Matadors/ Flyer Girl By Chris Chandler Flyer Girl by Paul Benoit Understand that this entire poem takes place in a split second. Which is to some an eternity. Such as the split second between the flight of a trapeze artist and the moment she grasps the hand of her catcher. flyer girl, you whistle in the morning and you start to twirl to deal with the yearning and you found a pearl, with the whole town burning "Ladies and Gentlemen" I thought to myself but the words just wouldn't come out – not this time. One hundred thousand times before the words have flown freely – but not this time… I fumbled in the front pocket of my red velvet jacket and pulled out my notes… yep that's what it says alright – "Ladies and Gentle…"   What was I to do?  It wouldn't come… Panic over came me – this city of bridges could leave you in stitches and ridin on two wheels could drive you to ditches you're better in the air then behind the switches I peaked through the closed curtains and peered into a sea of dull faces waiting to be entertained. The words would not come. Their empty eyes glinting like the lights of a ship viewed from beneath the water. I found myself swimming in their sea, hungry. Fish can not see above the water – occasionally they can make out movements gestures – even danger above the water… sometimes… on a clear day… they will gather in a school to watch…for  there is a thin line between the water and the air and it is only in the middle of that thin line one knows there is another world out there.   For as Einstein pointed out: "Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one." Perhaps that thin line between them is a red velvet curtain. your red hair glows like a late night ember and everybody knows but sometimes they don't remember you're waitin for the show, you're waitin for the show A performer on a bright stage can not see into the darkened audience but he knows there is another world out there. The audience does too. Like a school of fish… It is why they came. Only the curtain exists between us. And that curtain must go up. and everyday's a stage and everyone's a player so girl just turn the page your stunts are your prayers you're waitin for the show, you're waitin for the show It is the performer and the audience together that can lift the veil between the worlds known and unknown. But only if someone dives in. And we must dive in. To go freely – not knowing your own weight. The house lights go to half – but I realize… I can not swim. But still I dive in… The school swims together in perfect unison like aerial fliers knowing no gravity except that of their comradory and their desire for spectacle. Flips and turns and loopty loops and unpredictable pirouettes. . But it is my turn to fly freely – to add my component to the presentation – But the words would not come. and if you go freely you won't feel your own weight if you go freely you won't feel your won weight if you go freely you won't feel your own weight The stage manager is back stage with a hook. In Terror. I break from the school. Swimming. Alone.  Hungry. Eyeing a  silver spinner – I am thinking it's dinner time – but as soon as I bite -- out of the blue -- a magic string sucks me from the known universe…   Suddenly, I am lieng on the deck of a boat floundering. Their are aliens wearing bright orange vests and baseball hats and butterfly nets. I am unable to breath in the alien's atmosphere.  All seems lost.   The lights continue to fade.   The red velvet curtain rises you wake up in the evening wondering what the day was for you learned about gravity and that less was more you're movin your body, you're movin your body The applause sputters and dies out leaving me with an uncomfortable silence… a full five minutes passes – the silence turns to heckles as Fruit flies freely – not knowing its own weight – I am floundering. I am floundering. everyday you're thrown and everyday you tumble like a flower grown it leaves you feelin humble you're waitin for the show, you're waitin for the show I remove my jacket to use it as a shield to dodge the fruit but a Bull sees it as a signal to charge.  There is a large swelling of applause from the empty ocean. It gives me confidence.   "Ladies and…" Perhaps it is applause that allows one to defy gravity. "Gentleman!" They are cheering loudly… and then I realize they are rooting for the bull. if you go freely you won't feel your own weight 3 x But I don't care that they are rooting for the bull.  At least they are cheering… I  am unaware of my own weight. For tonight… I must be Myro the Magnificent: the heralded undisputed – undefeated Greatest Matador of all time… Then I have the sinking revelation that the bull really is charging and all LIVING matadors are undefeated. you fly through the air, with a soft breeze blowin and you don't even care, what the people think they're knowin and the ones that you thrill, they're all standin still The Stage manager has set down her hook and replaced it with a butterfly net.   I am floundering on the deck.  The aliens scoop me into a net and toss me back into the water. Where I witness the tiniest of tiny minnows performing a beatific ballet for an audience of much larger fish in an effort to convince it that they are indeed enormous – which is not unlike the reason that insecure performers emolliate themselves for approval. I try to join them – but now I am an old guy with a hook in my mouth trying to convince the school that there is life beyond what you can see in this universe.   Naturally, they don't believe me – they put me on a reality TV and I find myself trying to convince Jerry Springer that I was abducted by aliens. I am a laughing stock – but at least – they are laughing… At last, I can fly. I CAN fly. this city of bridges could leave you ion stitches and ridin on two wheels could drive you to ditches you're better in the air then behind the switches There are many ways to convince an audience that there is another world that exists within this world of dreary theatre seats and boxes of stale greasy pop corn. For you must remember that this entire poem takes place in a split second. and if you go freely you won't feel your own weight if you go freely you won't feel your won weight if you go freely you won't feel your own weight Which to some is an eternity. Such as the split second between the flight of a trapeze artist… "Ladies and Gentlemen" … and she grasps the hand of her catcher. A split second in which we all can fly… "Come gather round me people!" One in which fish can walk… "Yawza Yawza Yawza!" One in which the bull dons a red cape and trades his horns for a sword. "Step right up!" One in which the bird is free from the chains of the sky…. and if you go freely you won't feel your own weight if you go freely you won't feel your won weight if you go freely you won't feel your own weight The curtain is up. I hear the applause and I realize that I am right… that THIS is the alternative universe…. In he split second between when the trapeze artist flies – and she grasps the hand of her catcher… Which is the split second between two hands clapping.

