face of God,

And I don’t care to.

I doubt whatever-it-may-be has a face

But I can’t count it out.

I have felt the touch

of some higher consciousness

elbow-deep in a whiskey-soaked keyboard.

Don't We All...

A pre-dawn chill runs up my spine

as the black and white cat meows at the door.

Another yawn hisses out of my wide-stretched jaws.

Too early,

and a little too late.

Too late to change,

meaningfully at least.

A sign on the wall screams,

“TAKE YOUR MEDS!”

Next to a poster that begs,

“I Want To Believe,”

Don’t we all...

Upon Our Feet

There’s not all that much left to believe in anymore.

For some time I thought it was me being

jaded.

Then I took a look around

and found

that there may not be all that much left

in which we can place our faith,

that sacred trust that what we hold dear,

that motley crew of convictions

we cling to out of righteousness and habit.

There may not be much left,

with the world wreathed in hellfire

as it so seems,

But that which is left to us to do is still worth doing.

So find some good to work towards

then do that thing to the best of your ability 

because if we all take one step in the right direction,

humanity will travel miles and miles

upon our feet.

Cushioned Cell

Doing time in a cushioned cell.
Pillow bars and blanket shackles
bind me to this time and place.

Escape is possible,
but the insurmountable odds
should not be ignored.

The judge sentenced me harshly,
doomed to an eternity of straining
against comfy chains

Work release is my best shot,
ironically enough, for freedom.
I'll have to make a coffee break for it.

Another Cup

From time to time,

I have flashes of dissociation,

a third person view of consciousness

that makes me wonder:

What even is

the point of it all?

Why is it that I see what I see,

and not the sights of another?

Why did my consciousness land in someone so…

me?

Then other times,

I disregard all that metaphysical bullshit

and have another cup of coffee.

Cup of Coffee

At the bottom

of this cup of coffee,

I see reflected in the dregs

my schlubby mug.

Unshaven and saggy-eyed,

I look as if I haven’t slept right

in years.

Tired eyes stare back at me

from the bottom of the cup.

Blurry, distorted,

the out-of-focus face begs for a fresh

cup of coffee.

The Unbeliever

I could wax poetic about the loss of innocence,

the awkward-sad tumble into adulthood,

beginning at teen-age and tangling up your limbs ‘til your twenties.

I could go on about all sorts of global injustice,

about the campaign of terror being waged in the Philippines,

or the ethnic cleansing in Myanmar.

I could write tome after tome on love long lost,

a volume out of “I miss you. Please come home.”

until I rid myself of that final teardrop.

In their stead, I write the praise of the common sinner,

the unbeliever, the debauched heretic,

heir to the throne of kings of men,

ere he rises once again.

Building his kingdom atop a foundation of lessons hard-learned

No adherent of the faith is he

No dogmatic devotion to hold him back

No clergymen or handlers to cast influence

Convictions forged in the white-hot flame of a life well-lived

Does he know right from wrong?

Is there a wrong and a right?

He can tell the black from the white,

but finds life more fulfilling lived in the in-between.

Grey stone towers grasp at grey clouds,

and a grey stone keep climbs the grey horizon behind them.

Seated in the grey throne room is our friend the unbeliever,

ruling over a great grey kingdom.

Casey Jones

I'd been awake far too long,

but I hopped a train

and went for a ride.

Making all the stops along the way:

A silly game of sports ball

played on a big, glowing screen;

An outstretched hand

offered me a hand up the hill;

A friend waxed poetic about the comedic genius 

of It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia;

Another needed a hug 

more than anything;

Finally, the engine slowed down

and the final stop approached.

As the brakes squealed

against the rails,

An embrace and a kiss on the cheek

as if to say, "You are where you belong,"

caught me like a net from the sky,

and there I hung my hat.

Blind Hog

Even a blind hog

finds a truffle every now and then.

That's what the little voice

tells me.

After I string together

a word or two

or even a few,

Everyone's a critic I guess.

Kicking The Habit

It’s been a week since I gave up smoking,

more or less.

The occasional bummed smoke snuck through.

One while drinking.

One while playing D’n’D.

One during the big game.

I miss the quiet contemplation,

The thoughtful moments left only to the smoker.

Exposed to the elements

and solitude,

five minutes of uninterrupted time to the self.

I miss the light conversation with other smokers

gradually gaining weight.

The talk about the weather,

or good television,

or politics;

A veritable salon of knowledge,

high and low.

So I regret kicking the habit,

at least a little bit.

I guess I could just take time for myself,

or engage in conversation sans pretense,

but it just won’t be the same.

There’s something about slowly embracing a wheezing, out-of-breath death

that puts everything in its proper place.

