(reciting your poetry and stripping might
have a little, or a lot, in common)
You commence with an ultra-safe
picture-postcard piece from your
little ‘patchwork poetry quilt’ of
Norman Rockwell Americana
just to get your foot in the door…
and yeah— now they know you're
alive up here at least… they're
settling down and settling in with
that good old obligatory applause—
then off the top of your repertoire you
yank off something slightly prurient
and scale it like a Chippendale hardhat
out over the coffeehouse darkness with
its chatter and clinking of churning spoons…
and their eyes lock-on because you're the
Reality Show Network all of a sudden!
They're looking just a tad what, embarrassed
for you perhaps? Yeah— but interested!
For you, this is adrenal, this is liberating—
risky though, like oops, your soul's little bald
spot is reflecting in the spotlight like a chrome
hubcap and you’re burning with self-consciousness
and breathing a sigh of relief like the comb
over guy who finally gets a real haircut, but hey--
whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger,
right…? the truth will set you free…? So
up next: a sassy little indiscretion from
your dark, drunk-alogue diaries delivered
with reckless abandon… dropping your
Mach-o, Mach-o Man ‘tool belt’ to the
floor and, hey dude, somebody’s vulnerability's
showing: you're flashing titillating glimpses of
psyche! The temperature's rising! everybody’s
getting a liberal mind’s-eyeful of your blushing
soul au naturel… but
that's what poetry is, isn’t it:
a personal, but no-longer-private peep show—
Tonight: Real Live (spiritually) Naked Poets!
and you're thinking, Hell man, they're digging it...
they're wondering just how far you're gonna go
and, well… even you don't know that yet, as
your frantic fingers fumble your life’s pages like
buttons and zippers to expose... whatever feels
right for this time… this place… this crowd, and…
Hey! How many poems did they say I could read?
have a little, or a lot, in common)
You commence with an ultra-safe
picture-postcard piece from your
little ‘patchwork poetry quilt’ of
Norman Rockwell Americana
just to get your foot in the door…
and yeah— now they know you're
alive up here at least… they're
settling down and settling in with
that good old obligatory applause—
then off the top of your repertoire you
yank off something slightly prurient
and scale it like a Chippendale hardhat
out over the coffeehouse darkness with
its chatter and clinking of churning spoons…
and their eyes lock-on because you're the
Reality Show Network all of a sudden!
They're looking just a tad what, embarrassed
for you perhaps? Yeah— but interested!
For you, this is adrenal, this is liberating—
risky though, like oops, your soul's little bald
spot is reflecting in the spotlight like a chrome
hubcap and you’re burning with self-consciousness
and breathing a sigh of relief like the comb
over guy who finally gets a real haircut, but hey--
whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger,
right…? the truth will set you free…? So
up next: a sassy little indiscretion from
your dark, drunk-alogue diaries delivered
with reckless abandon… dropping your
Mach-o, Mach-o Man ‘tool belt’ to the
floor and, hey dude, somebody’s vulnerability's
showing: you're flashing titillating glimpses of
psyche! The temperature's rising! everybody’s
getting a liberal mind’s-eyeful of your blushing
soul au naturel… but
that's what poetry is, isn’t it:
a personal, but no-longer-private peep show—
Tonight: Real Live (spiritually) Naked Poets!
and you're thinking, Hell man, they're digging it...
they're wondering just how far you're gonna go
and, well… even you don't know that yet, as
your frantic fingers fumble your life’s pages like
buttons and zippers to expose... whatever feels
right for this time… this place… this crowd, and…
Hey! How many poems did they say I could read?
