You’ve chased something away inside of me, that used to live here. So this is what I meant when I said, the broomstick was the size of a dog, because it was: I caught it on camera,
Scene One: my heart goes round the farm like a chicken without a head. And you’re a kid and you’re chasing it. (Direction…………………notes: one of you please go faster)
It goes round and round, and you’re getting blood on your little hands and you’re getting blood on your little knees
(Direction…………………notes: eat shit)
(Aside)
How is your day? How is it going? (moving along, etc)
xxxxx: Oh, it’s alright. Just a lot of running around.
Cut back to the chicken inside of me. Cut to my face. I break into a smile, Cut to the sky. The sky breaks into a sunset.
(Direction…………………notes: you’re very kind, I’m sorry about all this)
(Soliloquy)
I’m reaching toward something nameless: my arms the size of dogs, dogs the size of broomsticks, broomsticks the size of your shadow. And you were right, it doesn’t really matter. But I said that first. I’m stretching out towards the pointless things. Boxes outside the doorway. Cigarette ash on your suitcase. A car ride forgotten about in a week. In a week: your face setting on the hills. I try to imagine the field from your perspective: cut to black. If hurricanes were named. If only they were named. We’d come up with better reasons for these things. I could make everyone less uncomfortable.
I’m posing for you for the last time one hundred times. Cut to my arms the size of your shadow. Cut to something nameless. Cut to my middle name, my first name, seven cigarettes lined up like broomsticks,
I could sweep the whole world with these, I could push the farmland out of frame. Except the chicken, that can stay.