write this, effable and ineffable both

write this

emmer effer

a pretend genius broadsuction

some days are better than none

the message board

Vaudeville Balance, The General, Cuffs Rolled

Julia W. Roberts

I. Vaudeville Balance

I’ve simply been brought up being knocked down.

—Buster Keaton

The fall comes natural.

Please don’t ask for love scenes,

or dolled-up drammy, or

teeth! That’s a bore, and Fatty

knows it, too. Anyhow, it

cramps Buster’s style something awful!

Natural, like the falls

at Niagara, he says—a picture

without ‘em would be like

Niagara in the same fix.

Get this: he’s a charging soldier

tripping over his sword.

The fall comes natural from a kid

whose pop brought him onstage on a platter

at 6 weeks and then chucked him around

until all he could want was laughter.

Turns out he broke his neck doing a picture,

but only just a little,

he found out later.

II. The General

“Take it off!” so stony,

wilting, he shrugs off the uniform—

they couldn’t use him but he

used it. somehow it fit.

Heroes of the day but no pay

for the accidental espionage, the bumbled

rescue, the locomotive theft—victory—

and now love, the P.O.W., still won’t commit.

the general tosses the replacement,

a discard, thrust. what does it take? unsung,

unkissed, one arm in, then the other, and

then the stag hat, and then oh!

“Enlist the Lieutenant”!

now love sees.

“Occupation?”

“Soldier.” puffed out chest.

kiss around in circles,

locomotive bliss.

III. Cuffs Rolled

droop-sleeved and coiffed he walks the track,

the locomotive slats, in Oregon flat,

remembering warm peaches and insect swarms,

gashing rocks and pushing wind—oh, to be a kid.

stop. reload.

this time he’ll run, chasing after

the train that is always escaping

in the shot before, though not this time,

never in this scene.

boards are splintered, thick, but

he doesn’t need a warning not to trip.

pants are suspended on his small frame, but

they fit—not like the ready-made from the war

he was in. cuffs rolled, then. that fighting

was real, but he missed it, and mimed instead

for the charmed French—purloining baguettes,

never slamming his back against the wall of a trench.

rolling.

scruffy brush thrives in the dust and Buster

kicks up clouds. this time he’ll go quicker,

more frantic, to catch the train that isn’t there.

when they watch it later

at the wrong speed

it’ll be frenzy—his best.

and at the Beverly Hills Italian Villa

the guests will encroach,

and he’ll drink a little more.

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An undergraduate student of English. Never been published before. I would like to begin my collection of rejection letters, and would be honored to be initiated into that fun side of the writer’s life by Write This. Publication would be okay, too.

writeThis.com, pretendgenius.com, cafehopeless.com and author.