Nosebleed

By Ethan Voorhees

Floodlights drain 
     and rubber-soles incense the theater 
     actor’s ankles trace way to the stage 
     curtain undrawn 
                              Praying Mantis hook-fingers tap-drag my shoulder 
                                                    and Squirrel cheekbones lean in 
                 He whispers, have you seen this one before 
                             It’s impolite to talk during a eulogy. Other ones; similar, never the same 
                 His tongue distends his cheeks, this one’s special—the audience gets involved  
                            I wrote the first act 
Ten officiants claim front-row seats 
An empty auditorium 
packed with by for nosebleeds 

                                          [THE FOUR SEASONS by VIVALDI plays] 

                  The curtain drew,  
                  birthing a trisected stage,  
                  populated by three buildings of paper mâché clay bricks:  
                  one—marked a quill;  
                  two—marked a tape measure;  
                  three—marked a brush.  
Performers in berry blue skin suits filed one neat column. 
                  Factory belt traced into rooms:  
quills and brushes and brushes and quills,  
                  performers emerging cloaked 
                  in overcast gowns 
and umbrella caps 

                                          [SUMMER HEATS UP] 

                 He whispers, when does the audience get involved 
                             It’s impolite to talk during a eulogy. They’re already getting involved 
I bend over the nosebleed’s railing, a besuited man flagged down the conductor. The music man moved, orchestra pit groaning. He leaned. A frown carved his cheeks. A nod. The officiants were sculpted: a man in burgundy squished his lips against the median of his hand and shook his head; another hugged themselves and rocked back and forth, massaging their triceps; a third began to quietly sob. 
                              He asks, what’s wrong with them 
                                     They’re mourning—even grieving 
                             The arts?  
                                             I laugh 

                                           [THE MELODY SNOWS IN]  

 Legato Adagio. The blueberries glanced around before marching once more. A quill—a string orchestra screech; a brush—a wind ensemble wail. A percussionist scaled the stage, directing the blueberries along. One performer reached for a brush, and the percussionist played snare on the back of cloaked hands. A third—then a fourth—then a fifth. 
The officiant of the officiants rose and screamed, God, will anyone put a stop to this? 
Another: It’s heresy! 
Ten shot their hands up and cheered in unison. 
The percussionist retrieved the bass drum’s mallet and swung and crumbled maroon paint pock-marked paper bricks to the floor and again striking down another building before tossing the orphaned mallet. 
The ten CHEERED. They LEAPT from their seats; rejuvenated. Fruitformers were DIRECTED into the third, final building. 
Officiants patted one another on the back. Look at the turnover, one whispered. Our best applicant cycle yet, one mouthed. They build bridges, one grinned. Nine others stirred, they build bridges, they build bridges, yes they do, yes they do, the finest bridges.                   
                  lines thinned 
and the curtain drew 
ten synchronous swimmers bounced 
seal hands smacked 
their leader turned to me and stared 
                  bloodshot eyes 
a glowing gummy smile 
                  and a nosebleed 
he shook his fists 
and he screamed 
encore.