Flipping The Lid

As I reach the bottom
of a yet another cup of yesterday's coffee,
I begin to quiver
like a drawn arrow.

All atwitter with thought,
overclocked,
firing on all cylinders,
I set about
laying out
some eloquent dissertation on my blunted affect
or crippling self doubt
or other such complaints.

Some sympathetic story
sans self-esteem
seems to be my wheelhouse.

What if I flipped the lid and said
that I feel okay about myself?

That I'm not the worst,
and people would care if I was gone.

That I've gained
more than I've lost,
despite losing
a lot.

That I can be resilient
even if I don't realize it right away.

Would I be ill-received?

A Prayer To No One

I've done a lot of evil things in my time.

Taken when I should have given
sold what I should have kept
sold out the ones I should've protected

Better believe I'll outdo myself
time and time and again,
if history proves any indication.

I'm not proud of it,
and it doesn't happen too often
but I'm human.

To be such is to be part sin.
Even if I don't believe in much of anything,
I think the Jesus freaks got that one right:

All people suck a little.

At least I hope they do,
so I can feel less the villain
and more the troubled hero.

So I ask not for forgiveness.
I knew what I did
wasn't good
and I did it all anyway.

I have a leaden ball of guilt
shackled to my ankles.

If we carry each other's,
could we move about easier?

2:15am

Quarter-past two and the grinding mill's still going strong

must be nice to be a Buddhist monk

knowing how to shut down that internal monologue

with little beside some quiet and discipline

I'm on empty

but my engine whirrs along

That's what I get for keeping my foot on the dead man switch

a head fulla thoughts

and nowhere to put them-

can you hire a cleaning lady for between the ears?

Malcolm Gladwell famously said it takes

ten thousand hours to master a particular task

I doubt my time opposite various shrinks, counselors, brain tinkers

meets his criteria

but you can bet your ass it gets pretty close,

considering I average an hour a week with the talker,

an hour a month with the doctor,

and a week-long stint in a funny farm every now and then.

Since around eight, in and out of offices.

Goddamn if it doesn't add up-

not ten thousand, but definitely several hundred hours.

At this rate I'll lock it down by middle-age,

if I can make it there.

It’s three AM

and here I sit,

smoking on a lit cigarette.

Two stray cats before me,

but nobody to my right.

The grasses grow tall in the empty moonlight.

Regrets

I hope I don’t live

to regret having lived.

Some things are gonna suck,

though,

and for a long while,

but never so much

that “on” is too far to go.

As it so happens,

(don’t get your hopes up)

once in awhile

shit just comes up exactly that-

Shit.

When you’re up against an army of shitty luck,

things don’t get better or worse-

they implode.

Life’s hard; Get a fucking helmet

I don’t regret living.

As banal and superficially meaningless as that is to say,

I feel it’s an accomplishment.

There’s a never-ending onslaught

of negativity permeating reality,

at least there is from the right

(wrong)

perspective.

Daily,

hourly,

minutely…

ad infinitem.

Regretting the past is cake-

get ahead of the game

and regret what’s yet to come.

It’s gonna be worse.

Take chances on

whatever little things in life

give you shelter-

long shot,

no shot-

it makes no difference.

Just try.

Worst case scenario:

Everything’s still shit.

Little White Pill

Every morning as the sun crests

Over the hoity-toity housing up the hill

I choke one down.

You could set a clock by it.

A bitter vanguard

fighting, tooth and nail, the forces of

madness and confusion.

The disputed territory?

Control.

Without that foothold, I slip into ever-deepening darkness

full of wailing and gnashing of teeth,

where neither Lord nor Savior may venture.

A little white pill

stands between me and elemental unease.

So I choke it down.

And smile a sad smirk

We both know I'll have to do this

every morning of every day.

Forever.

Anhedonia

Flat,

Like a joyless ode.

No ups or downs,

No peaks and valleys,

Just the outstretched blank expanse of human emptiness

Onto which life is projected.

Flat,

Like a surfboard,

But not the surf.

I feel no crest, no crash against the shore.

I am the sleeping hermit crab,

Content to exist for a while then scurry off to find a new home

Flat,

Like your deadpan stare,

Empty eyes and emptier conscience.

Was it on you I spent the last of my feelings?

Somehow I doubt it,

But where else could they have gone?

Neutral

They fixed the cat today,

took away his essential cat-hood.

Now he cries at the door, hungry

and lonely.

I wonder if he knows they took the wind outta his sails

With scalpels and sedatives,

Or if he’ll go on thinking he’s cock-of-the-walk

The lady cats will know, though.

A once-proud lion-heart,

subverted by social convention and beneath-the-tail neutrality.

He won’t go chasing Blondie any more.

I wonder if he’ll chase anything.

