Poetry Takes Ears To Perfect And Guts To Perform

After the Master of Fine Arts
Calls your pen name to the spoken word stage
Ask everyone how it’s hanging
Even the eunuchs

Say you want to tell Walt Whitman
It gets better

Wait for a pause

Gregorian chant like a Benedictine punk
The worst line of the best poem
You’ve never written

Make nothing
Rhyme with orange

Share your truth
Without gazing too long
At your navel

Halfway through a moment of silence
Shout into the mega microphone
At the flop of your tongue—

Poetry takes ears to perfect
And guts to perform

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Performance Fart

poem-prose (elmhurst college may 8 two-thousand-one)

the jivey retro-girl w/ magic glasses
sunny sandpaper skin
glitter lips & pure invisible sex-joy vibes
speaks my name

it is time

skittish numb-legged
from plastic ass-warmed chair
& strolling squeaky nikes
up to dim-lit desk on poet-stage mind-display
i rise among the masses
cough-clearing thick-lined mucus-muck obstructing breath-beat-tube
(a swallow a prayer a glance cross room)
eyes the eyes billions in excess
focused on the shining holy-apex of my un-virgin essence
disillusioned devils waiting heaven from my sin-stained lips
waiting knowledge beauty bullshit-fancies
waiting poem-prose-proclamations pronto

i flutter

dizzy in the silent nakedness of thought
till high & mighty muse envelops my brain
& blows & blows & blows

i am ready

first crisp crazy bright-hued line
tumbles free-fall
down out my face into air mixed w/ stink & unseen gunk
(college perfume-germs)
striking lobes of aching audience-receivers not yet sure

next line the next flows in groove
bold beats molded into tangible truths
metric diagrams of pain & pleasure

ART—living breathing climbing over tuned-in body-pods
taking seat by punch/potato-chip stand
listening to its own naughty neon notes
enlightened among the mental-drool of awe-gripped faces
brain-full skulls amused in vocal-bursts of blow of wail

i am it
for once this nanosecond am real am full of me
yet somehow just a figment-speck of overactive poetic imagination
a 3D imposter-cartoon
pretending to be me
(it numbs me i’m confused i do not care)

out of the dolled up carcass-shield my soul flashed before these
god-sick human-drones who cry my tears
but have not eye enough to empty out emotive-waste
i just don’t care

i am a necessity

they idea-fuck me
grown-up cock-eyed boys & nipple-horny girls
deprived of the total teenage orgasm
platonic professors
who as twenty-something infants sold their souls for adjunct PhDs
& the book-bogged smarties
who scribble-translate their every heady word
recording A-plus pin-point decibel-maps of every arrant lecture-fart

the wobbly world falls off its puny stick
we land upside-down dirty
inverted in the flesh drift-away-minded

i am done

back to my lonely spot among the crowd back to the nonsense run-on un-poetic drab of the everyday push towards nothing my soul absorbing claps of hands & yells of throats i am simply me again shy-slouched poet-boy insane dreaming of a poem-prose about this massive manic night for all to know & feel as truth

c b snoad
published in Lynx Eye (spring 2002)
edit 2-2-17