A Dialogue

Scene:

The Reed College Student Union, wide wooden
Lodge. An angry FLUTIST pipes at a calm breathing
SMOKER.

FLUTIST:

The beams are resonant, the wood absorbs the twittering tune
And multiplies silver tones, sound refractions
Denser than the light that yawns through the windows,
But not as thick as, purer than the air, this choking mulch
Of smoke that fumes your breath, that rots inside
Your lungs -- you treat them like wine sacks! -- a disgrace
For the pungents of poison your veins all carry around to ruined
Brains, conflagrant skulls -- but not for the vim to yourselves,
So much as the harm in the vigorous breath, which by steady pulses, gulps,
I'm trying into music. Can't you see how the aether might dance?
Or are flares all the mind in your ranks? Coruscating laws!

SMOKER:

Twirp, not a twitter, your complaint whines on unrelenting
As your savage twitch. Metal, that flute? Becks of oats,
A rotten rill, guttering air in a stench that bloats the head,
Pounding far more on the ears than ever in our rusting lungs.
Rusted your playing, rustic, the growl of the wolves set to strings,
At best harsh springs, bubbling sulphuric slime, and the crime
Of your cat gutting song only harps on the tune of your blame,
Squawking plaint; so we'd rather smoke hay-stacks
And set the choking walls in bleary-eyed conflagrations
Of sweet tobacco, harsh weed, than tolerate
Your lymphing strain, which strains on
Our peace. Go play in Prexy, a haven for hummers,
Free from our mutterings, mouthfuls of smoke,
Good for your lungs, but better for everyone's ears.