Winter Poem By Chris Chandler If you're traveling in the north country fair
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline
Remember me to one who lives there
She once was the true love of mine.

 Most people think of winter as merely a frozen period. The poets draw metaphors of death – the withering away of life, moving on from the autumn years into your inevitable demise. Damn poets! e.e. cummings, said, "The snow doesn't give a soft white damn whom it touches." I always liked that about winter. Snow makes your weed-infested junkyard look just as nice as your Presbyterian neighbor's manicured fescue. If you go when the snowflakes storm
When the rivers freeze and summer ends
Please see if she's a coat so warm
To keep her from the howlin' winds.

Winter is something you can feel in your bones. It makes us aware of our skeletal structure as it strips the trees of summer, allowing us to behold the bones of the earth. We see her landscapes without her gaudy gardenias and great green summer trees, her trendy autumn scarves, or her whorey spring negligees of tulips and bumblebees.  We see the earth naked – as we see our lover the next morning. Make-up kissed away. The low slant of winter's morning light reveals the angles of her jaw line. Down comforters and a sluggish sunrise let us stay in bed a little longer as we look within. Please see if her hair hangs long
If it rolls and flows all down her breast
Please see from me if her hair hangs long
That's the way I remember her best.

Some creatures hibernate. For them, winter is gone in a flash – but it is the cold of winter that gives them the strength to make it through the rest of the coldhearted year. "April is the cruelest month." – T. S. Elliot It is winter that taught the ant generosity and the grasshopper responsibility. OK, OK – in the original, the ant ate the grasshopper over the long cold winter – but I bet the grasshopper learned his lesson.  I'm a-wonderin' if she remember me at all
Many times I've often prayed
In the darkness of my night
In the brightness of my day.

George Santayana said, "To be interested in the changing seasons is a happier state of mind than to be hopelessly in love with spring."  Perhaps there is a reason that so many people could not start a conversation with a stranger if it were not for the weather. So if you're travelin' in the north country fair
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline
Remember me to one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine. (Dove tailed) God bless the winter, for it is both an end and a beginning. It is something that brings us to praise the hard yellow warmth of chimneys, gather in tighter circles to hear the tales of the harsher seasons – until the snow melts, when we can venture out into the severity of spring armed with fresh vim to conquer the oncoming year. 

