Michael · Rossman

until we meet again, by and by...

of a man, he left us much too soon, with a belly full of life projects still in him. Though short and pixie like, Michael was a burst of social change energy and earth based values who cast a tall shadow. A 50 year resident of Berkeley, he was an undeterred hippie, and helped keep the spirit and life of the pivotal 1964 Free Speech Movement alive many decades after it had occurred. He had a very sweet gentle disposition and a charming sense of humor as well.
When in 1982 I brought him up to UC Davis to speak in the class I had organized on the decade of the 1960's, I was struck by the broad picture he painted of the non violent social change community spirit that existed in the bay area counter culture in the mid-sixties before the media discovered the Summer of Love. He contnued to care for and contribute to that community for the rest of his life, as an activist, teacher, writer, cultural historian, naturalist and outdoor kids summer camp leader, musician, and artist.

Michael was an incredible collector of stuff, useful stuff, and had amassed what was the largest political poster collection in private hands in the nation. He had an amazing passion for the art and evolution of political graphic arts and frequently welcomed visitors from academia and activism to look though parts of his massive collection for research, inspiration, and information. He had more science supplies then entire schools packed into his home, microscopes and taxidermed animals, shells and stones, artifacts and feathers, and an amazing orchid collection.

One of the main reasons Michael continued to hold up the importance of the FSM to the general community was that it represented a precise moment of permanent transformation of individuals in the power to the people mode. Those who were part of FSM realized their own power and potential to create and alter politics, institutions, and culture in a profound way. It made it okay to step out on a limb and make a difference in a profound way. The experiential, spiritual nature of so many young folks acting as conduits of change became the norm for a generation thereafter.

As he said: "This was the deep revolution of the FSM, our utter break with past tradition: turning inward to focus on our own conditions. Immediately the focus moved from our political condition to our condition as students, as learners. Throughout the conflict, culminating in the brief birth of the first “free university” during the climactic sit-in in Sproul, a broad movement of educational reform began--questioning and remaking curricula, classroom processes, student living, the board of regents--and echoed across the nation."

Immediately after the FSM, he was a pivotal player in the movement for education reform, reform in higher education which came first to affect college campuses around the country and then spread out into many many communities. He spent fall of '65 and early spring traveling from Berkeley to SF State, where the country's first working experiment called the Free University was in brilliant operation. That movement spread like wildfire and in short order there were hundreds of Experimental Colleges and alternative education programs on campuses across the nation, liberating a generation to new ideas about spirituality, body movement, diet, politics, agriculture, music, recreation, and culture that collectively have totally transformed this nation.

As a teacher and educator, an orator and spokesperson, an activist, archivist, and torch bearer, he influenced tens of thousands of individuals. He was a dedicated husband, father and grandfather, a creative soul, a masterful work of art of a man, and a dear friend of mine and many many others. A meteor of a man and true mensch, we will not see his sort pass by this way again...........dkupfer

Amen. May we carry on in his spirit...with courage, humor, passion and grace.
Love to the family.
Jodi,
a Berkeley Neighbor_ missing Michael

I had Michael as a science teacher for several years during grade school.
He was the best teacher I ever had! He will be missed greatly.

Karen & Kids,

It is Thursday and I jut got news of Michael's passing.
Your quote on this page, as well as your words of care, are so wonderfully appropriate. Thank you.
There are a few people on this earth like Michael and mostly they inspire the rest of us to be better. Unfortunately there are only a few....
Thanks to you, Karen, and Michael we have two children raised in love and care and instilled with that special something that only the both of you could bring to them. They now get to share....
One of those famous poetic people wrote, "I would have my friends as I would have the books in my library, Seldom using them but always knowing where they are" This is how I felt about Michael. We talked a total of three times over the past four years. I seldom "used him" but I always knew where he was to be found.

Karen & Kids,

It is Thursday and I jut got news of Michael's passing.
Your quote on this page, as well as your words of care, are so wonderfully appropriate. Thank you.
There are a few people on this earth like Michael and mostly they inspire the rest of us to be better. Unfortunately there are only a few....
Thanks to you, Karen, and Michael we have two children raised in love and care and instilled with that special something that only the both of you could bring to them. They now get to share....
One of those famous poetic people wrote, "I would have my friends as I would have the books in my library, Seldom using them but always knowing where they are" This is how I felt about Michael. We talked a total of three times over the past four years. I seldom "used him" but I always knew where he was to be found.
Bob Van Peer
Fort Bragg

I am so sorry to learn of Michael's passing; I had not heard that he was ill. Michael was an inspired and inspiring teacher--with wonderful if progressive teaching methods. I will never forget eating slug slime in one of his classes at Ecole Bilingue!

