Dream as Cal Yeomans

Artefact: Review, ‘Cooked Down to Nothing’, written by Andrew Holleran, of the book ‘Queer Theatre and the Legacy of Cal Yeomans’ by Robert Schanke, The Gay and Lesbian Review Worldwide, January / February, 2012. 
Cal’s dreaming of success
Opening night of his latest play
And an audience who applaud
The unreserved applause
Of people who understand keenly
And immediately
In their synapses
Even before the curtain begins to fall
Aren’t just polite
Swept up in a sea of clapping
Simply because their neighbour is doing so
In fact
Not one of this type of ordinary dull person in his fantasy audience
The ones who will attend because of the fawning notices
For a nice night
With friends
Two couples
Babysitters back home 
Out to see the latest hit
The pre-dinner and the ride in to the sparkling city
Being the highlights
Not even knowing what they’re looking at
Could be anything
Gay play
As long as someone’s told them it’s good
You must, you must
Sopping up angels and torch-songs
Eating out on tripe and bat-crap

His audience, though
Is a welcome crowd of angry bodies
Who have all lived a life like his
A little tragic
Haven’t hidden it from themselves
Don’t flinch in the mirror
See it as it is
All gay
Celebrating in their found place
Praising their own almighty
For the OK
To suck dick
Free at last
To arrive at the shores of S & M
To embrace the other lost souls at the beach
Not lost here any longer

These folks talk about his writing enthusiastically
In the bar afterwards
On the block corner
Ten yards from the theatre doors
Snow falling
Not moving off to analyse the flaws in the nearby streets
Heading home
But loud voices, right here
They are saying
Shouting almost on top of one another
Such is the heat, the fizzling inside them of shared discovery  
His mother’s there too
He sees
She’s in the midst of this gorgeous plagued crowd
Dressed up in fur and a ridiculous hat
An inside-out version of herself
The voices sing
Now, that’s something
Isn’t it?
What he did there
In gay theatre
For us
The collective reflecting goes on
The checking of what the others saw being the same
All seeing the same crystal
Sides sharp
Light bending through to reach the same core
In the centre of this chatter
His mother’s eyes brimming
Looking around for him
Headlights and neons blinking
Her lips ready to congratulate him