comma anticipating periods
begin with a flurry of feathers, suspended
in blessed rain, a throttle of hot hunger
in fleshless pieces on the ground, outside
the morning coffers. the cat picked the feathers
clean, ate the bones, ants got the rest. rain on
the fire escape to wash your vomit clean you were
every demon in my arsenal, you were grope
and drunk and short on cash. but, and here's
the thing, hank, you had balls. you were a force, reckoning
booted twice from the same party, the pockmark
on a sullied fame whore shill. you call that a poet? you
whisper in my ear then turn to the stage FUCK you! poet i'll
show you poet. lean into me, say "you know that for some
years now there's been demons and angels guiding me". i 've witnessed
your scars, your unaccountable good luck, your leaps
of faith, performances in a straight jacket, but never you
this drunk-- i don't recognise, i think you're just being vera
i don't know hank's taken over until much later so right now i watch
the poet onstage, you drift away, to the front of a sparse crowd, settle
motishly between the speakers in front of the man, in tie dye, purple
mouthed blue headband, soaked in benedictive rain dance
at the beginning, in the plaza, sung by sarah with the voice of two joans
and beer was your friend: you might need to take a load off, the stage
light bounces off your reflective glasses and just as the poet disses slavery your
arms shoot out from your sides in a crucifix, your legs stiffen and jut into
the dance floor, the kids next to me eye me curiously i shrug and say she
might have had a bit too much to drink but i know you're just reacting
to the poetry of the stage it's been too long since you held that lover
in your arms and when he says gun you mime gun and when he says kill
you mime blown out brains and when he says jesus you light up, transcendent
and flying with your wings held in his word's winds, stretched and crossless &
eyeless in purple glasses and when he finishes the lights go down
and you're gone, taking applause for granted, bowing
to no one. later you try to take the mic and the real poets cry vera!
veeeeeeeeeeeeera!
but you are not allowed to speak tonght, tonight you are the voiceless
cry of god, reacting to poetry. the scheduled poet takes your
mic, so you settle comfortably on the stage's edge only now
security is not having it, no hank, this is going too far you've made
a spectacle of yourself and a mockery of poetry you call that
poetry?! you mime fuck YOU you are passive resistance a distraction
from the hot dancer chick spilling her touch me tough story the girl
whose place you would have if you were not busy being angels
for the demons in these brick walls if you were not agreeing to non
chalantly walk away from the stage fuck these soulless posers, brush
them off , flies buzzing. you have a beer to finish, some hot young girls
to hit up for poetry and i still want to see the guy from l.a.
the one with the hat , guitar and voice he's been hanging out
nearby watching it all, perplexed at the absurdities called forth
by poet number two now compounded by poet number four
invoking your name, vera come to open mic night next saturday
so you come toward the stage, as an acolyte walking between
the pews to the altar, you stand below, looking up, you begin
with kneeling, place your forehead against the wood
of the platform, embrace and run your finger over the edge
stand, turn, and sit. security is instantly at your side, the man
on stage watches as they place hands on you, you go limp this is the hour
for non violent reaction to the poetry this is the moment for levitation
and it comes in the words of god, from the stage "guys, guys it's
alright, let her stay". and you do, you stay for this poem.
then it's you and three security guys, w ho have enough! already
in a parade of fools out the door. the blonde man is apologetic
because you have tears your crying saying i'm just reacting to the poetry
it's my REACTion to the poem lynze tell him i was only reacting to the poem
and i look in his eyes, as the witness, & say yes, she was just reacting to the poem.
we leave but you're still crying, hank, saying fuck them they don't know they don't know
how much i kicked and screamed not to come back, not to be here again, but FUCK THEM
i'm not coming back ever again, not in two thousand years not two million
this is the last goddamn time i'm doing this, i AM OUTTA HERE
it's a heavy burden god placed on me you don't understand you don't understand
you don't understand, but i do it for love. you understand, don't you? you don't
understand.
(shit, must change line breaks to be couplets entire)