I recently lost both of my parents to terminal diseases, and hope that everyone who can donate blood in tribute to"Mr. Rossman" will do so--as Karen says, blood is a life-giving gift, and our loved ones need it all too often.

Peace to Michael's family,
Courtney Williams

I graduated from Ecole Bilingue in 1992 after ten years there, amongst them many days were spent in Michael's classes. Although I had not kept in touch since graduating, I carry many vivid memories with me every day from those classes. I will never forget the look on my parents' faces when I told them, as Michael had suggested to the class, that we should carry a garbage bag in the back of the car in case we came upon road-kill that we could bring in for teaching. More than that, I will not forget the pure astonishment and fascination I felt the day Michael brought in a squirrel he had found, dissected its chest cavity for us and then showed us how the respiratory system worked using a drinking straw. I can picture the lungs expanding and still feel the excitement I felt that day. Having a teacher uncover that fascination with life in me at such a young age contributed hugely to my going on to become a doctor.
Michael was always pushing us to think outside the norm and to push our limits, like when he sauteed cow brains for us to try. I've never eaten them since, but I remember they were delicious!
I feel so lucky that I was able to learn from him, and feel so glad that so many children had the opportunity to learn from his lessons to continue to think with their imaginations.

Love to all his friends and family,
Mindy Longinotti

Although I had not seen Michael in over 20 years, I have similarly indellible memories of the squirrel cavity inflation exercise, as well as the identical reaction of MY parents upon suggestion that we pull over to recover the remains of a deer carcass one day so that Michael could explore its insides with our 5th grade class.

I majored in biology at Stanford, and much to my parents' shock, conquered an insect phobia to write a thesis on butterfly genetics (many weeks of hand feeding caterpillars required), and then to spend months in a Central American rainforest up to my elbows in unidentified slime and astoundingly fertile leaf litter, counting bug species. I can honestly say that the memory of Michael's intrepid example years earlier contributed in no small part to my persistence and determination that made this possible.

I wish that every elementary school student could be fortunate enough to have a guide half as inspirational as Michael was.

I met Michael several years ago while he was meandering around. We had a few dates, exchanged a few e-mails, shared a few giggles, decried our hard-earned wisdom and lack therof, and sporatically touched each other emotionally in that way we gray haired people so often do....but it was obvious his heart and soul were elsewhere. A few months ago a common acquaintance told me he was seriously ill. So I have been a lurker on this site, garnered a smile from his always insightful hopeful wry way of viewing the cosmos, and I smiled even more at the casual mention of his re-marriage which the powers that be deemed necessary to leave in order to return.

Go in peace, Michael Rossman.

I was very sad to hear this news about an inspiring figure from the early days of the new left. My sincere condolences to his family and other loved ones.

Not forgetting the trickster, coyote spirit of the man, a man who frequently described his actions or impulses as "transgressive" -- an impish sprite and a serious rebel.

Not forgetting the man who danced with me at TantraFest while creating an impromptu poem on the absurdities of the event, singing it loudly as we darted and swayed like two Bollywood extras. We left early, after knocking over an image on the altar, spattering candlewax everywhere... leaving slightly shamefaced, but gleeful and exhilerated.

Not forgetting the man who accompanied me, with respect and curiosity, to a local Makahiki observance, gamely trying to twist his tongue around chants in 'olelo Hawai'i.

Not forgetting the man who took me along poster hunting at anti-war demonstrations, and who little by little let me into the mysteries of the poster room, finally urging me to make a serious study of the eros portion of his collection.

Not forgetting the man who channeled the raucous and hungry spirit of "Tom O Bedlam" at a benefit at Project Artaud.

Not forgetting the man who loved my dog, who gave the furry person of my household more respect than any of the rest of us. Who gave him joy too, playing dog like on the floor, juggling the small beast like a furry ball.

Not forgetting the man who took my skewed and amateurish statistics and tore 'em apart before I had a chance to embarrass myself by handing in a flawed school project. Not forgetting the fun he had doing it, while getting his ration of platelets and red blood.

