Trekking through the tall grass; underneath is unknown.
Snakes slither and scorpions shake their stingers, feeling
trembling pulses vibrating on the ground. The critters
Stay low, interpreting and absorbing their anxious fear.
Shivering shoots the droplets off their damp cotton
Shirts, falling like massive raindrops onto the brown
Dirt beneath the brush, alarming the creeping inhabitants.
Even the audience walked away from Arthur Miller, our most adult
of theatre artists, and took up with Edward Albee, the vaudeville
crybaby grown bored of the Rye circuit. Here they stand, pissing
on blank canvasses and drawing pink moustaches onto Renaissance
portraits. One guy added a tampon string dangling along the inner thigh
of Ruben’s rotund chick. They’re sawing a Bernini sculpture in half.