Your wrist flexible and ignored you lob
fastball to third base. Your aim is off,
a child snags it from the fence. Bet
won, you're off your million per.
What does this matter? You pore
thinking over records. Old as Noah,
mitt ball, bat helmet, duggout spit
too near the red lit exit.
---
What does it mean this burning word?
Network hive, the bees dying,
who are we afterall but acolytes
our swarms out the door of the open mic tent
why are the chosen ones
so much better dressed? Gossip
and embarrassment warm crowds
under the heat lamps at the main stage
cheese store book store small presses
up the wooden stairs Anne Waldman
wafting here and there we come and go
not waving but drowning not drowning
but overheated the metal chairs hardening
under us poet voices dulling as we
lose ability to hear. I want, I want, I do not want
to be lectured, want to be levitated
some can do it. People I know without nametags
people poets I want to know. I avoid the open mic
tent in the backyard for the kids
am I too old for this? Too crotchety and mean?
Where do I fit in all this?
Do you know me? Hello?
Adjust the poet's microphone, find
her notes, a man calls from down stairs.
4 comments:
Hey, I wrote about the bees, too, just now, and just now read this.
wow! I gotta go LOOOK!
missed you and all at BW-always wonder about a WHOLE DAY of poetry. would like a break, some Chinese acrobats, a gardening class and enforced napping. No writing here, too much going on.
XXX B
a whole day IS too much - none of us made it long enough to hear Anne Waldman. She gave a workshop the previous day to WPA members - xoox
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