Blank Page

Not a damn thing going on in my head,

Aside from the basics:

Eat, shit, sleep

Repeat

A lighthouse with no bulb,

I feel empty, deflated

Not quite enough milk for a bowl of cereal

The cursor blinks on the screen absentmindedly

As I try to compose a line or two

I feel truly a tabula rasa

A slate wiped clean

A magnetized PC

Twitch

An involuntary spasm of the muscles;

Correlated negatively with comfort

and consciously choosing to flail like a weirdo;

Calls to mind the sense one is a marionette

and some hidden master plucks your puppet chords;

Unobtrusive to external view

jarring for the unstill fidgeteer

Business as usual

One moment-

And then,

a lightning strike to the nerves...

JOLT!

Dirtbag Daydreams

I should never have read any Bukowski

Once I saw you could be a shlubby drunk

and a literary icon

at the same time

it got really hard to give a shit about being

"clean-cut" or "upstanding."

At this point I'll settle for standing up.

I should never have listened to Kurt Cobain

All those visceral, junked-out songs and

(defined liberally)

all that success...

Sure, the guy was severely depressed

but that's just more common ground.

Just gotta make sure I don't marry Courtney-

Would love to live past twenty-seven...

I should never have got into Lenny Bruce

That anthropomorphic middle finger of comedy

really resonated.

Loose, improvisational- jazz-jokes

I'm constantly riffing and making poor decisions,

Lenny did it first

and he redefined a fucking art form through it-

not in spite of,

but through the insanity

Hard to motivate yourself when you know it can be done;

deadbeats and degenerates

can still surpass all your dirtbag daydreams.

Rio

If you should find yourself, by chance,

in Rio, West Virginia,

(pronounced RYE-oh)

and you happen to be traveling down the only road there

Keep an eye out

for the “Free Library”.

It seems redundant,

but considering the gas it’d cost

to get to a real library,

“free” seems appropriate.

And if you’re ever in Rio,

look up that old guru I talked to

one afternoon in the lysergic sunshine

about the chaotic forces of existence.

And smoke a spliff with his son

beneath the old spruce tree by the pond.

If you’re ever in Rio, West Virginia,

Check in on that memory of mine

so I can be sure it hasn’t gone away.

Daybreak

Day breaks open over the halls of men.

The yolk slowly sags its way down,

coating everything the light touches

in a thin sheen of optimism.

Devoid of shadow,

the morning marches merrily on.

Rising with the sun, I reach out for that daybreak smile,

yet my hands return empty.

Instead they are full of

apprehension, apathy, and anhedonia.

Suffice to say,

I do not look forward

to the day.

Disinterest, in a word.

But I drag my leaden feet across the floor,

and out the door,

and down the road,

and into work nonetheless.

They don’t pay me to care.

Natural 20

I spend a fair amount of my time on Dungeons and Dragons, between playing (Bard 10/Sorceror 1), writing and running my own campaign, or reading the Player's Handbook, Dungeon Master's Guide, and/or Monster Manual just for kicks. DnD allows for the most immersive, open-ended gameplay of any game, video or otherwise. It runs on the best processor available- creative imagination.

For the uninitiated, DnD may seem confusing, convoluted, or complicated- because it is. When you create a character, you're making a whole new person, with emotions and goals and fears. When you play as that character, you're living that life (or a part of it at least). Their successes are your successes, and their failures are yours as well. The world is just that- an entire world. Go west instead of north and you may change the entire campaign. Hoard too much gold, and you'll have to walk slowly under the excess weight. Leave a single orc raider alive, and he may go on to spark a war. In short, your actions have consequences.

There are no respawns. No save-games. No walkthroughs. World of Warcraft and Skyrim are fun, sure, but at the end of the day they're less detailed, less immersive derivatives of the OG, DnD.

Best Signs From A Small Town Anti-Trump Rally

Pandimensional Superstar: A theatrical short story

ACT I, Scene 1

Lights up on Tom in his bedroom. The only furnishings are a low end table next to a mattress laid directly on the floor, and a standing lamp. A small mirror sits atop the coffee table with a plastic card leaned against it. Tom sits on the edge of the mattress. He picks up the mirror and gazes into it, becoming tearful as he looks at his reflection.

He begins talking aloud to his reflection- his “Body Double” who looks nothing like him- about his shortcomings. The Body Double appears in a spotlight stage left during this exchange. Eventually they begin to argue loudly. The Body Double needles at Tom, chastising him for his recently failed relationship with Mel. Mel then appears in a spotlight stage right, and the Body Double disappears.

