Randy wrote the book and lyrics for the new musical CLEAVE.
His long-time collaborator Brian Schey wrote the music with Erin Humphrey.
A workshop version of CLEAVE was presented on Saturday, May 31 2008
at The Dairy Center for the Arts in Boulder, Colorado.
CLEAVE in its entirety ran for six performances at The Nomad Theatre in August 2008
as part of the Boulder International Fringe Festival.
Click below to see and hear the 13-minute CLEAVE demo!
Here are the six poems, in slightly different form:
"The Stylish Way to Wear a Hat"
After I picked you up from your swing dance lesson
You gave me embalming fluid and a puncher's chance.
With the hours you keep it's a wonder you're still so healthy.
Something could be brewing. I felt
Just like a human being today until a gray hearse
Passed me in the opposite lane.
There was no convoy, no procession. Just a boy
With the brim of his baseball cap almost
A full circle around his eyes and nose.
"To an Old Crossdresser Minding the Gap"
When asked about his jump over
Snake River Canyon, Idaho in
September 1974, Mr. K. said,
I really didn't think I had much of a 50-50 chance.
He didn't make it but he lived. Here's an overhead
Picture of you poolside. I took it before I lost
Control of the steering, before I parachuted down
Into your hair. Like Houdini sipping a mai tai
Graveside, missing his mother a lot,
Your greatest escape was from a ten-year-old
Girl's headband, sitting functionless on
A bald man's skull.
"Marigold Is an Herb and I'm in the Mood to Marry"
(I won't say you this time). It won't be like
That winter we lived with The Pill Book, me
Trying to describe my episodes to you.
What does that one do? It thins out my wallet.
Get bubble wrap, was all you could say to me
One morning from a self-induced trance. I told you
Much more important things like, Johnny Bench
Had every one of his toes broken by foul tips
On separate occasions. You don't remember specifics
But when you came to you wanted to order
Thong socks from the footwear catalogue.
You still had a sex drive afterwards.
But it was only for yourself
And your showerhead.
"My Indoor Life"
I've scoured twelve countries,
Blackbirds to rest,
Slept in motels on
Tomato sauce sheets.
If the weather turns
I'll freeze. I've spent
Night after night with my
Memo pad and golf course pencil.
Archaically, I've insisted on anent
Instead of concerning.
I've mooched and cadged for
Room to breathe and used
Shale for party decorations when
Fissile rock proved impermanent.
The involuble Zelda Zonc was never
Alliterative enough to my ears and so
I sought to make my own name
A grand repetition. I may have
Even stumbled upon a cure for
Your most persistent ailment.
"Reflections on the Painting of a Mouth (Vaudeville)"
The seat of the soul is an inner gland,
Inaccessible to air. What color would it
Turn? Like the sea snake, it burns inside
Its home, its equipment, its mop and pail.
Will you run or reinsert? Will you start to
Borrow and steal or only go on begging?
Velocity equals speed with direction and so
You never have less than half a tank.
If that's how you react to a clear day,
You might have trouble in the rain.
You’ll imagine your sleeves to be rolled up.
You’ll reach for your cloak, having left your
Tipping wife at home. It’s such a painful process,
Such a procedure for you. (I also swung and
Missed one time; I did myself in.) The wind,
In its inclemency, will be your son pining
For your attention. But you'll go on living
Stingily, with your sign warning you of
What won't stand in your way. Eventually,
You'll do something desperate, like eat spinach
In its uncreamed form. When Babel
Falls around a man he wishes he had
Wings. Or else he takes the stage
To receive pies.
"Late Night Prayer (Lines Composed Before Taking Valium)"
Make me full of years. No. Only (if preciseness
Is required) keep me safely on the road. Forgive me
For inching out into the intersection so carelessly;
I was only trying to tune in the radio station.
I wanted to hear about the prowess of one of Your
Beautiful and graceful creations. Lessen the times
I inadvertently turn to blitzkrieg in the dictionary.
Give me a book with different headers. Put
Cyanide on the periodic chart. Make me like He, a
Noble gas. Let me taste the oils and never let there
Be a hamburger made from the meat of my rump.
And please, don't turn me into the elm-leaf beetle.