The SLAM! Green Room

What's a chupa? Is that a special kind of sausage???


Witness

Witness my murder of form. See how I slice off her limbs - her rhythm, her rhyme - all the elemental parts that would make her recognizable as poetry. Look at the mess I made - another prose poem.

I feel guilty. I should just bury this whole mess in the woods, but I would bungle that also, leaving one of Form's flawless feet peeking out from under leaves to be found by a curious reader. Perhaps if I dump it all in the river...but no, they would manage to dredge up some alliterative words, a few water-logged remains of that Form that had gone missing days ago from some poet's desk. And besides, there are witnesses... To do it proper, I suppose I would have to get rid of all of you.

So go ahead and tell them! After all, it wasn't really murder. It was more like manslaughter - a violent emotional response. Oh, that Form - so beautiful, so untouchable, so unattainable for the likes of me! Go ahead - handcuff me so I am restrained from even holding a pen. Don't let me write my own confession. I am too indecisive to be a poet.