July 29, 2007


there are women
in navy blue suits
who leave when some
one says prick in
a room where you
can hear it. It?s
45 and there?s only
cold apple juice.
Someone pulls a
blanket closer.
There is a long
haired pale, thin
woman in a rose
flowered dress
pulling her arms so
tight around her you
nearly hear a rib
crack. One poet
listens for lines
he can use and jots
them down on a
boot heel. None of
the poets have watches.
The mic hums and
buzzes, a nest of
bees a giant stamps
on. There is more pain
than apple juice.
The poet who talks
about splitting
wood and seeing his
breath over a
desolate frozen
stream has written
a thirty one part
poem about this.
Someone tries to listen,
sniffs patchoulli as
if that could help.
The poet who is
building his body takes
off his clothes and
reads a poem about
how people prefer wrestling
to poetry readings and for
the first time so far
the audience knows
what he means

—Lyn Lifshin

Posted by dwaber at July 29, 2007 01:13 PM