This does not scan.
It’s pentameter
But it doesn’t line up iambically.
In a sense, the rhythm demands
A conversational style
A little side comment
Perhaps even a throw away joke
A la Groucho.
Maybe there are other countries
In which a villain could not hide
Behind a smile
In which no one ever lies or kills
In which everyone is
Exactly what he seems to be.
It would be a strange utopia
Or perhaps a strange dystopia
For wouldn’t a world in which no one lies be awfully dull?

Most villains do not look like villains.
They don’t wear black hats. They don’t twirl their mustaches.
They don’t wipe their bloody knives on their jeans
While giving you a threatening look. Not usually anyway.
Big villains have big disguises.
They are leaders in their churches – pious, friendly – but hiding dark secrets
In their basements.
They smile while they are taking your money
Befuddling you, so you miss it, thinking
All the while what a nice man he was.
Someone who seems like a villain
Dark, shifty, withdrawn,
May do some damage
But it will never be as severe as the political villain
Probably because you don’t trust that shifty villain,
You won’t let him get close enough to knife you.

I am a smiler. I smile big and broad.
I’ve had people stop me on the street to say
“Nice smile.” But I’ve also had people complain.
I recall walking down my high school hallway
Being told to “stop that smiling” when I hadn’t even
Been aware of smiling in the first place.
I will default to smile quick as a wink or at least
I did. I’m not sure anymore.

Then, in some cases, I was just happy. And smiling slipped out and sometimes
Other people’s happiness is an irritant to passersby and must be halted.
In others, I confess, I was smiling as a mask,
As a defense. A smile can hide any number of more complex and less
Socially acceptable emotions.
I could smile over grief, (smooth over – slick cover) over annoyance,
Over anger (even before I knew I had it.)
There wasn’t much I couldn’t hide with a really bright cheerful smile.
Full wattage. Broadcasting smile. It could be a good misdirect
Like a magician who makes a joke to draw your attention away from his left hand
As he secrets the coin it.

Things to swear by:
Heaven
Moon
Thy gracious self
God (and his wounds)
Stars Above
Earth
Sun
One’s honor
One’s modesty
One’s chastity 
One’s maidenhead
Art
Our beards
The white hand of Rosalind
Blessed clouds
Your lady
Y’r lakin
And Saint Peter, too

Yellowing pages with looping script, bound in a scuffed leather,
A strong pliant waxed string , Hamlet’s book
Has steadily gotten inscribed with quotes and memories.
His poems, his musings, his wonderings scrawled
Lovingly over the crisp pages.
He has forgotten nothing
Left nothing unrecorded
But that which is unrecordable – thoughts without word or image,
Smells for which no metaphor will suffice,
Sensations that cannot be summarized.
What will wash these things away?
What could pull the ink from the page,
Unhinge the shapes that make up the words
And separate meaning from form?
What will make a river of ink
Leaving the pages empty?
All those words will go.
Only the words of a ghost will remain.
Will he write it on every page?
Or once, large, in the middle of the book or one letter on a page,
Filling the book with large insistent letters?
And which words will it be?
“Remember me?” or “Revenge”
Or both.

Is there a way to say this without an exclamation mark?
Remember thee?! Remember thee?!
Seems required. As if a ghost could be forgotten.
As if a father could be forgotten.
As if the ghost of a father could be forgotten.
As if the revelation of the truth could be forgotten.
As if murder might be brushed under the rug
Swept out of sight of the emotions, of memory
As if a person could learn of the murder of this father and simply let it go,
Simply forget, simply pretend it hadn’t happened.
One could not forget the news, or the event, of this moment.
One could forget one’s name and what time one has to be at work
But this would stick
Because memory is inextricably linked to emotion
We are built to remember what hits us hard. It’s sensible for our survival.

And how long is that?
Our memories get shorter and shorter
On this ever more distracted globe.
Having placed the burden of remembering upon my hard drive,
I have no need to remember what I used to.
I used to remember people’s birthdays.
There was some honor in doing so somehow.
I’d remember details of the party, the tone of voice,
The words spoken, the arc of conversation.
I’d remember facts
The weather
How to read an alto clef, which notes went where.
I used to remember the first few lines of the Inferno, in Italian.
Now, I just look them up.
I could remember what I was supposed to do, when I was supposed to do it
And with whom.
I’d remember my goals, my priorities, my dreams.
I have them written on my walls now because so often,
I sit down to chase them and find myself
Distracted
Hours gone
Days gone
Lost in the click, click, select.
The world becoming smaller, busier and spread thin.

Has he fallen to the floor?
Will his body not obey?
Is the struggle here to get back on his feet?
Very often in productions, this bit gets a little –
ACTORY. He tends to be just pure reaction
Reaction. Hands held up to the sky –
A classic Actor-y “Why?!?!?!”

A physical obstacle such as one’s body
Ceasing to do what one asks of it
Might make for an interesting exploration.
The struggle could be to reconcile the facts he’s just heard,
Or, of course, to grapple with having seen the ghost of his father.
But when I get my hands on his play
Or rather when I get my body into this play,
I will want to see what grappling the body is doing as well.

Perhaps those super enlightened yogis
Can pause their hearts
Like a film stilled on an image.
Perhaps they can whisper to their hearts
To still, for a moment,
So that reason might sneak in,
Slow the heat rising
Slow the blood, beginning to boil –
Halt the heave before the heart
Rises up to their throats.
On the other hand, most yogis
Sit, in stillness, in a cave.
Those things that make a heart heave
Or the blood boil
Or the pulse quicken
Retreat to the inside
Toward a general stillness.
It may be fruitless for me to ask my heart to hold
But I like the dialogue – the relationship between me and my unruly
Unmanageable, uncontrollable heart.