What a way to say “about a minute and a half.”
This is one of those lines wherein a student is likely to say
“Why doesn’t he just say what he means?”
Which of course, he does. This is exactly what he means.
And the image of a moderately hurried guy
Standing there counting to a hundred
As a ghost stands there with his beaver up
Looking very pale is pretty kick-ass.
Maybe Horatio has a counting man in his imagination
The way they tell people working on their anger to count to ten,
Horatio’s got a guy in his mind
Who shows up and starts counting
When the going gets scary.
When everything you ever believed
Is crashing down around you
I can see that a man
Just saying number after number
Might be very reassuring.

As much as I sometimes feel like a failure,
There are moments in which
I can imagine bringing my younger self
To recent events, as a spectator in time.
As if I were my own ghost of Christmas Yet to Come
Spiriting myself through the ages. I’d bring me first to that first show we made
When we were full of drive and passion
Convinced that our work was the best
That had ever been done
Convinced that we would be rewarded
That this magic would move us ever forward.
I’ll bring myself to stand next to myself
Just as I think, “I could die now.
This is what I was meant for – I did it.
It’s just what I wanted and what I meant
If this is it, that would be okay.”
But I went on, of course
So I’d have to bring myself elsewhere
Maybe like a montage
Because nothing was ever quite that satisfying again
But added up, in a whirl of vision
It might look amazing.

What is it like to have one focus?
To pursue, singlemindedly, one thing
One idea
To be only the wave of the ocean constantly battering the shore,
Without being also the shore
And the seashells
The sand
The missing flipper
The amoeba
The wind and the sky?
My brain is like a hummingbird
Flitting from flower to flower and
Sometimes hovering outside your window.

Funny how the blood runs away
From the face sometimes.
Where does it go when we go wan with fear?
Where does it run when we see something horrifying?
Does it hide in dark corners trembling?
Pulling all the colors from our cheeks
Giving us the sense of what we might look like dead.

At the end of his life
The king walks the walls of his kingdom
Sadness pouring off him like fog.
He’s been murdered.
His life cut short by a man who
He likely loved and trusted.
He has a right to be angry
But as he walks over the parapets
He fills the space with a terrifying air of despair.

Ay me hearties, place yer beaver
Upon yer head
Wear it up or down
The really tough amongst you
Will wear ‘em live
Tail up, teeth hovered over yer head
Ready to bite anything that comes too close.
Wear your beaver down
Most people’ll leave you alone
Cause a down-tailed beaver fella
Keeps to himself
We can all respect a beaver-wearing rogue
Who doesn’t want to get involved with your shenanigans.

Ideas ideas ideas
Ideas that connect
One to another
One that catches fire
Which catches another on fire
A growing conflagration of making
It is the dreaming of creating
That makes everything sing.