Despite the outrageous misfortunes life constantly offers the lower economic class, they hit their 4 AM peace disruptors and awaken in mass to hit the pavement of the American dream, to shoulder more burdens of visceral in the bloodstream, so that love’s rocky road can smooth through the horizon’s crazy themed episode, humans know as a family program. Until END SCENE in the verse’s hologram. Those not on the path of love poison the work days in subtle to extravagant ways. In prison, where work is far from love made visible, the plays of slings and arrows whistle constantly in the b’labored wind. Amidst the volley, follows the in-tune-marksman, swinging jolly and singing from the gallows, like the hanged man of the tarot, upside down, who knows the last shirt and a hurt locker of darker, war-inked nights. An innocent archer, drowned in the shallows of a dirty blue ocean. Astrolabe sights land-locked on to a locked-up musical of fear, no one but a Sharpshooter-Shakespeare can target or hear, to shoot the breezes and I-Spy clear past the veiled stars in the sky with Black Icarus rising from behind bars, adjusting to the darkness of shitty pipe-dreams cracked in smelly pieces, made into Kintsugi lined masterpieces, by hitting a golden bullseye through Shawshank feces. Sing, Andy Dufrense chain gang, sing and rattle your oppression to pieces. Why rattle such chains in discord and dissonance? So it is written in the divine libretto for resonance at a chance at a Strawberry Revolution. Without dance and song, even a much-needed fruity revolution would be sincerely wrong. Cue the prison pedo-orchestra and have a laugh at My Swan Song of “Breaking Bad” choreographed in double entendres, sad cabaret and drag, the Prison Rag Mag calls “WAY TOO LONG!”

Insert pic of Steve Carrell in the head. Cue: THE OFFICE theme song. And…ACTION:

"That’s what she said!”

CUT!

As “Michael Scott’s Tots” never went to college, but became my cut-outs in this prison decoupage, instead.

Enjoy the moving-collage-show!

Encores depending on casting/parole. The board insists I lack the range for that redemptive role. So, PP&C will have no scene changes and have a long run of way-off Broadway fun, in the dark with no soul. Theater needs the dark to change scenes, the whole spirit calls its fragments back in the blackest of dreams. Follow me through the tackiest poetry and butt-plays to find God through rapey-prison cliche’s using numerology to count the prison days and science to know human’s godly ways expressed in evil forms of warden-obtuse and dressed in felon’s excuse and Emperor’s New Clothes. Alas! In swarms a nude musical, footloose and frenetic, with light cues of fallen plight and spirit. Jailbird tunes silenced in the caged nights. Set off in prison pillow-club fights. Set to Korsakov’s Flight of the Bumblebees. PP&C’s libretto is narrated by Mephistopheles.

A prescient “thank you, please” to my future, theater investors: A soulful fact. This is a sure thing for those who pray in moneyed vespers. You’ll double your money with my “sacred” contract in tatters, according to our narrator! I’m sure he’s honest and you’ll get more than your investment back! Please read the fine print, scored in prison ink, it may cost you also “a bit of nothing” within. Nothing but all this prison stink found here in a nothingness even the austere Buddhist shuns as too severe. “Omm” ‘a get a sitting ovation at this premiere. Silent as my musical with red carpets dyed in blood mixed with quiet tear. The calligraphy of invisible prison ink, that stains the stage with every role and ages the weary kind to think…lost is the mind, along with the soul. Places everyone. Back to One…cue “silent-Mit Ohne-Sound (MOS).” BACKGROUND and ACTION!

4 AM alarm is always a swarm of blue batons, flying indiscriminately at rights and wrongs. With Rumi buzzing my inner playwright on: Out beyond ideas of right-doing and wrongdoing there is a field, I’ll meet you there.

I shall wield T.H.E. (The Halo/Heyoka Effect) Pen and script my song and dance in prayer. Until then, I’ll honor the blue sticks and stones flying in the air, not as lessons to pass or fail from above, but as an earthly horror, you learn to love. An “Amor Fati” one loves enough to change. Be the change.

As the Darkle sparkles like a broken bulb on the non-free-range marquee of your favorite prison musical. RIP. Free. RIP. But I got moves that shine in three acts. Felons dancing on line for scraps, grooves in a fruity loop. A blue man group marking hard time, creating more poop for fresh fish on the line to swim through. Muddying the real scenes in the camera’s view, requiring the Rosebud Thief to steal every hidden scene for you. Ad astra per aspera. From mud to stars. A dirty musical hummed off key behind prison bars. Get your checkbooks ready, theater producers, for these memoirs shredded to musical confetti, with shivs bigger than any machete cutting the rug with piss like a shitty Lebowski.

Don't forget the guaranteed ROI from the king of the dark third-eye-sight. Let’s bring this Faustian musical housed in the prison non-visible, into the staged light. I have a musical! A musical with secrets of Black Icarus "Remote Viewing" at night, thawing from a cold-war fight.

Lila Cepa is back in the leading role. Fading to Black after selling her soul. A contract keeping her from parole. A song-and-dance-hack, whose spy-craft was always the goal.