Tom pleads with her, begging her to take him back, or at least tell him why things ended. She is cagey and avoids answering him directly, telling him he desperately needed to work on himself. He presses her further, eventually causing her to snap at him. “How was I supposed to love you when you can barely stand yourself? You put up walls so high nothing could get to the real you.” Tom, on both knees, pleads with Mel for another chance. “Look, Mel, I don’t have those walls up any more- Had to hire a battalion of Mongols to get through them all.” He chuckles lightly, while she maintains a stony faced, deadpan expression. “I just can’t… We can’t… (pause) Done.” She waves goodbye and disappears as well. Tom really examines himself in the mirror for a short time, shrugging and trying to hide the disappointment with the person looking back at him.

Tom looks around for his bag of ketamine, distraught and shaking. “Here kitty kitty…” He soon finds it and lays out several lines on the mirror, sniffing three in a row with a rolled dollar bill. The Body Double reappears, warning him to pace himself with such a profoundly strong substance. Tom shakes his head at the mirror grinning, as if telling it to mind it’s own business. He sniffs a line then another, and stands up. Shaky at first, he soon feels comfortable on his feet. He takes a step, reels in a wide arc, and steadies himself on the mattress with his left hand. Then he hears knocking at his bedroom door. Puzzled and nervous he slowly makes his way to the door, swaying as he walks despite clinging to anything firmly grounded within reach. He looks through the peep-hole and sees a tall, lithe figure in a long blue coat, Bowie, turned away from the door. He cracks the door and half-barks-half-slurs, “Who’s there- and what’ya want?” Tom closes the door hard, making a dull thud. He turns away from the door, and as his first step falls, three sharp knocks at the door echo through the bedroom. (Blackout)

Scene 2

Lights up on the bedroom. Tom, opening the door, breathes, “Who’s there?” into the empty hallway. There is no answer, and Tom relaxes. He turns toward his bed, loopy and half-sedated. Sitting on the edge of his mattress is Bowie, grinning and tenting his fingers casually. Tom begins yelling, threatening to call authorities, use physical force, and carry out countless horrors until he realizes who he is. Tom falls silent, somberly bowing his head for a while. Bowie, who maintains composure throughout the verbal barrage, tries to downplay his reaction to a strange person mysteriously appearing in his bedroom. “I honestly can’t say I would have reacted much differently, were I you.” After an awkward exchange of obligatory small talk from Tom and polite but unenthusiastic responses from Bowie- “How’s the weather?” “Seasonal.” — Bowie explains the purpose of his visit. “I’m really quite stuck on a new song- a new masterpiece, really. And I need your help with it.”

Tom is dumbstruck- still grateful, but quite shocked. He explains he probably won’t be much help, if any. “I’m not really a great writer, and I’m even worse with music.” Bowie asks a few more times, changing tactics each time. Tom sees through the tactical shifts, and asks Bowie to leave. “Out. Now, out. I won’t put up with this enigma code harassment bullshit. Go home, look up ‘subtlety’ in a dictionary, and try somebody else.” Bowie leaps to his feet, clapping his hands and quietly celebrates. Tom is even more confused by this latest outburst, and taking Bowie’s arm attempts to lead him out the door. “Alright, uh… get the fuck out.” Bowie turns to him and says there’s too much to discuss to leave just yet. (Blackout)

Scene 3

Lights come up to show Tom and Bowie seated in fold-out chairs opposite one another at the coffee table. On the table are a half dozen pages the pair is examining meticulously. Tom, becoming bored, questions the value of the whole effort and if it’s just a waste of time. Bowie, sighing, explains that this is to be his next- and final- masterpiece, but he’s completely blocked and can’t get it right for some reason. He begs Tom to help, saying he has it on good authority he can crack it. Tom, half afraid and half angry, fires back, “Listen. I’m not a writer, or a genius, or a fucking cultural icon. Write the damn thing yourself.”

Bowie leans forward in his chair, brushes the hair out of his face, and composes himself briefly. He then begins to tell Tom about the inspiration behind the song, what Bowie was trying to communicate through the song, and the ways he unsuccessfully tried to fix it on his own. “It’s a song for the troubled everyman- overworked, underappreciated. Halfway between exhausted and clinically depressed. That’s not me, not by a long shot. I just can’t relate to them- or to the song.” Bowie waits quietly, expecting a response at any time. After a short while, Tom opens his mouth to respond with, “So you did a quick web search for “lonely, sad guy” and I came up first, is that it? At least I got first place in something…” Bowie backtracks and explains further that he received a tip from a friend who claims Tom will play an integral role in perfecting his song.

