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Musings #57 - Limelight and Smooth

LIMELIGHT AND SMOOTH

 

Difficult not to notice him,

even in the dim-lit bar.  Seated,

listening to other poets, he hiccups

and stutters, rocking back and forth

in tic and spasm. Yet

when he takes to the stage,

he is like a roiled lake simmered

down to glass.  We all pull for him,

like oxen yoked to a laden cart.

No captive of that body – up there,

he is keen and attuned to it. And

unlike the emperors with no clothes

who read before him, he speaks

not in conception, but in

the stark image of failed clouds.

I wonder if he thinks of himself

that way –  meant to float on air

billowed, a canvas on which the sun

paints glory, yet somehow 

failed – as if punctured

by lightning strike, obscuring 

a slivered moon. A last image

– eye-dot wings – beating against

the cordant noise of clapping,

spilled beer and blue notes.  

 

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