I see that it is me
I am running after.
soft, bowed legs
flat, smacking feet
and a lung inflated by the the pinching mist
of your marigold perfume.
I live in
circles within circles in a Nowhereland–
but
as long as the haze of your touch
tingles
in my chest,
I am happy to spin
like a carousel horse
with a pole
through
its
spine.
“Spun” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork: A Delicate Balance by Morgan Kendall
when curls unfold
limber fingers embrace salty hair
bound by the sea
through the earth
above the air
heaving hearts thrust blood out and around
as lips
once loose with language
slowly suck
breathes large and small
to fill plump plumb colored lungs
which swell
which fall
“Plump Plumb” by Meaghan Merrifield
Perhaps an actor should expect to fall in love.
Because, in a sense, it is part of the job description.
In a way, an actor could say,
“I audition, I network, I memorize lines, and I fall in love.”
“I love you.”
When an actor says it, they have to mean it.
They have to feel it, or you can tell.
You watch a movie and you think,
“This fucking sucks.”
There’s no time for it.
Art that does not come from some manner of truth
Is self-indulgent without being rewarding.
(I don’t want to forget this feeling. When time stopped and all there was… was he and I. In real life he is married and I am living with my boyfriend, and this man and I know nothing about each other.
But an actor’s life is blurred with fantasy, blessed with passion, and cursed with un-satisfiable desire.
I knew that in this room, under these lights, this time set aside for us to act, I knew that I was safe and I was free to experience him. I these
eternal/too-brief
moments, I lamented and he lamented that he married too soon. A mistake had been made, because there was a magic here, a knowledge that came from somewhere else. And desire.)
DESIRE.
.
I allowed myself to enjoy it for a few hours.
But
Like
All
Love,
And
All
Things,
I know it is fleeting.
“An Actor and Love” by Vanessa Cate
Artwork: Drugi by Vesna Pesic
the curtain that I peer through is Ivory
not white-
so when your legs tremble
in your back’s lonely slouch,
I see in them
the earthiness of light brown. And you are
a little biege feather
quivering in anticipation of the morning breeze.
And this
and this
is more soothing
than the truth.
“Through the Window” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork: The Velvet Darkness of his Mind by Morgan Kendall
Would I have control over you
even if I could?
For perhaps, it is your challenge that poses me
in red robes
And makes me stare in such a smoldering,
calculating
manner.
“Untitled” by Vanessa Cate
Artwork: Severe Art by Ruben Ireland & Ddm by Hugo Barros
In my dream, you were naked–
I think.
–Your breasts and lips were drenched
in the scent of me and
I was
all over you.
At first it made you feel yellow
and new-
like a champagne flower
bubbling in the sunshine
— and then you were angry at me
for reflecting all the mean holes
in your prettyheart
“Prettyheart” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork: Flora & Fauna by Jenn Mann
You would please me-
but—
Your graceful words
trip
on plump,
pickled
coughs
Artwork by Marko Koeppe and Vesna Pesic
He walks into the diner, alone, but he looks around.
Blue flannel and jeans, stringy brown hair, all 1990’s.
He sits in a booth by himself
Pushes his silverware out of the way,
And covers his eyes with his finger tips for a time
— Perhaps as respite,
Perhaps meditative.
His right leg bounces, dirty jeans,
Dirty under the nails, dirty tennis shoes.
He has ordered a coffee and a mimosa, but I can’t help think he is too young.
He feels a little better once he gets his food.
His leg stops shaking.
He smiles at a girl passing by, who doesn’t notice him.
“Diner Observation #1” by Vanessa Cate
Artwork: The Undone by Charles Wilkins
The Show Tell Project 