After a few minutes of hemming and hawing, Tom agrees to help figure out what the problem is with the lyrics. Bowie points out three of the six pages and explains that they’re his old drafts, and that’ll be their jumping-off point. They pour over each line, trying to find the “weakest link,” but Tom too was stumped. He offers Bowie a drink, retrieving two lowball glasses from the kitchen (offstage). Tom yells to ask Bowie what he wants to drink. Bowie replies he has accounted for beverage, and presses Tom to join him at the table for a glass or two of a bottle of whisky he produces from within his jacket. “Distilled on an island between Ireland and Scotland. Aged in oak barrels for twenty years- two decades. Probably almost as old as you, actually…” Bowie pours them each a generous amount of the brown liquid and hands one glass to Tom. “Join me in a toast! To the artistic process, however surreal or introspective it may be.” Tom raises his glass briefly, and takes a long sip.

The pair shift their focus back onto the pages of lyrics. Bowie reads line for line, while Tom reads them as one cohesive unit. Bowie, stumped, begins reading backwards, sideways, upside down, etc. Tom, however, seems to be noticing something about the song as a whole. “It’s good, really it is, but I feel what you probably feel- it’s got so much potential, but we can’t seem to figure out how to unlock it.” Bowie agrees, nodding enthusiastically and grunting in agreement from time to time. After a beat, Tom picks up a page of lyrics and walks over to the window for better visibility in case he missed something in the generally dusky room. Shaking his head, he makes a one hundred-eighty degree turn and heads back to his chair. He suddenly notices his shadow, leading him to describe the lyrics as they are currently, simply a shadow of the real lyrics.

Bowie becomes nervous, pacing back and forth rhythmically in complete silence until Tom speaks. “What? I know I’m missing something here, so tell me now. No? I guess I’ll figure it out on my ow-” Bowie, forgetting his anxiety completely, grabs Tom by the shoulders, locks eyes with him, and tactfully calms him down. Tom, breathing heavy still, asks, “What’s so spooky about a shadow, anyway? They’re obsolete is what they are. (pause) When was the last time you saw somebody with a sundial?” He starts to speak as though he’s giving a TED talk on shadows and sarcasm, but Bowie cut’s him off. Bowie, getting a bit irritated by now, takes a firm, unyielding tone with Ted. “Okay, I’ll level with you. One condition- no cheeky bullshit while I’m talking, got it?” Ted nods and Bowie continues, “I’m not actually from Earth, well not thisEarth at least. E7, born and raised. Beautiful place, E7- not to say E5 isn’t quite pretty itself. You’re lucky to have been born in a good dimension. Most of them are run down as all hell, ‘cept E6. Superficially it’s a great dimension, but it doesn’t take long to feel a foul, icy grip on your soul, so avoid it at all cost.” (Fade out)

Scene 4

Lights come up showing Tom and Bowie reading lyrics in every conceivable direction. Tom, frustrated and stiff, gets up to stretch. He holds onto the page, not wanting to miss a key element in the puzzle. As he moves, the page’s shadow over a sheet of blank paper, and the word “mirror” spelled backwards and upside down appears in the center of the page. Bowie asks Tom to scoot to the right a bit, and with the shadow gone the word vanished. “Actually, Tom, I think you were perfectly fine where you had been. C’mon back over now.” Tom returns to his earlier area, and the letters become clear again. Bowie urges Tom to turn around slowly, while keeping the page in his hand in exactly the same position. Tom complains and huffs about being a glorified servant, but is eventually swayed.” As he turns, he sees the letters on the page- clear, crisp, and cryptic. “Well, that’s- You see it too, don’t you? Please say you see it too.” Bowie pats him on the shoulder and chuckles, reassuring him. “I saw it too, don’t worry. You’re not crazy, just cautious is all. Neither are inherently good or bad traits, but cautiousness is, in my experience, less… explosive.”

Bowie copies the letters exactly as they appear on the blank sheet of paper, and starts counting the vowels and consonants. Tom is inexplicably drawn to the mirror, which he takes over to the transcribed word. He samples a few different angles before standing up, confident for a change but still vacantly staring into the short or mid distance. Bowie sees this, and asks, “What’s going on, comrade? Even the best hit roadblocks some-” Tom smiles, still gazing off into space, and states in monotone. “It was child’s play. Something in my gut said ‘use the mirror,’ so I did. The letters are a double reflection; one reflects the letters backward and another that reflects them upside down. Unscrambled, it says, ‘mirror.’” Bowie takes the mirror and nods, grinning. “I think you’ve cracked it- the missing link is no longer missing.” He explains that mirrors and shadows are virtual opposites. Either one can be used to counteract the other, given they are of complementary intensity.