Oakland (At the Corner of Poverty and Inspiration.)
By Chris Chandler "That truck sounded like a woman singing." She said, as the first sounds of Monday morning traffic made themselves familiar with the Off Ramp Studio where I live.  It is like waking to the inspiration of a world in motion.  Oakland.
 Oakland is the strained vocal chords of a croaky California situated deep in the mouth of the San Francisco Bay.

At the Corner of Poverty and Inspiration.
 ****** 
Trucks and barges.  Commuter trains and bicycles. The BART whips by the third floor so close you can pass notes to commuters. Here at the corner of 880 and 580 there is a yellow truck stop and a blue collar bar that flank the purple building as multi-colored giant container ships unload truck sized boxes upon eighteen wheels of glass and steel.  Oakland.

The whole building vibrates with the sound of America shouting through a mouth made of two interstate on-ramps, that entangle and clover leaf round the building like chords of kudzu feeding ravenous America with vessels full Chinese plastic, so she can defecate discounted alien wares and with-alls out onto the green lawns formed by the septic tank known as America.  Oakland.
 ********** 
Oakland has always been the Gateway to the East.  She was the start of the Intercontinental Railroad whose golden spike was driven into the coffin of agrarian America in 1881.  Oakland.

The end of the line.  Weary easterners who followed the call “go west, young man,” could do so no more, unless they climbed aboard ocean bound freighters that filled her harbors. And many did. It was the gold rush of '49 that brought so many to Oakland's shores, and although there was little gold to be found there was plenty of timber with which San Francisco would be built.  But it was also the Gold Rush of '97 – the Klondike Gold Rush – that fanned the flames of a nomadic nation eager to migrate further into the vicious cold, in search of a more viscous gold. Oakland.

At the corner of Broadway and Embarcadero, Jack London would embark upon such journeys through that bitter cold, igniting infernos in many a restless heart.  His words are emblazoned, "I would rather be ashes than dust."

But these days, it is dust – chalk dust –  that outlines the bodies of too many restless hearts departing on a very different journey.  Oakland.

There is a plaque and a statue, and even a ritzy marina named for the socialist and radical Jack London, but there is no plaque or monument at the corner of 56th and Grove where the socialist and radical Black Panther Party was formed, offering free breakfasts to the children of a workforce that had served as the anchor for Oakland's once humming wartime ship industry.  But when the shipping industry cut its chains and sailed, it left its anchor to rust in the ghettos.  Oakland.

********** The Kaiser shipping industry recruited hundreds of thousands of African Americans from primarily Louisiana in the '30s and '40s creating the blackest population in the United States west of New Orleans.  The smell of Cajun cuisine still mingles with jazz along cracked sidewalks at the corner of Adversity and Revelation.  Oakland.

In the 60s there were no Jim Crow laws in California, but still racial tensions smoldered in the heat as jobs evaporated.  

From Jack London to Bobby Seals and Huey Newton. Sly and the Family Stone to Ed Kelly and Pharaoh Sanders.  Yoshi's to The AK Press.  The Black Giants and the Colored Elite to the Oakland Larks.  Bullet Meadows to Catfish Hunter and George Blanda.  The Black Hole.   Black Panthers. Hell's Angels. Oakland.
 ************* 
But all cities in America have their duplicities, hypocrisies and underbellies.  Oakland is often viewed as the poor, ugly step-child of flowery San Francisco.  San Francisco is indeed a rose – and perhaps Oakland is the thorn.  But remember the thorn protects the rose – without the thorn there could be no rose – yet without the flower there is still the bush. Oakland.
 At the Corner of Poverty and Inspiration.


