Beware The Poet, For Fickle Be He copyright © 2002 Dave Ulrich

            "Beware The Poet, For Fickle Be He"
            By, Dave Ulrich

            SCENE 1

                                        A WOMAN is sitting at a table sipping a coffee. A
                                        MAN enters, hesitates observing the WOMAN. He
                                        approaches, opts not to use the chair, but rather
                                        crouches down to speak up to her intimately.

                                        He has absolutely no accent.

            I'm terribly sorry, and come here to you with great humility
            and frustration. You see, my English is astonishingly poor.
            The shortcomings of my comprehension of this language -- that
            I am now ploughing awkwardly forward in -- are almost
            immobilizing. However, the extreme grandeur of your physical
            beauty and the tremendous depth I somehow recognize in your
            eyes, force this advance of mine, despite my embarrassing and
            near-crippling inability to communicate adequately in your
            native tongue. If only I could do your many and fantastical
            attributes justice by describing them for hours on end in
            your beautiful language whose mastery continues to elude me!
            Still, I long to note the sensual curve of your upper lip,
            the sleek angle of your soft cheek, or the inviting porcelain
            smoothness of your neck, so that perhaps you would look past
            my laughable and impenetrable accent, and perchance recognize
            the tenderness of my desire and appreciation. Curse this
            feeble brain for taunting me with merely a few words to
            manipulate in this complex language of yours! Couple that
            with my sloppy construction and lack of knowledge required to
            string my miniscule vocabulary together in a way that would
            make sense... and I could well be the most frustrated man on
            Earth! Frustrated -- because I am now bowing before a most
            heavenly creature and have not the verbal acumen to share my
            recognition of your majesty, nor the skill to explain that no
            obstacle would invoke fear, if the exchange were entrance
            into your world and your heart.

                                        He places his hand over her heart on 'heart.'

                                        A beat as she looks at him incredulously.

            This is one of the most extraordinary experiences of blissful
            happenstance I have yet encountered. I suffer pleasing and
            sudden shock hearing your words, so much so that I swoon.

                                        She takes his hand from her heart and entwines
                                        her fingers in his.

            For I, too, have a terrible comprehension of this English
            language, and I am never understood. However, I grasp every
            strange syllable you utter. I have oft believed that no one
            spoke or would ever speak as poorly as I. Therefore, I beg it
            be true that just as you speak in this same stumbling and
            clumsy manner, it is no accident that I hear my own voice in
            yours. And that you will in turn make sense of my grammatical
            and lyrical madness as I have yours. The poetry of your soul
            is somehow clear to me despite your words that would most
            certainly prove ridiculous nonsense to all other mortals on
            this magnificent celestial orb that we dance upon. Yet
            somehow... somehow, I can pluck your words from the air
            before me as though they were answers to questions that have
            haunted me for infinite hours. Please, tell me, lest I return
            to my melancholy solitude, that you in turn, understand me.

                          (without thinking)
            Good lord... my words ring in your ear with resounding echoes
            of meaning?

                                        A pause. He quickly takes his hand from hers and

            Of course, with all of my tortured and thirsty heart's desire
            I wish I could make sense of your "grammatical and lyrical
            madness." However, my weak mind cannot wrap around your
            labyrinth of words, though I, too... "swoon." So! -- farewell
            to thee, glorious perfection.

                                        He leaves quickly.

                                        She starts to drink her coffee again. Stops. Then
                                        shouts off to him.

                          (struggling to find the words)
            ... suck -- ass!

                                        The MAN pauses.

                                        Lights out.
            THE END

[Inside Dave's Mind]

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