Not forgetting the hundreds of chocolate bars we ate, ritualistically, critiquing the wrapper, the cacao content, the flavor. Not forgetting the notes he made on some of the wrappers, in small, cramped handwriting.

Not forgetting the gazing -- the transcendent experiences of face beyond the face beyond the face and the subtle energies streaming, the rapture and wonder we felt at this observable, but not measurable, and increasingly reliable connection.

Not forgetting his capacity for unconditional love and friendship. Not forgetting his capacity for deception. Not forgetting what he told me, and what he left out.

Not forgetting our journey to Hawai'i -- our sail on a double-hulled canoe and his nude climb up a volcanic cliff which worried the captain of the boat until he finally reappeared, covered with bleeding scratches but happy as a kid; his digging up of botanical specimens; his eye out for road kill as we drove the long road from Ka'u to Kilauea. Not forgetting his pissed off dumping of a pig skull in a trash can at the Honolulu airport, when he realized it might be likely be confiscated by agricultural inspectors before the flight.

Not forgetting the many nights which were still not enough. Not forgetting that my son made him a lego robot, a few days before his death.

Not forgetting that others loved him too, and that we all had our reasons for doing so, and for sometimes suffering as a result.

Michael was my science teacher in elementary school at Berkeley Montessori (and Lorca was my classmate!) and I absolutely believe that he is why I am where and who I am today. I have such vivid memories of him dissecting any roadkill he found on his way into school. I even remember him bringing some cow tongue to school and dissecting it for us and then cooking it over a Bunson burner for us to taste afterward.
More importantly I remember an assignment he gave us to come up with as many questions as we could about bubbles. I spent a weekend playing with bubbles and won the contest and Michael gave me my choice of prizes from his bag of tricks. I chose a book about North American mammals which he was so happy I chose, and I still have it today.
I also remember sitting on the floor reviewing our last lesson during which we talked about butterflies and he asked if anyone remembered the term to describe the transition from caterpillar to butterfly and I did and he seemed so impressed.
I don't think I have such clear memories of any other teacher in my life. And because of him I am a science teacher myself today. I wish I could have shared those memories with him directly.
My thoughts are with Michael's family and everyone else who is missing him today.
-Terran

all my thoughts and warm feelings to Michael's family and friend. I met him in 1994 I was just coming to America to pursue my american dream!! He was teaching at the ecole bilingue and I was a nanny for a little boy there....and I told the boy : "Was you are the lucky little boy of the world to have such a wonderful teacher as Mr Rossman" This guy is a bible the bible of every generation to come! Pascale
A bientot Michael!

Dear Karen, Lorca and Jamie,
I am so sorry to hear of your loss. My thoughts and emotional support are with you. Michael was a huge--and positive--influence. He, more than anyone, taught me to look closer and most importantly, to appreciate the natural world. I am eternally grateful! Many moons have passed, but I will always have fond memories of interacting with Michael and the three of you at camp. My best to all of you!
-Kelly Carbone

We will miss Michael, who visted our store periodically, to talk about politics and change. A spritely presence! Always urging us to carefully collect revolutionary posters in a box for him at our store (which we did for years). Ever young at heart and in spirit! That's how I remember him.
-Reiko, Revolution Books, Berkeley

I can only echo what Terran and Kelly have already posted and say what a huge influence Michael had on me. I realized some time ago that I use what he taught me every day. When I look at an animal I have a sense of what the inside of it looks like, when I turn over a rock, I am always careful to put it back where it was, when we swim in the pond, I know how much company I have there. Nothing, well almost nothing, is gross, it's just something to learn about.
I remember when he came to school ( Berkeley Montessori) in his usual uniform of dirty jeans and nothing else and Lee (Tempkin) had had enough. They had it out and Michael didn't come back to teach for about a month or so. When he came back he was wearing a blue shirt buttoned up to the throat and down to the wrists, clean jeans and leather shoes, hair combed and he proceeded to give us a lecture (with drawings on the blackboard) on evolution. We all had to sit at the desks and listen. It was bizarre. Fortunately it didn't last and soon enough we were back to learning evolution with glass jars, dirt, water and microscopes. I will miss him even though I haven't seen him in forever, it is a sadness to have lost someone with that energy, that capacity for joy and that lack of concern for what is acceptable. --Meadow Sowle Shere

I have been doing Buddhist Bardo prayers for a week after hearing of Michael's death from my son who was called by a close friend who long ago was Michael's student. After enjoying Michael's friendship for over 30 years, I am confident his voracious curiosity would take pleasure in the web of connections and the diversity of my Tibetan prayers were carefully heard by his open mind.