Lightning Bugs and Barflies When the night has come
And the land is dark 
And the moon is the only light we'll see
 So I was listening to classic rock on the radio, driving along the Pennsylvania Turn Pike in mid summer towards Pittsburgh I found myself driving through a sea of fire flies blinking in unison with the orange construction hazards No I won't be afraid, no I won't be afraid
 Just as long as you stand, stand by me I think back to the last time I was in Pittsburgh back in March. Out of wrought, I walked down to my favorite little Irish bar to sit and write. Usually this is a quiet Irish bar where I drink Jameson's and scribble silently until I have hallucinations of being Dylan Thomas. But on this - St Patrick's Day weekend - my sweet little retreat has hired of all things a Karaoke DJ. A sign on the door announces that "ladies drink for free." 
 And darlin', darlin', stand by me, oh now now stand by me
Stand by me, stand by me 
The funny thing about fireflies is that it is only the male that flickers. 
They do this in the hopes of attracting a female. 
If no female firefly can be found males will join forces and begin to blink in unison in hopes that their combined brilliance will pierce the sultry southern air and reach the heart (or at least the thorax) 
of their beloved. 
If the sky that we look upon
Should tumble and fall
And the mountains should crumble to the sea
 At the bar in Pittsburgh, barflies are garnished in blinking green 
shamrocks and unbearable green paper hats, yet I cannot break from my 
own tradition. After all, I came here to write and this is what is 
happening. I order a green beer, accept my own blinking shamrock, and 
find the only open table. Familiar acoustic guitar chords leak from the sound system as the Karaoke DJ rummages for a potential participant. 
 I won't cry, I won't cry, no I won't shed a tear
Just as long as you stand, stand by me. And darlin', darlin', stand by me, oh stand by me
 Stand by me, stand by me, stand by me-e, yeah A single firefly escapes the windshield of my car and burns in a rhythm all his own. 
I wonder, what do fireflies think as they enliven their luminous bodies, captive in a giant mayonnaise jar? Do they dream of trying to pick them selves up by their tiny little bootstraps as 
they slide down the glass? At the bar I get into an argument with a libertarian saying the poor deserve what they get and they should pull themselves up by their boot straps as one lone brave soul steps to the karaoke microphone to intone the 
ubiquitous. Whenever you're in trouble won't you stand by me, oh now now stand by me
 Oh stand by me, stand by me, stand by me Some unseen force makes two lightening bugs blink together -- just 
once. As someone at the table next to me mutters beneath his breath 
Once-hollow eyes gleam like fireflies piercing a once sullen darkness. 
Strangers saunter in and join in the chorus. Darlin', darlin', stand by me-e, stand by me
 Oh stand by me, stand by me, stand by me strangers clink glasses - and swear undying friendship - bound by 
lyrics inscribed upon our psyche by the tattoo needles of elevators, 
and grocery store ambiance. 
 The libertarian fumbles for change to buy another green beer I pick up his tab saying, "Stand by me." 
 He continues his argument citing Rosa Parks as an example of the individual being at the heart of settling the worlds tribulations. I say if you think a middle aged cleaning woman from Montgomery Alabama single handedly started the civil rights movement – than you probably think Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. When the night has come
And the land is dark
 And the moon is the only light we'll see
 It occurs to me that the reason some people want us poor folks to 
pull ourselves up by our own bootstraps is to get us to bend over. 

The highway looks as if it were webbed by a single strand of 
Christmas lights -- dazzling in harmony, blinking as one - while a 
thousand car radios are tuned to Rush Limbaugh - ironically 
spewing "The poor should pull themselves up by their bootstraps." 

The whole bar sings together. I won't cry, I won't cry, no I won't shed a tear
 Just as long as you stand, stand by me Aware of my own awkwardness in accepting the fact that such an absurd 
pop song has captured the zeitgeist of my generation; too wrapped up 
in the group experience to care Darlin', darlin', stand by me-e, stand by me 
Oh stand by me, stand by me, stand by me I strike my cigarette lighter and hold it in the air. Others follow suit. Cigarette lighters slice open the darkness. We, like fireflies, are greater as a collective, as a whole - as a union - than we could ever be alone. 
I, as a child, unlock the mayonnaise jar prison and the captive fantastic are set free. 
 The song ends. The applause erupts - spontaneous cacophony which 
quickly evolves into uniform blasts of simultaneous rhythmic rifle 
fire. Its pace quickens. Soon everyone in the room is clapping in 
unison - and then – they begin to sway in unison. 

Strangers link arms. Some go home together. 

Darkness descends as one by one each solitary sparkle is extinguished. 

But in that darkness a new generation of fireflies is created.... 


