Here is a video of my monologue “There is Life to Do”, performed on June 4th, 2016 by Sam Perry (as the bartender). Tracy McQuillan plays the bar patron. The Strand Project is a collaboration between Lit Youngstown and Selah Dessert Theatre.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F6C1v2PwPig&feature=youtu.be&t=4683
I’m looking forward to reading on the Chumley’s stage again. We had a great time last year.
Debbie and I had a wonderful time watching the show. My monologue “There Is Life To Do” was the closing piece, voiced by Sam Perry, who was fantastic as the bartender. Many thanks to Kris Harrington for her vision and drive.
If you happen to be anywhere near Youngstown, Ohio on June 3rd or 4th, one of my monologues was incorporated in a new production.
Very happy to say that my poem BUTTS has been shortlisted for Poem of the Year at Arc Poetry Magazine and will be published in their upcoming Spring issue.
http://arcpoetry.ca/2016/04/01/vote-on-arcs-poem-of-the-year-shortlist/
orange juice yellow beets brown bread
once more she sets the table
arranging dishes
placing napkins
forks spoons knives
centering chairs by placemats
then placemats by chairs
tureen vegetable soup steam
cold salads covered
no grapefruit spoons or fish forks
yet again
she checks the simmering roast
reverently adjusting burners
almost hot enough
to start with
blue corn chips green salsa black olives
inviting me she
touches my shoulder
— Published in The Rutherford Red Wheelbarrow #8 (2015)
An act performed with stock props—
common avarice, preferred prayer,
garaged convertibles, arrest warrants.
Setting: a dimly-lit office—
boxed files, encrypted evidence,
accrued interest, hollowed equity.
Enter the four players—
Founder. Investor.
Manager. Employee.
A shroud falls after the first scene of
hushed negotiations, rash decisions,
turnaround specialists, legal execution.
Time of death? Written on a form filed by men of habit,
a notice sent to the local business rag,
a remark whispered in a pub— the company foundered.
The as-yet uncontaminated engrave an epitaph on the vault door—
Available, after the lawyers scrub out the stink of failure.
Of the stricken within— a rotting corp, with hands folded.
Recyclable employees claw into vertical positions,
managers supplicate quotations for furniture and fixtures,
founders stiffen attitudes, bury emails, spawn excuses.
Office equipment is consigned to a resting place—
disposal men grasp them by their attached cables
and file out, precisely positioning each into a black van.
Responsibility? Blame this! Blame that! Sue the consultant!
When driving by a seven car pileup, the officers direct:
move along, there are no lessons to be learned here.
Missed opportunities and fumbled execution
play no role because— well, just because.
Let’s raise money for our next brilliant idea.
— Published in The Rutherford Red Wheelbarrow #8 (2015)
I pick up a stick and dig a hole.
If I stand the stick straight up,
where on Earth does the bottom point to?
Google labels my fidget map tunneling.
An app calculates that I’m pointing
into the Indian Ocean, not far from Perth.
I learn that Tangier is opposite Christ Church,
and Hawaii is opposite a park in Botswana.
I swivel the stick, crossing cities and towns,
beaming Hey, I’m here, on the other side.
When my hand stills— where am I pointing?
What is the latest news? Who sings the popular songs?
Tracing a precise ellipse would sweep the equator,
but the app doesn’t have that feature.
Which circle’s diameter would intersect where the planet’s
mantle rests on the iron core, or the crust on soft mantle?
I think about pointing into the 32 Southern constellations,
starting with the Southern Ecliptic Pole in Dorado.
————————————————————
This poem was published as the
Red Wheelbarrow Poem of the Week
for August 12th, 2015. It was inspired by
some downtime at the NYC Poetry Festival
on Governors Island.
The boat in Danzig would leave on time.
My grandmother and her two cousins traveled overland,
away from the Polish-Russian war.
Away from running into the woods
with only crackers for food.
Far from seeing men killed in the streets.
A long journey from avoiding windows because
she might get shot.
In school, she was taught in Polish, Russian, or German,
depending on who held the land at the time.
Years before, her parents manufactured horse blankets for the Russian army.
In 1923, my grandmother met her father’s former employee
on a Brooklyn street (a small connection).
Letters sailed across the ocean; news traveled from the family until 1939.
Then silence.
Always silence.
For the holidays, my grandmother baked a noodle pudding, glorious in every way—
two types of raisins, eggs, farmer cheese,
made in a bundt pan, baked perfectly, sliced thick,
couldn’t eat it fast enough, always wanting more.
It helped to ease the silence.
——————————————————————–
This poem was originally published in
The Paterson Literary Review #43 2015-2016
They moved into the house across the street.
Chinese, I thought.
My wife thought they were Japanese.
Our grandkids were in the school play with their grandkids.
Our wives met when they helped set up the stage.
We were invited over.
Their house brought back memories of ’68 Da Nang,
the smells of the SVA guys cooking their rice dishes.
He asked me, was I in the war, and I told him about
a couple of firefights near Khe Sanh.
He said that he was stationed in Hanoi until ’67,
and then he commanded a couple of VC squads. He asked
if I was ok with that.
I took a deep breath. Just two guys talking.
It was a long time ago.
I offered him my hand.
——————————————————————–
This persona poem was originally published in
The Paterson Literary Review #43 2015-2016
Wayne L. Miller 