A joy to have known him- wishes from the heart to Karen, Lorca,Jamie,Devora, and Jared,
Alan Freebury

FAVE FIVE RECENT RECOOLECTIONS OF MIKE ROSSMAN
OLD WORDS: VATE, THAUMATURGE, JONGLEUR
NEW WORDS: EPICAREAN, VISCEROYAL, CONUNDRUMMER

To the average adult the neighborhood surrounding Ecole Bilingue seemed dilapidated and neglected. However, Michael Rossman was far from average. I knew him as an extraordinary science teacher and mentor. He saw an enchanted wilderness sprawled before us just waiting to be explored. I will never forget following his long, flowing, silver and black pony-tail and his rugged calloused bare feet through the streets of Berkeley during our after school science walks. He showed us the beauty of nature that lay around us from a stream of ants marching into their dwelling to picking sourgrass and tasting its citrusy stalk.
Michael’s unusual teaching style taught us to see that science was a part of our everyday lives and encouraged us to take an active role in uncovering its secrets. His irregular approach allowed us to study science in a way unlike students at any other school. Michael instructed us to bring in road kill for dissection, so long as it was in good condition. Thanks to one of the students in my class we were able to dissect and learn the inner workings of a fox.
To this day I still recount fond memories of learning science from Michael to my friends. He was a unique and cherished teacher who will be dearly missed by the Ecole Bilingue community. Michael was adored by every student who came through his classroom and we will never forget the tremendous impact he had on our lives.

Sincerely,
Elizabeth Hoyt
Ecole Bilingue Alumnus
Class of 2000

OLD WORDS: VATE, THAUMATURGE, JONGLEUR
NEW WORDS: CONUNDRUMMER, EPICAREAN, VISCEROYAL

Espiritu thank you, Michaelove, relatives & friends

Those first passing days I "gone vision"--the positive negative ion definition. Seeing your bed of roses environed by family love, barefoot underground with oh-so renaissance hat and flute, and now and fervormore, cheshiring your sundance smile in my heart.

Not inclined, maybe surprisingly to some, to be master of my fate, but likin' to have it sort of total warm shape, cool shift leftuously for me, i was deeply pleased during the course of Michael's ailing to share and contribute to the following peak experiences, A.O.U.O.N.:

1) his reading poetry, devoted, as i recall, to lao-tzu, at the 2nd annual gandhi birthday reading under last early fall's sun at the gandhi statue on the san francisco embarcadero
2) his great western "mario" message at the uc berkeley oak grove encampment late last year protesting their destruction for a hyper jock gym
3) reading poetry again feb. 20, about vietnam, at the golden anniversary celebration of the peace symbol in berkeley Just after we festooned the downtown library's street windows with Michael's beloved peace symbol posters
4) and on may 3, his already core-of-our-lyrical-lore brilliant body poem at the bolshevik cafe in berkeley (on the 200th anniversary of the event during the napoleonic peninsular war that inspired the goya classic, "the killings of may 3rd"--that was the inspiration for the peace symbol.)
michael was deeply DNAID by the spanish civil war, indeed conceived during it, and included naming a son lorca--and was moved by such uncovering its deeper early 19th century roots. we shared a susceptibility to the cold, alas.

so, these boogies can take on all kinds of four directions, quartet, blah, yada, plantings. there was one other happenin' that captured our tension, that, boo-hoo, wasn't for us to witness & share.
just past last thanksgiving, the chronicle reported that arctic bird wildlife had returned to the sacramento valley in astonishing numbers. I got jacked and tried to get there--including a "calling all poets" pitch in Poetry Flash.
never made it (also, alas, missed the epic 2005 wildflower bloom boom), but i do know if michael had not been sick, we would, cold noses twitching, have hunkered down over for a day or night or two, and wallowed in this superbnova winged'em.
none of which kept me from writing the following poem (next post, too long for this one), which michael loved.

