Meditation on the Front Row
Only the fearless take the front row
or the fools
and by fool I mean the desperate kind
the kind of soul that stays in the ocean tides after their muscles have turned to fried eggs and salt.
In the front row you'll find bits of teeth
broken by a blissful shattering.
Necks craned back to the farthest arching
this layer of watchers harbor a hunger so strong it disregards the body
like the starving stranger who breaks the baker's display window
intending to down every confection.
Front row souls inject energy in the shape of a jumbled alphabet,
Small breath marks boiled away in the charred spoon bowl of performance,
the chemistry makes their faces ageless
as the words rush off the stage like a river of angry lemmings.
At the edge you can feel the carnage breathing hot in your ear
so close your body can't remember what the fuck was pristine anyway?
In the front row every utopia shatters
like the proverbial wine glass in an opera singer's fingers
there is no distinction between wine and blood,
the hungry ones drink it all.
You either crawl up to it
or leave your seat crawling.
Those willful suckers
bent on being unsettled,
poised for rupture
somewhere ear & mouth & ear.
They hold open their hungry triangles,
front row souls
waiting to be rung.
Wearing Purple (in response to the youth suicides in September)
Their bodies became a series of ghost towns
punctuating a paranoid highway
beneath the cracks caused by too many wheels
they planted their fearful children
like ivy their shadow hands strangled the difference
from every incongruent thought or feeling or expression,
bruising the human architecture
and our children are crumpling like origami hearts,
Beautifully chambered whispers missing any rightful canvas
these words are only echoes
their bruises hang in the air like broken ghosts
whose mouths have been sewn shut by childlike violence.
Hate's wastebasket became a megaphone on national TV
as the newsmill & its puppets suddenly decide that it's time take notice.
They invite purple into the light
because every bruised soul deserves a canvas.
We smiled over a green breakfast
I sipped the coffee diluted
as he filled his hands with a glass of coco-cola and 4 slices of bacon
the yellow walls breathed assertively
Yes- I am awake,
and I love you Dad.
She always gives me too many beers
and feeds my body pancakes
after being convinced to stay the whole night through.
The conversation go so damn good
we nearly upturned the party mix
and placed our brains in glass bowls on the table.