One Percent by Chris Chandler I love my country but i fear her corporation Oh mighty 1%, “Class Warfare,” you cry? When clearly it is you has been waging class warfare for half a century. by laying siege on our houses with your army of banks and turned us into refugees. If you did not want us on the streets you should not have foreclosed on our houses. Class Warfare? You have invaded our pensions, and carpet bombed our job markets. Incarcerated our poor for ridiculous crimes such as growing dope in our own apartments - making us prisoners of war, in YOUR class war. Yet none of you are prisoners. Wall Street wrecked our economy yet no one was convicted - hell I would get convicted if I so much as wrecked my car. I will believe in Corporate Citizenship when I see one get treated the way they treat me. If these corporations want the rights of citizens they should also have the accountability as citizens I know if I perpetrated the crimes these corporations commit - I would be in county lock up. I say put the corporations themselves in Prison Some Say Tax the rich? I say Jail the rich. And if there is not enough room in the united states penetanry system for those guilty of corporate crimes - let the guy who’s in there for growing dope out - to make room for the corporate guys. So why are we in the streets? how about 15 million people who are upside down on their mortgages yet record prophets from the banks AFTER the very people who are upside down on their mortgages bailed the banks out? Our so called elected officials have been reduced to the role of doddering greeter at The Great Wal-Mart of China. I say, “Tear down that Wall (street,) Mr Bernanke!” What we need here is a separation of Corporation and State. otherwise we should just change our name from the United States of America to The Bank of America. It is YOU, Oh mighty 1% that has raked in record prophets, while refusing to pay taxes I think it is funny you see these stock brokers drinking champaign in their Wall Street offices looking down at the protestors complaining that we are un- civilized. Well remember what Oliver Wendell Holmes said, “Taxes are the price you pay for a civilized society.” calling yourself the job creators. Yea, you are creating jobs alright... in third world countries. Why do they hate us? No, you are the Job creators - as in the book of Job. YOU making your wager with the devil - creating doubters among the righteous by destroying our possessions, and turning our social safety-net into a hammock for yourself. But these are not the Sixties protesters. There is a big difference. The Sixties protestors were brought up in the brand-loyal fifties - these kids were major consumers of all kinds of goods. They queued up to buy groovy Carnaby Street “Mod Gear” and “Wear Your Love Like Heaven” cosmetics. Today’s protester does not BUY anything. They won’t shop at GAP - they run Wal-Mart out of town – hell, they won’t even go to Starbucks. So why are we in the streets? how about 24 million unemployed in spite of record prophets from major corporations. and those who are lucky enough to be employed find that the CEO makes 250 times what the employees - the ones that are actually doing the work make. It is like Giulo Prisco said, “I have no issue with those who do something useful, making 100 times more money than me. I have many issues with those who produce nothing, destroy value, make others homeless and poor, scam the entire world, and make 10000 times more money than me. Those must go, along with the insane system that makes their scams possible.” Oh, before the Berlin Wall fell, we Americans loved to talk about how the Soviet Union would broadcast only the songs of the state and we romanticized that it was our radio broadcasts wafting in from West Berlin that tore down the wall.   Yet now, the cell phone’s in the other hand. There is a new wall running down divided America. And it is American media that is being manipulated by the agenda of the state. because the state has become indistinguishable from the corporation – which needs sponsors more than it needs an electorate. But I am warning you, there is something in the air, and soon it will be the peoples’ webcasts tweeting in from someone named ANONYMOUS that tears down the wall, and this time it will not be the Berlin Wall that falls - - it will be Wall Street.