Thank you for your appearance in The New Defined Comedy, my dear homo luden frontier freak friend.
A true wild west Freakish Eurekash, see ya soon, likely as brothers in some future eternal mime troupe.

ur arnie
arnie passman aka armin a. legdon

HALLELU COMEBACK

For Michael and Rebecca Solnit and her Alter-native Angel
--our victories

Big Chill hits our Bay Area
week of Thanksgiving.
Always, like clockwork.

Remember when the fog came in
On the 4th of July
And went out on Labor Day?
Not prophesized now?

But now, like flockwork,
Look, and hear,
To the east.
Overhead
Waterfowl--in the millions?--are back in the Pacific Flyway
Nesting, heading south down the Sacramento Valley.

And with a you-name-it call of sound.
Parallel free.

Their three week flyby the Sacramento National
Wildlife Refuge is that of our Big Chill--into Deep Freeze
Hollow launching december.

It gives me comfort,
As well, I care, as you.

I could give you poetic numbers and reasons.

But, for me, the why of it is:
Ecology stopped the burning
Of the rice harvesting in the Valley
In the anti-saintly early Santana fall.
Talk about your heated up upper respiratory epidemics.

Now, left to soak the winter rains,
The stalks grow, rot into greater marshes.
And the egrets, heron, geese, ducks,
Even ibises, all on their way
Out back there in the last of the
2nd millennium,
Now clamor through our central valley skies--
The lot of a lot of Sagittarius.

No, with greater Arctic rains,
Add here as well, and reclamation. . .
I do submit to poetic numbers.

From the low down Reagan-Bush 80s to NOW!
3,000,000 to 5-6,000,000 ducks.
100,000 to 600,000 Pacific white-fronted geese,
700 to 100,000 Aleutian geese.

And the white-faced ibis, you ask?
An elegant two-stepper with a scimitar bill
nd dark blue-green plumage of brilliance.
Hung around the Great Basin
And the Great Salt Lake
'Til spring flooding and spreading alkali lakes
Winged 'em west to breed.

In just an annum score,
125 ibis to 50-100,000 unforeseen.

A plus positive and negative ion duende.
Nature's distinctive nature to spell, tu charm.

-arnie passman aka armin a. legdon

I was a student of Michael's in elementary school in the early 90s. He was a wonderful teacher and kind person.

Dan Gutin

I remember a walk I took with Michael at the Albany Bowl last year. This was our first meeting and he said he wanted to show me the park. At one point we veered off the trail and pushed through the rough brush, him leading the way. Although I didn't really know him, I soon caught on that he had a deep connection to nature and great knowledge about the trees and bushes we passed. He certainly was in better shape than me!

Finally we came to a bluff overlooking the water. "Let's go down there," he said. "I don't think so," I replied, frightened by the steep, rocky slope. "You can do it," he answered. "Trust me." He organized our descent, showing me how to place my body sideways against the hill, etc., etc. I put my hand on his shoulder for balance, and down we went, one tiny step at a time. At the end I felt exhilarated.

That was my one adventure with Michael since his illness was discovered right after that. But I'll always be grateful for that walk--it opened my horizons in a way I couldn't have predicted. I consider it a great gift, and I'll never forget the giver.

I send my sympathy to Karen and the rest of your family.

Hello


G'night

I "met" Michael when we began exchanging emails and poems in late September. We planned to get together and get to know each other better but he was "distracted by a medical matter." It didn't take me long to find this blog. In late October, after his steady emails to me diminished, I sent him this poem I wrote shortly before my father died of stomach cancer, also quite suddenly as he was, like Michael, another virile and energetic Spirit and body before he passed within 6 weeks of being diagnosed. I sent nothing else, just the poem. Michael thanked for me for my intuition. He said it was just what he need to read at the time. He wanted to know how I could possibly know how much he loved rocks. How could I not?

I, like you, loved him very much.

I loved that he paused in his admiration for the poem and in his email to me to critique the poem. He apologized for it, for his persistent "pedantry" but he knew I wouldn't mind. It was a very good critique - one little edit that improved the poem very much.

I hope this poem comforts you as much as it comforted me when I wrote it for my father. And as much as it seemed to comfort Michael.

With many condolences for your great loss of a great soul.

