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Farrell Dyde
D  A  N  C  E    T  H  E  A  T  R  E

        The Horseís Mouth

        Once a wooden horse,
        no Trojan he
        for his arrival
        had been strictly legit,

        no Vaudeville of the mind,
        no jugglers, no dumb acts,
        nothing trivial here,
        no Ethel Merman, no fear

        just a muddy track to pursue
        with no particular challenge
        to find or not to find --
        its your choice so take it.

        Hobby horse put out to pasture,
        burrs cling to my shiny pants --
        signs of voyages to lands
        both domestic and exotic,

        Quixotic ways hard to tame,
        a whole horse is difficult
        to eat, the cost of horse
        meat being what it is

        but that was another time
        and nothing comes of it
        and is nothing for a jockey
        to sneer at, peering as he is wont to do

        at the vast horizon -- that blue
        nothingness that awaits us all
        such folderol at the finish line
        (Darling be mine before its done.)

        Oh, but thatís a horse
        of a different color --
        a houndstooth born
        of a checkered past.

        But on this day I placed a bet
        upon myself Ė not to place
        but to win, chagrin
        falling by the wayside,

        the slippery sun slip slip sliding
        behind the silvery moon
        only for a moment as I --
        having it made in the shade --

        sip sip sipping on a freshly made
        homey lemonade
        and gliding along like
        a toy sailboat on Central Park Lake,

        no dancing in the dark,
        a Charles Iveís symphony thrashing
         suggestively in the background
        (found objects making a collage of sound),

        ground swelling suggestively
        beneath me, I charge forward
        upon noble steed, reins held in check
        (thereís that check again)

        then slowly I retreat
        not knowing of what I speak
        knowing only that
        I have always loved you

        and always will even after
        my fateful spill
        falling off the horse,
        then getting on again, knowingly,

        knowing, knowing, knowing
        very well what it is truly all about --
        that there is no finish line -- this
        direct from the horseís mouth.


        Razzle Dazzle Day

        This is not an advertisement,
        nor an admonishment
        but rather an acknowledgment
        of something greater

        than the sum of its parts --
        an artifice so simple,
        a gliding upon the surface
        like a slick water bug

        upon a summerís lazy day
        not to be mistaken
        for some deeply considered thought
        wrought by years of consternation

        for the formation of this idea
        was but a millisecond in formation
        an overcoming of rationality --
        a challenge to habitual reality

        almost Zen like in its perfection
        of a moment in time
        that slips by if one is not
        paying strict attention

        being oneís own guru
        so to speak or rather
        not to speak but to
        shout out in silence:

        Say Hey! Say Hey! Say Hey!
        like Willy Mays playing
        baseball late into October
        parlaying a mere game into

        delirious wonderment
        and that savage ineffable thing
        called joy in living -- Good Morning,
        Morning Glory (As my mother used to say)

        But back now to my story,
        something rather superficial
        and I must confess that
        I am a bit embarrassed

        to say that only
        the most profound
        feelings are aroused
        by something so simple:

        A beautiful young womanís smile
        at me Ė yes me, old gentleman
        that I now am in a Subway
        sandwich place no less,

        a worker speaking marginal,
        mongrel English, no finishing school
        for her but she dazzled as she
        took the six inch white loaf

        with roast chicken, spinach, lettuce,
        onions, tomatoes and such grace,
        I could hardly contain my face
        with her razzle dazzle way

        of doing almost nothing
        and damn if she didnít
        make my day  -- Hell,
        she made my week.



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