Marcellus as a bird – a nighthawk or an owl.
He flies to the parapets at night
Settling by the arrow slits in the walls
Keenly watching the coming and goings
His eyes following in smooth lines, not missing
The slightest variation in the patterns of the night.
He flies to Hamlet. He flies away.
Then after bringing Hamlet and ghost together
He flies away for good.


Interesting. Interesting.
He’s added an H from the former call and changed
“My lord” to “Boy.”
Is it like when people call a dog?
Like, “Come Boy come. Come on – Give me the bone. Good boy.”

I’ve never heard a bird called Boy
But I sort of would like to.
“Come on Boy, chirp. Peck that seed, Boy. You can do it.
Come on Boy, hop on that perch, Boy. Flap those wings, Boy.”

What is Hamlet doing between “I have sworn’t” and now?
Has he been performing some swearing ritual?
So be it sounds like the conclusion of a prayer
Or an oath
Or proclamation.
Has he been on his knees these last three lines,
Drawing diagrams in the dirt
Spitting into his palms, rubbing them with dirt
To stick his oath together with earth?
Maybe, though, he’s just standing there collecting himself
Gearing himself up for his first human contact post ghost.

Before everyone had contracts and lawyers
Before letters of agreement and parties of the first part
Before everyone had a file in every government and banker’s office drawers
Before paper was readily available for everyone –
One’s word must have held more weight
Swearing – a binding agreement.
Oaths and promises secured heir legitimacy
From the testimonials of the elements.
To add credence to one’s swearing –
Invoke the stars or the moon
The sun, the heavens. You can also get support from the supernatural –
Swear by the gods or their sons or even
The wounds of their sons (depending on the religion, of course.)
Now, however, swearing won’t get you as far as your name
Scrawled across the bottom of a piece of paper –
One you very likely haven’t read the fine print of.

Last words. These are the ghost’s last words,
Hamlet’s father’s last words. He died suddenly
So he did not get any real last words in.
Presumably he said something to Gertrude like
“Have a nice walk. I’m just gonna grab a couple winks here.”
Or “This is some nice soft grass. I’ll have to remember
To compliment the royal gardener.” Or
“Hmmph. Remind me to skip the beans next time the cook makes tacos.”
But as a ghost –
He gets to leave his son with something.
He leaves him with a French goodbye
He leaves him with a request to live in his memory.
Hamlet, in production, often seems to quote the ghost here
Or use this line as an oath. Which makes sense
Because he says, after it, that he has sworn it.
But I wonder what would happen if there were
Some sense of poignancy here
Some savoring of what they both imagine will
Be their last exchange. It’s no “Either that wallpaper goes or I do.”
It’s not pithy or wise but there is a longing, a loss, a permanence.

Everyday I have this meeting
Pen to paper
On the way to my word, to my words.
Sometimes in talking with people, I cannot find
The right ones. I will slip and say
The wrong cliché. “Hey, what’s up?” will get a “Fine. You?”
I will wrestle with the pause
Decide if I want to speak at all.
So sometimes, this place where I write
Is a castle for words.
The words hang out there, milling around,
Having cocktails until I show up and put them to use.
I go to my word like a lover.
Eager, full, not uncomplicated, but with great anticipation.
Now to my word.

There, smiling.
There, in Denmark.
There, a villain.
There in my crosshairs.
There, guilty.
There, waiting to be discovered.
There, sketched in my book with a target over your face.
There, walking along the battlements, literally.
There, already on the way to hell.
There, in my tables, set down as a smiling villain.
A line like this offers choice bits of business – a demand for a clear “There”
An invitation for something specific.

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.