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summer beretsky
summer beretsky is a 17-year-old high school student from kingston,
pennsylvania -- an old coal-mining valley with "alot of
old Polish folk," she says. she writes wayyyyy beyond her
years, I sez.
Works on this page:
end of act 1
chase
ginsberg-esque: the alpha stage poem
end of act 1
distraction dancing at the scene change
grey smoke floating near the backdrops
paranoid entire cast
they lay the script down on the table
parts aren't played without confusion
scene 1 killed the best of her
she sees the exeunt; grows angry
splinter in her foot from cracking
stages underneath her feet.
the aisles are wavy, seats alive to her
she thinks now is forever
rolling from the ground to sky
audience is blinded by surprise
and lack of costume on the
actors fallen on the apron
static characters are in
the dressing room in their new shoes
walking steadily, surprising
everyone they pass until they
move right out the door behind the stage
with trackmarks scarred upon their arms
and legs, from all the needles in the wings
disruptions canceling the show
they need their lead role players
but they're backstage and they're crying
lighting matches, burning lines
scarring history one more time
personifying Death and Dying
death's a simple costume change
different viewpoint; in third-person
alive in everything around you
run to ruins in thick stage makeup
taking pills and writing wills
the theater is being bombed and
no one's acting anymore
relaxed and rested; fake drugged grins
chemical warmth 'round the actors
dramatic irony is smiling
knowingly, its forte shines
sighing coming from the audience who
knew the outcome when they bought their
ticket to the show
chase
dried grass stings my feet
crunches under heels and toes
cool night, april madness
ginsberg-esque: the alpha stage poem
preoccupied in this stoney rust
never quite able to make it
further into the dark, empty
Epitomes of my existance.
ungrateful, ungraceful, living as
a character in an uncovered book,
show me withering aspects of
noon and midnight,
show me a filled page, and the
end of the indeterminable numbers
we all swim in.
in the daze of our lives,
this youth swoops upon us like a dying kite,
falling on the beach into the salty ocean,
with the child crying but practicing apathy.
and it is those very
apathetic people in this twisting world
that watch the ribbons tangle and detangle
and fly away. life is a warm blanket
around us, enveloping and cushioning
our falls. there's meaning in those unanswerable
things, dates are for expression and not for
outcome, as well as days.
the thunder is shouting outside my
window as i think of all thoughts at one time,
which is something we all do, but don't realize
until we're falling asleep at night with a black
canvas
infront of us.
black isn't black; it's a lack of color. if god
doesn't exist, neither do we after death - therefore -
what color shall we see when
we don't exist? we will not be a being,
but perhaps just a thought in the brain of
what, something, the big I Dont Know
seeing for not ourselves, and
no one, not existing,
no light, no black, just this Nothing that's
impossible to find and impossible to avoid.
if the mind never rests, then i don't rest,
and people write too late at night
and i write while i am half
sleeping, with the world
at my neurotransmitters, and there's a
beat going on, holding it all in
place and holding threads together, and
giving people reasons for things it can't yet
understand
things no one can fathom
puzzled, like eating scrambled eggs
while the chicken is still being born
over-easy world, simplicity in complexity, such a
kaleidiscopic pattern of truth and wisdom, and this
loom
knows where all the pieces go and there is some reason
for their placement. what a dazzling keyboard we are,
being tapped out into several lives
by long skinny fingers
of our own kind.
swallowing a stomach, dreaming is when the hands
are pulled out of one puppet,
pulling it into reverse,
existing in the backwards world
that one in the mirror
that coexists when you're sleeping.
unknowingly.
what a Plan we have,
the "ease-of-use" label on our foreheads, from
rotting body to egg to a living spectre
and some word i don't yet know
closing time for the day-brain, time for those
acidic thoughts that come when i'm in the haze
of life and the mirror. that place in between
is filled w/ purple patterns of randomness, and
the delicate dropping off of one conciousness
smell is gone before you knew
you had the ability to sense it
and taste, touch, hearing
seeing, can't feel yourself,
halfway into the next void
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