Tom suggests- to Bowie’s loud skepticism- that the shadowy nature of the song’s lyrics might be easier to decipher in the mirror’s reflection. “None of this makes sense according to physics anyway, so the only thing I can assume is that a metaphorical shadow could be fixed the same way a real shadow would.” Bowie sternly warns against overuse of the mirror, adding, “By the way, don’t look at yourself in this mirror again; ‘Once it goes shadow, looking in is bad (pause) oh.’ You’ll get pulled into God knows what sort of situation- somewhere between existence as you know it and the lightless plane of the shadows is my best guess thus far. Tom assured him he would take every precaution, and after an unwavering negotiation for a couple minutes they agreed Bowie would hold and angle the mirror while Tom transcribes any new or altered text. As the last line is penned, Bowie sets down the mirror and inspects their results.

Tom gets that same gut-driven desire to hold, and even look into, the mirror, which he quickly wipes clean. Gazing at his reflection, he sees a happier Tom than usual. More relaxed too. Tom started to think the mirror showed us what others saw in us, not the bummed out ball of nerves he feels like. It was a comforting thought, and he- for the first time in over a year- unclenched all his muscles and really felt relaxation. A moment later the lights begin to flash, and Tom looks around fearfully. Bowie is nowhere to be found, and Tom curls up in the fetal position.

[Blackout]

Scene 5

Lights come up and reveal Tom in the same balled up position, and the general layout of the room is quite similar to his own, if not identical, save for the fact that everything- all the furniture, carpet, mattress, all of it- is a cold, uninviting shade of white. Tom slowly stands and looks around cautiously. He takes a step, a floorboard creaks, and he sighs in relief. “Still in my room. Thanks… whatever or… whoever.” As Tom looks around, astounded and confused by how everything got whited out so fast. From behind a curtain, Body Double reveals himself. “Welcome, Tom. So good of you to drop in, we don’t see each other often.” Body Double listens as Tom explains the song and lyrical labyrinth, though suppressing a laugh that builds as Tom goes on. “I just don’t know how much of this enigmatic shit I can take today. (beat) This has been very relaxing. Thanks for letting me drop in li-” Finally, Body Double’s composure gives way and a deep, hearty laugh fills the whitewashed bedroom, followed by a few snarled words to Tom.

“Drop in whenever you like, but the return trip is… trickier. It requires, among other attributes, an individual to be adept at solving puzzles, code breaking, and the like- enigmatic shit, as you’d say.” Body Double grins, as if victory is his already. Tom, after three deep breaths, begins walking in a circle around Body Double, observing every visible square inch, head to toe. Tom realizes Body Double is his ‘body double,’ and questions him regarding their connection and Body Double’s lack of identical appearance and demeanor, most of which he dodges or ignores. “Just because I’m your Double, don’t mean for sure we’ll like all the same junk. Where are we right now? In a fucking mirror.” Tom, who is completely lost by this point, begins to wear on Body Double’s patience. “What are we doing in here then?!?” Body Double considers talking him down, but proceeds with the planned explanation. “What do mirrors do? Reflect whatever faces them. How and what they choose to reflect is completely unpredictable. Next time, this room might be red, another time a military bunker, and so on.” Tom nods in agreement, getting a loose grass of his predicament. After a beat, he asks what he needs to do in order to get back home.

Body Double giggles quietly to himself, and pulls out a notebook which he leafs through until finding the desired page. Tom, growing impatient, cracks his knuckles while subtly scanning the room for potential improvised weapons. Still keeping an eye out for blunt objects, Tom presses Body Double with more questions. “We’re the same height, roughly the same weight, same sandy mop of hair- shit, even a similar variety of laughs. Who are you? Some Ghost of Christmas past knock off come to keep me from recycling and walking or using public transit? If it’s a guilt trip thing, let’s end it now. I’ve got no reason to feel guilty. I haven’t wronged anyone lately, and I’m not Catholic, so this is a guilt free zone. Body Double assures him it’s not about guilt or any external pressures. To find your way home from this Reflection you must overcome an obstacle in the psyche, rather than performing some feet of strength or wit as one might expect.

Something in Tom’s head clicks and he suddenly becomes bright-faced and excited, and speaks rapidly, nearing incomprehensibility. He appears to be working things out internally- counting on his fingers, gesturing, writing out things in the air, etc.. Body Double simply watches Tom, occasionally nodding or shaking his head, seemingly at random. Once he thinks he has it figured out, Tom breaks the silence, “Okay, so this, uh, reflection of my bedroom… (pause for nod from Body Double) is partly a realistic reflection by the mirror- the furnishings, room orientation, everything- and a surrealistic reflection of my unconscious feelings about myself and my life.” Body Double smiles and nods, playfully asking, “So, what does that make me then?” Tom looks down at himself, then the Body Double, and then at himself once more. “Well, you’re- no offense meant- not as svelt as I am, and you’re far dirtier than me.(chuckes) At least most days.” Body Double looks himself over, shrugs, and pushes Tom to keep guessing, as he lays down on the mattress. “This game’s all in your head,” he sneers from the comfort of the whitewashed version of Tom’s dingy twin-size mattress. Confident in the strength of the puzzle, he begins to daydream.