Freedom Is… I offered first choice of dueling pistols to an ATM and considered it a fair fight. I missed and hit the little camera above it’s head and the machine cried out with a heavy computer accent “free at last, Free at last thank god I am free at last.” ************************* Like a bird on the wire
 Like a drunk in a midnight choir
 I have tried in my way to be free
 ************************* On the corner I found freedom locked inside a 1992 Chevy Malibu. The safety belt was stuck and she could not exit the vehicle. She had been trapped there for years and was barely hanging on to life sucking substance from miles of abandoned dreams. I untangled the thin yellow lines from infinite highways which had ensnared her like chords of Kudzu swallowing power-lines on an Alabama back road. I bought her a tank of gas and together we took off. I can’t say for sure but I think we cut cookies in the parking lot for ten years until we ran out of gas. the only thing I know for sure is that when she finally raised the trunk we were in the same gas station parking lot and freedom had not changed a bit. She left me there dizzy, alone and I was forced to fill out a missing persons report. The cops reluctantly wrote down my description as I said. ************************* 
Like a worm on a hook 
Like a knight from some old fashioned book
 I have saved all my ribbons for thee

 ****************** I said, is a full tank of gas. She is a blank yellow legal pad sitting on the driver seat of a $250 pick up truck. sold as is. The cop interrupted me and said no – what does she look like – I said She is glancing in the mirror and not noticing yourself. She is recognizing the wanton glint in a stranger’s eye and not pursuing it because you don’t have to. On a cold day, Freedom is getting your tongue stuck on the frozen metal while giving a blow job to a bronze statue of the city’s fathers – just because they need one so. Freedom is using the word blow job so that your list of platitudes will not wind up printed on a poster hanging in the bath room room of an insurance salesman living in the suburbs of a minor American city. If I, if I have been unkind 
I hope that you can just let it go by 
If I, if I have been untrue
 I hope you know it was never to you

 ******************** Freedom dances with strangers. She is dancing alone Freedom is dancing with your lover Dancing with your mother Dancing with your ex Is tipping well when you can’t afford it. Is waxing your mustache into a Salvador Dali and letting small children play with the curly cues. is drawing mustaches and underarm hair on advertisements hanging in the subway – then writing a letter to the ad company thanking them for printing the ads that way. Oh, like a baby, stillborn 
Like a beast with his horn 
I have torn everyone who reached out for me

 ********************** Freedom is premature reincarnation is making eye contact with the blind the cops looked confused until I spotted her out of the corner of my eye gathering a group of pedestrians for a rousing chorus of “no more chanting.” Freedom is thanking a god you don’t believe in knowing that the world could be no more imperfect than if it were absolutely flawless. is losing a contest, shaking the hand of the winner, looking them in the eye and saying, No hard feelings. is having hard feelings. taking those hard feelings and tying them to a stick so that they can be used as a hammer to build a cathedral for your for the one that made you feel that way. obeying stop lights you see on TV giving credit to the space as one of the letters in the alphabet 
 ************************* I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch
 He said to me, "You must not ask for so much" 
And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door
 She cried to me, "Hey, why not ask for more?"
 ************************* Eventually the cops got frustrated and wandered off in the direction of the crowd that had gathered yelling “no more chanting.” the cops joined in arresting them all for civil obedience. Last I heard she is still in county lockup some where north of the Macon county line. I visited her once though I am not convinced she recognized me. ************************* But I swear by this song
 And by all that I have done wrong 
I will make it all up to thee
 
Oh, like a bird on the wire
 Like a drunk in a midnight choir
 I have tried in my way to be free ************************* Though fifteen years had passed – her trial had still not come up and no one had posted bail. She offered me a dueling pistol and pointed me towards an ATM.

