If one person imitates a stutterer,
That is ridicule.
If a dozen join with music, rhythm, and dance
That is performance,
Rhythm makes things new
The one wracked with illness, deficit, and disease
Is just a performer waiting for others
Dance, music, and art
Capture anything and everything
To recoup and recuperate.
They make the strange a normal part of us
And the normal totally strange again.
The white whale
The skinny knight
All take the stage
To invite you and me to shed our conventions
Or at least to shed those that kill the dance
Have no rhythm
And demean the child in each of us.
We all look bad alone.
We are hairless apes
Meant to get it on with others
Not take it out on others
We don’t understand.
We all fear that our dance step
When it is just a new step
Waiting for the harmony of other hearts
To beat in unison.
When you fail to see the potential rhythm
In other people’s steps
You stop history.
You create static and noise,
Instead of music.
There are probably those who cannot be recouped and recovered
Too far out, too lost,
Too far behind or too far before their time,
Too lame to be danced with.
But how do you know until you step out?
Death is to be feared,
Faced in terror, alone,
Unless it is a death scene,
The last act
In our starring role on the boards with our fellow players.