Body Double’s seemingly disingenuous advice caught Tom’s attention, especially the words ‘your head’ and how they were emphasized. He extrapolates from Body Double’s comment that he’s connected to Tom psychologically in some way. Tom thinks aloud through what he remembers from the few psych classes he took in college. After about three or four snippets of useless trivia, his eyes widen and his jaw drops. He shakes himself, attempting to even out his demeanor so as not to reveal his upper hand so early. He approaches Body Double lounging on the mattress, and asks him a series of increasingly specific, personal questions. Once Tom is certain of how it all fits together, he shows his hand. “I’ve got you figured out, all figured out. You’re not literally a ‘body double’ like they have in movies, you’re just an anthropomorphized amalgamation of my insecurities. This is- You are how I see… (pause, ashamed) myself.” “Correct,” replies Body Double, “If you believe things to be good, those things will likely be pleasant and positive- or at least neutral. However, if you hold grudges or expect the worst of people, circumstances, and life itself, you’ll project that negativity into the reflection.”

Tom asks what the next step is, how he should proceed in order to get home. Body Double simply laughs and tells him to, “Figure it out your damn self… neurotic little shit…” Tom’s fists tighten, but he relaxes them when he sees a chair within reach. He edges closer to it a fraction of an inch at a time, while Body Double lounges on the mattress, carefree. Tom grips the chair tightly in one hand and pivots so his free hand can grab hold as well. Lifting it like a four-pronged baseball bat, Tom swings the chair at Body Double, catching him on the arm, shoulder, and cheek. The chair falls apart and the pieces all disintegrate. Tom manages to get in a couple good right hooks to his jaw, but soon Body Double is upright and attentive. “Not bad. Surprisingly good, actually,” he says before raining down a barrage of fists from every direction. “You might get past me- just wait for level two!”

Tom shows his surprise at additional hurdles to gaining his freedom, and Body Double laughs heartily. Tom mutters, “Schadenfreude,” and, with his guard down while laughing, kicks Body Double in the groin. Body Double immediately falls to the ground, curled into a ball and whimpering. Tom bends down to make sure he isn’t seriously hurt, then asking a litany of questions regarding the second challenge. The only answer Body Double every offered was, “You got past me just fine, but you think like me.” Then Body Double begins to gradually slip out of focus. As he’s disappearing, he offers one last piece of advice. “Time is precious- don’t waste it getting in your own way.” There’s a knock at the door in the rhythm of ‘Shave and a Haircut,’ and Tom softly says, “Come on in.”

Mel enters, dressed in white from head to toe, matching her neon-pale skin. A thick mane of wavy red hair falls over her shoulders, and a nose ring twinkles in the eerie light of the Reflection. Tom, at first ecstatic to see her again, then realizes it’s not really Mel, just a reflection. Tom comments that she’s exactly the same in the Reflection as in his memory of her. They start to talk, Tom focusing on the time they spent together in reality. “How about that trip to Mammoth Cave, Mel? Wasn’t that a wonderful weekend?” Mel replies very enthusiastically that she did. Tom starts to wonder if Mel- whom he’d been agonizing over for years- was already a projection; all the positive character traits of past girlfriends compiled into one woman. One fictional woman. “I know you’re only in my head. I put you on a pedestal, giving you all of this power over my happiness, and y’know what? I’m done. You’re fake. Your memories aren’t your own. We’re done here.” Mel starts to cry a little, and Tom consoles her, saying with a wink, “At least you won’t be around for my world class masturbation sessions.”

[Lights dim slowly to black]

Scene 6

Bowie looks down at Tom, who is sprawled out on the floor and still holding the mirror. Tom looks around, poking or nudging things to be sure they’re real. “Way better than those carnival fun houses- plenty of mirrors, not enough reflection. (pause) So, how was it? Were the reflections literal or-” Tom, frustrated by Bowie’s prodding, growls, “That isn’t a topic of discussion. Not now, not ever. Got it?” Bowie says no more, but takes notice of Tom’s markedly higher confidence levels, and how he’s not half as anxious as before. A brief awkward silence, then they sit back down opposite each other. “Have you made any headway with the lyrics while I was in there?” Tom asks. Bowie replies, “I’m not sure if I’d call it headway per se, but I had a thought.” Bowie describes his idea to travel to E4 (the fourth dimension) in order to see the lyrics through the perspective of an audience member, thus forging an indelible connection to those for whom the song was written. “Basically, the audience is looking at a stage through the fourth wall. It stands to reason thefourth wall would be most permeable in the fourth dimension, which is where we’re headed next.