Piloting paper Airplanes By Chris Chandler I stared at a blank page inside of a new note book… dreaming of the worlds that could unfold from its pages – but the blank page just stared back at me with infinite blankness waiting to see who would blink first – it was me.  The blank page glowered at me in triumphant smugness until I ripped from the note book and folded it into a paper air plane and sailed it out the window of my fourth story apartment building – dreaming of the rocket and the stars… I piloted that paper airplane past power-lines and traffic lights… police helicopters and automobile radio antennae -  before I landed it next to a parking meter on a city sidewalk and was arrested for littering. While in prison I accepted a temporary tattoo that read youth.   In my youth, I remember, my older brother playing with match box cars on the living room floor – having such a good time – making up stories about the places the people in the cars would go to – but I was the kid brother – I could not join them – but I had an adventure. But then I remembered my brother had borrowed my allowance from me (stolen it really but we won't go into that) for an RC Cola and a moon pie – but in short – he owed me money! So I made a deal that I would forgive the debt if he would just give me that match box car. He did so – and I found myself alone with a brand new automobile – lonely as I ever was – but it was then I realized it was not the car at all I wanted – it was the imagination. Look, just because it is make believe does not mean I don't believe it…. I mean – What is true?  Read the news paper… It is amazing to me how far a story with no legs to stand on can walk.  Facts are clearly useless – unless used in a metaphor… But most importantly…  just because you believe it doesn't mean it is true. Which is why I always say – I'm so cynical I am optimistic. (What are you STILL doing that old cynical routine?) Painting with broad strokes like this may cover a large canvas – but when you do – you can't see the picture unless you are standing on Mars.   And when standing on Mars everyone is dreaming of the rocket and the stars.  And when sailing in a rocket through the stars all one dreams of is solid ground.   Perhaps it is good that all we want is what we cant have – cause if head everything we wanted what would dream of?   So go ahead… Dream of being up there – in a rocket in the stars – for up there you realize that PT Barnum was wrong… the greatest show on earth is life… if ya don't like it you should find better seats. and once you're in it's general admission…  There are no cheap seats but there are some very expensive ones. So make friends with the usher – and don't be afraid to crash the gates on the more expensive seats… And to do that you're gonna need a ladder. But don't be afraid when you get up there – because the harder you fall… … the higher you bounce. It is far better to climb the real latter of the imagination than to climb the pretend latter of success – for the latter of imagination is held aloft by the foundation of Shakespeare and de Gaul. The latter of success is held aloft by the marionette strings of the Koch Brothers and Donald Trump And when you get there – who would you rather have a beer with? Up one latter it is a world where in front of every great woman is man standing in front taking all the credit. Up the other – anything can happen.  And remember – as the big bang taught us – it can't exist here – if doesn't exist out there first.  – so just imagine… What I am trying to say is… life is sweet… unless you don't want it to be… and as any good southerner who has ever ordered iced tea before knows – for that you have to make a special request.

A toast to the Stage Hands by Chris Chandler So this lawyer dies and gets into heaven – Saint Peter says, "Welcome to Heaven, come on in" This politician gets to the pearly gates, and Saint Peter says, "Welcome to Heaven, come on in" The stagehand gets there, and Saint Peter says, "The loading dock is around the back." Ya know the difference between a homeless person and a stagehand? A laminate. That's how most of the jokes go… 'cuz ya see… ,,,the stagehand never gets celebrated – he is too busy setting the stage for the celebration.  In fact, there can be no celebration without him – nothing like doing the load in for your own party. So I say its time for a toast to the stagehand… … the noble profession. The world's third oldest profession. The stagehand. I mean the oldest is the prostitute, the second is the pimp. Somebody had to set the stage for the ultimate in live entertainment. So… Here's to you, the stage hand… all of you … the wrench slingers, the truss climbers, the box pushers and doc jockeys, the color girls and best boys, the cookie cutters, merch mongers and back line humpers. The leggers of decks, the guitar and drum techs.  The tour managers, the projection booth anglers, and dog and pony wranglers. The shop stewards and dressing room screwers. The gaffers, the go-fers, the grips, the green room greeners, and the glow tape dispensers. You know why sound men only count to two? "Check one two" 'cos on "three" you have to lift. What do you call a stage electrician with a hammer? A thief. Here's to you and all your quirky rivalries. May the war between the tweaks and the squints ever rage.  I sometimes think the rivalry was created by management, knowing that the two would so often race each other to get their rig up first – as we all push towards that moment – the one we all do this for – that second… when the house lights go to half… and the hush silence befalls the crowd… and then they go out. THAT! That is the most important moment in the universe – THAT second. For it is in that second ANYTHING can happen, and it usually does. If we have done our job…together we sit beneath the blue lights, head sets engaged and listen for the moment of silence in which you can actually hear the squeaking of a hinge, that can only be the opening of the door to wonder. So here's to you… …the rag pullers and dress setters, the grid monkeys, thimble fingers and folder holders. The shills and the plants, the quick changers, set changers, props table arrangers, and marquee letter hangers. The pit geeks the buckle gluers, the touch ups and monitor men. The fluffers, and fly men, the soft goods stitchers, the floor directors, the multi vendor vendors and trap door operators. The ambient minstrels, the vaudeville idiots and projector screen vidiots. The consol programmers and program printers. The bamboo ballet brigade, The blockers, the dispatchers, and penguins.  The double shifts and stunt doubles. The drivers of freightliners and the eyeliner liners. The trick line pullers, the fork lift riders and the chain motor bridlers.  High sand getting high with the band… You know how you know when the stage is level? The rigger drools out of both sides of his mouth. You know how many stage electricians it takes to screw in a light bulb? It's not a light bulb, it's a lamp.  You know the difference between a stagehand and a pig? You won't find a pig wandering around a hotel lobby looking for a stagehand. Without the lights, the show would be… radio. So tune in my friends – stay tuned – and tune that damn thing. From usher to producer, diva to downrigger, performer to intermission lobby bartender: not a single task more important than the other. Yes, here's to you… You… ….behind the lights, behind the set, behind the crowd, behind the marquee, behind the mask, behind the scene, YOU are the scene. Here's to the finest of the fine print in the program – the finer the print the finer the job. Here's to it all! The 'vader ops, spot ops and even the rent-a-cops. The brush cleaners and tech desk meter readers.  The ushers, the catchers, the shooters, the handlers, the roach coach diners, and the ghost lamp lighters. The LD, the SD, the CD, TD, SM, MC, ME, PA, A1, L2, and 3D glasses passers. Here's to you… show people…'cos there's no people like show people like no people I know.   Here's to you that put the "u" and the "S"...the "US" in show bUSiness By putting the "You" in US.