Lorna Dee Cervantes

Nothing Lasts

Only the land lasts, not you.
Only your steps upon it, the cut
glass of memory and your smile within
it survives. Only the land lasts; simple rock
and the dumb scape of lusting lack,
the rack and pinion of flight and fall.
Autumn doesn't last. Not spring
with all its fine tithings. Not the shine
of those young girls' hair, not the waists
of women, not the fading fire. Not you
and the way we were. Only the land
lasts, and the ridges of waiting wearing
out the pursed lips of furrowed ranges,
and not the cold within their lair. Only
the stunned shale, the red-faced cliffs,
the heights where someone sometime ascended
and stood, and loved, the land layering there
laid out out in its full affair, the glinting
mica and dream of hard brooding diamonds,
all the hidden glory, the unseen flake
of gold and petrified burl. Not this
hand stroking life into an empty palm,
the smooth skin of summer, the sudden
skim of a wayward glance. Nothing of you
or the lonelier retreat of other
killer mammals and their heat.
Nothing lasts but the land, not the water
or the tearing, not the creeks and the clearings,
not the withered heart nor the soiled clothing
of social graces, nor the mouthy flaring
of wondered disgrace. Nothing lasts of this house,
not the boards nor the worms nor the birds. Not
the words I use to slow it down and make it stick.
Nothing lasts like the red clouds on the day
of your passing, the wicked gassing
or the olvido. Nothing lasts but this sand
drained of your sea; this chiseled frown
in the chipped flint, this skirting of canyon,
this flaw and filing, this grinding down
but lasting, the silk touch in a handhold,
in the holding out for the summit. Nothing
but the wounding in the craters, the uplift
and the gurgling lava; all the ways we read
a stone's hieroglyphics, the ore's heavy lead.
Were we to discover, we would uncover a myth,
the stories we tell to renew the pact
with this earth. This, love. Nothing lasts
but the land and our love
of it.

------------------------------------

If possible, I would love to read some of Michael's poems at the celebration of his life. I admired him very much as a poet.

The Ephemera of the Durable (A Love Poem For Michael)

How much I would love a man
who knows the names of things—of feldspar
daggers and obsidian rain, able to distinguish
bone from fossilized coral, limestone from
cobble, who can count his own destiny
from the the number of stars present
at his birth, the sum of the precise amount
of seconds each lived at that exact moment
of now when we kiss for the first
mixing of vital fluids—a vital man like that.


How much I would love a boy
who blew back life into a dissected roadkill
squirrel with a straw—who tried to nurse a puppy
born without a mouth or eyes to see him do it, who
then bashed in its head when he could do nothing more
than feed its drowning hole, his young tears watering
the flowers of his old man's soul-search, a searching
boy grazing the gifts of Mt. Talmapais on his own,
ever mining the veins of an humorous universe
of mirth, a boy in a man—a vital man, like that.


How much I would love an old man
and his hammer—the leathery rock
hound under a volcano sun, a man in a hat
with a boy's tanned chest and a forest
of sexual wisdom, his hardness
'7.5 versus 7 for normal quartz', a man
it would take a whole lifetime to reach, all
my millions of molecules moving through the slate
to reach its like, aching to cleave to that balance
of play and dance and matrix—a vital man (like that).


How much I would love that old man
and want him to be my old man, to hear him
piping , the twinkle fast in his eye, a smiling man
unless discussing the follies of a fascist state,
a ripening man, a piper man I would follow
like a duck follows a dog, like the dumb earth
follows an erratic Mercury, that impish messenger,
that winged passion; how much I would love
to see him singing under orchids again; how much
I would love to love that man—a vital man: like that.

5/29/08

Lorna Dee Cervantes

Firewalk Stage Left
-------------------------

You are, my dear, at times more coy,
Than any burlesque queen,
Who struts the stage fandancing,
peekaboo.

Now you see it, now you don’t.

And I’m a front row, stage-door Jennie.
With flowers at every exit
and
I’m fervent in applause.
Hoping for a smile (oh see me too!)
From the
Glittering swinging
Hide and seeking
Whirlwind dervish--Hey!
Which way’d he go?

I also know the sequined strut,
The spangled life:
The more I show, the less you see.
Hiding it all by hanging it out in plain sight, yes?
My eyes have said
Too much that made it to the lips,
But I can slip behind the curtain too,
(peekaboo).
Backstage my question is perhaps
The same as yours:
Who is brave enough
To brave all this, and love me?

(Now you hear me, now you don’t.)

So what’s it gonna be? Your props or mine?
Or do we toss ‘em all together, bonfire style,
And firewalk to stage left,
Winking.