Keegan Cassady

Theatre Professional

And Now for Something Completely Different


The Valley of Gray and Black

A Hill.  Nightime.

Overlooking a valley of grass,

a smooth lawn that slopes down into a winding space

where a river should be.

The color of the moon makes it all gray and black.

Like hair in a black and white. Like short

military cropped hair

grown out from a month of neglect

and rethinking.

In this valley, there is the moonlight

and the grass.

On this hill

overlooking the valley

there is a figure.

what the figure is cannot be told

like dream, where the meaning makes sense

until you divy it up into categories

because it’s anything but only that one thing

and it doesn’t fit the words you put it to.

and it doesn’t match the things you think it should.

the figure sits on this hill

above this valley

and it looks away from the valley

up at the moon

and the light shines on what we call a face

and the face shines at what we call a moon

and the shadow of that dim lamp

reflects what we call shoulders,

arms, legs,

knees and folds, feet and veins, toes and nails,

crumpled fingers with a million fractal crinkles

glossy sheen nails on the knees

cross legged legs sitting

the grass feeling the legs

like little fingers

little military cut fingers

that spent too much time reflecting

to do what they were cut to do.

and one of those crumpled, crinkling fingers

reaches out with a fat, rolled up thumb

and with a snap

breaks a hair of grass

hair made from dead things

used and tossed particles

hair made of trash

that makes what we call a ‘blade’

of grass

snaps the ‘blade’

lifts the broken ‘blade’

to the moon

where the shadow of the ‘blade’

etches onto the ‘face’

in the light of the pale ‘moon’

and the outline of that grass

in a crumpled hand

looks back at an endless eye

whose ‘pupil’

or what the common might call center

center of the eye

stares backwith a blackness

that shadow cannot match

the shade of the blade

does not match the fathom

it cannot meet the stare

and so the ‘eye’ of the figure perceives the grass

it is a blade

it is hair

it grows from the valley

used trash

taking in a half-light

from a weak lamp

and this hair

this dead particle

military cut

is a ‘blade’

and the figure sits on the hill

gazing at the shadowed ‘blade’

in the ‘moonlight’

above the valley of gray and black.

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