a poem for sad boys in harpy land
with more lightning than bolt
and even more evening than sky
we see through these eyes—
what our souls
haven’t had the mouths
to ever say at all
the strangest bouquet energy
falls on set
where a security-less smile
crawls
across my face
proud to sit
with the best view
of laughter and “Wilhelm” and “Oscar”
and ourselves
bend and scream
into the genius
shape of pain
of perfect discomfort
for the entirely un-perfect right now
Tatarsky turns into a physical palimpsest
virtuoso layering history onto voice
sliding in between these worlds
allowing Time and all its entrepreneurial slang
to bounce off the walls
bounce out the books hidden around the theater
strewn around the hell scape of a bed room mind
someone sitting to my left whispers to a friend
“Honey, I think she’s waiting for Godot?”
the friend whispers back
“I think Godot finally showed up”
Basie Allen is a poet and visual artist from New York City. |