Musings #57 - 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.