Is not this something more than fantasy?

What can be more than fantasy?
More fantasy?
Is reality more than fantasy?
I suspect not.
Fantasy feels like reality but more of it.
It is greater than reality
Wider than what is before us
More expansive than what we can see.
Something more than fantasy
Must be fantasy several times over
A vibrant fantastical other-ness
Vibrating over the horizon.

You tremble and look pale.

I’m not sure it’s polite to tell someone they’re trembling
Fear isn’t really socially acceptable
Not unless it’s in the dark
In front of a screen with manufactured monsters
Stalking the night.
We’re all doing our best to appear unafraid
Or to appear as if we do not notice the fear
Wafting from our formerly fearless friend
What would we do then
If we stepped into the terror?
Would we hold each other, shaking in the dark
Or drift away into corners
Further and further away.

How now, Horatio?

Ow ow oh oh
Concern expressed as pain
Perhaps in the way that we mirror what we see
Pain on your face
I feel in mine
My mirror neurons firing
In absolute reflection of what I see before me.
You grasp a cup.
In my mind
I grasp a cup as well.
Your face twists in agony
In the busy center of my brain
I twist my own face
To understand.
Right now,
I’m watching a couple fight on the corner;
Her back and his face brightened by the setting sun.
She is furious.
He is defending.
She points, she makes faces of disgust.
He nods – holds his hand on his heart.
Opens his hand, in a sort of defensive but peaceful way
She opens her arms widely
He has folded his close
And tilted his head to side.
Now they are walking away together
But stop at the next corner to fight again.
She goes on.
He sits and holds his head in his hand.
She returns.
She sets her handbag down with a POOM
In order to better make her point.
In my mind,
I too have set my handbag down
And I also sat down to hold my head in my hand.
As the crowd swirls around them,
They remain by the wall.
I light them up
Mirror them
Trying to understand
What has happened.
From here
I can’t tell if they will work it out
But I’m invested in them now.
My little mirror of them
Wants them to solve it in my view
So I can have peace within myself.
It is their fight, not mine
But my brain knows no difference.
They’re off again
5 feet between them
then 3
then 2
then 1.

In the same figure like the King that’s dead.

Barnardo speaks like a foreigner
The way I spoke when in a foreign land.
“Please can you tell me the place where I can buy that thing for the rain that you put
Above your head?”
They said, “ombrella?”
“Ah, yes.” I said.
Barnardo doesn’t say
“Still, he looks like our dead king!”
“It’s our dead king walking – just like the last time we saw him!”
No – for Barnardo, this ghost is cloaked in the body of king
but importantly
not the current king
no no
in the body of the king that is no longer with us
except he is.
He is the same as a man who was here before
But not – even in his likeness.

Last night of all, When yond same star That’s westward from the pole Had made his course t’illume that part of heaven Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself, The bell then beating one –

Settle yourself in for a tale, my friends
I’ve spoken over thirty words and I haven’t even
To finish my sentence.
It was dark
It was just this time
(by the clock and the stars)
with just these people. . .
all circumstances were ripe
and I paint them with lush strokes. Sit you down.
When I guard the palace walls,
I write poems in my head
I have spent one hundred words on the shape of a stone
I have generated paragraphs on the point of my spear
Be careful when you ask me to tell you a story
I am going to tell it
I am going to spin it
Wind it around you
Like yarn on fingers
And a spinning wheel
I will wrap you up in it
Word by word
For my stories, you will need a comfortable chair
And a warm fire. You’re going to be here a while.

Sit down awhile And let us once again assail your ears, That are so fortified against our story, What we have two nights seen.

Have I said this already?
I have?
Well, let me say it again.
Maybe I missed something
Maybe I forgot to mention the key event
Somehow I failed to fully paint the picture.
When my voice crawled into your ear
It somehow failed to touch you.
While my words vibrated your ear drums
They didn’t vibrate your heart or your thoughts even.
I haven’t said it with the right pitch
I neglected to project the power of the image
So that you really felt it
In 3-D smell-o-vision.
I want you to know it
Know it in your body
The way that I now carry it with me all the time.
I want you to hear the sound of the wind and
Symphony of birds crescendo-ing from night to day
I want you to smell the air
Scent the fog and the vapors rising from stone
I want you to feel the hair stand up
On the back of your neck
The way that I remember mine
Standing strand by strand at attention
I want your heart to beat faster
Your blood to rush
Your limbs to grow cold
I will tell you this story
I will tell it to you
Again I will tell it to you.