There will always be a ring By Chris Chandler She had told her daughter to give her a ring. But the daughter asked, "Why would I give you a piece of jewelry?" "No," she said, "Call me." Still the daughter insisted. "Telephones don’t ring, they play songs." Telephones may play songs, but they still ring. They send signals to a satellite that circles the planet, that orbits the sun, that loops the galaxy as it rings the universe. Infinite. A ring. Musicians say sound travels in vibrations that ripple from its source in waves ringing like a pebble thrown in a pond. It is why bells are said to ring. Scientists say the universe is shaped like an annulus. A ring. All matter exists in the space between two circles, One inside the other. Concentric. which is the very definition of a ring. Poets say our lives are a circle. May the circle be unbroken. The circle of life. The ring of fire. Sunrise and sun down. Who are we to argue with the poets? Or the scientists? I say love has entwined our circular lives. We are now two circles. Concentric. One inside another. An annulus. The very shape of the universe. A ring. So whether there is a piece of jewelry, or a late night phone-sex telephone ring, or a song, or a poem, or the sad bells of Rhymney ringing, "What did you bring me?" The brown bells of Merthyr will answer, "A hope for the future." For there will always be a ring. For love has made our lives the shape of the universe. Infinite. A ring.

Afterlife By: Chris Chandler There is a light that wakes us up, and gets us out of bed us out of bed each day. 

 It is not the blue neon of digital clocks announcing a central point in a specific time zone. 

 Nor the orange ball breaking the horizon, 
creating the very time zones 
of day 
and night. 

Though it does create its own time zones. 

 Here. 

 Now. 
 Back then 
and tomorrow. 

 The light of life creates and crosses each of those horizons. 

 There are those that believe in an afterlife. I am one of those. 

 But after life is as complex as the soap operas of our daily lives, 
 as simple as human history itself, as misunderstood as a the pearly gates, as over interpreted as the river Styx. 

 After life is simply that: After Life. 

 The life that we leave here on earth – after life. 

It is the life we leave - the world we have helped create 
for those after our own life has left us. 

 You, Rachel, have left for us is a perfect heaven 
through the light you have shown. 


 That is that light that gets us out of bed each day… 

…may we continue to shine your light - right here - in the heaven that you have created 
so that others may feel it - right here - in the after life – forever.