Tom protests, arguing that if they are to work as a team, then their decisions should be utually agreed upon. Bowie points out Tom’s foray into the mirror, and how he didn’t bring that up for a vote; he didn’t even have the decency to say goodbye. Tom takes this very personally, shouting that he didn’t choose to get sucked into that introspective riddle. “But,” Bowie chirps, “You chose to look into the mirror- which you were warned not to do. Frankly, you’re lucky to be in one piece.” Tom agrees to go with Bowie, who pours them each another glass of whisky. Bowie takes a small sip, while Tom downs it all in one gulp, adding, “No idea what the fuck’s happening next, but I’m prepared.” Bowie holds out a hand, and Tom grips it firmly, bracing himself. Tom squeezes his eyes shut, and Bowie starts counting down. “In three… two… one…”

[Blackout]

Scene 7

Lights up on Tom’s room in the fourth dimension, with identical layout to the other two save for the soft light blue coloration of this whole dimension. Tom holds the mirror in his left hand and Bowie’s left hand in his right. In Bowie’s right hand is the latest draft of the song. Tom looks around, amazed and- as one would expect- full of questions. “Why does this place seem tinted blue? Do other dimensions have colors too, like are they assigned? How are they assigned?” Bowie cuts him off and answers quickly, “Because that’s the coloration selected; Yes, most have assigned colors; I have no goddamn idea. There, asked and answered. Happy?” Tom’s focus turns back to the song. He takes the latest draft of lyrics and lays it flat on the coffee table. Bowie takes the mirror and dictates what is reflected to Tom, and soon they had the fourth dimension version of the lyrics. Tom, irritated by the constant blue-ness of the realm, whines, “So we just spent… however long to translate a page of incoherent phrases and words into a page of different incoherent phrases and words? Fantastic. Here I could’ve been sitting at home with my dick in my hand… (trails off) Dumb horseshit…” Bowie grabs his arm, whistles, and everything goes dark.

[Blackout]

Scene 8

Lights up on Tom’s bedroom- the real one. He and Bowie are seated at the coffee table, trying to make sense of the fourth dimension lyrics. They go back and forth, trading suggestions (non of which work). Bowie starts to backtrack their progress with the lyrics, exclaiming, “Double reflection! Like the first clue- the lyrics have to be read in reflection twice, otherwise-” Tom covers his mouth with one hand and holds the mirror in the other, facing it away from himself. Some rustling noises and footsteps catch both their attentions, and Tom lets Bowie up. Bowie picks up the half-empty liquor bottle and holds it at the ready.

Then Body Double walks through the door with a newfound pleasant demeanor, dressed in clean, matching clothes, and a cautious smile. Bowie, not knowing who he is, swings the glass bottle at him. Tom jumps in between and stops the bottle from hitting either Body Double or the floor, shouting at Bowie that he’s not a threat anymore. Body Double takes exception to be categorized as nonthreatening, and loudly described the menacing, fear-inducing acts he could visit upon anyone at any time. Bowie finds it hilarious, and laughs through most of it, while Tom humors him to a point and puts an end to it. “Yes, yes, yes- you’re very threatening. Scourge of the day and night alike. We get it. (beat) I just meant you aren’t a threat to us,” The exercise in semantics was enough to calm Body Double, who, while not particularly helpful, was capable of holding the mirror in place for long periods of time. While he held the mirror, Bowie and Tom tried to find the right orientation to reflect. After a few turns, Bowie points and says, “Go back a quarter turn and… Yes! See there? It says ‘Ground nails to bone- at work, and at home; Still I can hear her crying.’ I think we’ve got it!

[fade to black as they work on lyrics]

Scene 9

Lights up on Tom and Bowie sitting around the coffee table with Body Double sitting cross-legged on the floor. Tom and Bowie are leaned back comfortably in their chairs, with a neat stack of papers equidistant to both of them. Tom produces a wooden box from under the coffee table, takes out two pipes and a bag of pipe tobacco, and turns to Bowie. (in a bad British accent) “ Well, ‘ello there guvna. Care to puff on me pipe a time or two? (dropping accent) Ehh, I tried.” Bowie stands up abruptly and looks at his watch. He apologizes profusely, but insists he has to be leaving immediately. “Urgent business on E3 to attend to- can’t be avoided. Tom, before ground control calls me again I want to thank you for your help with this song. I- I want you to have it, the whole thing,” he says, handing Tom the stack of papers. “Oh, and if you’re ever on E7, look me up.” Bowie turns sharply toward the door and exits. Body Double tries to suggest things they could do together, but each makes Tom more exhausted and less patient. Tom finally, though very reluctantly, gives in when Body Double suggests Frisbee golf.(medium-fast fade to black)