With his five o-‘clock shadow and
jiggling belly, with most of his sense of shame
left in the pocket of a terry cloth robe
hanging just off-stage, the poet once again
danced bare-ass from his bald spot down
lit in the spotlight he personally aimed
from the cheap seats of the Internet.
The voices in his head, the winds
of imagined storms, the reports of cannon,
cracks of a pistol, a baseball bat,
a ten-year-old’s twisted forearm,
they drown out any sounds he might hear
from the invisible audience.
It’s not that the light blinds him to their
existence, or that he closes his eyes
whenever he thumps across the stage
wearing nothing but pasted-on metaphors
and transparent hopes of recognition;
he now only looks within because
he’s already seen what’s out there.
And what’s out there is a mirror
reflecting a mirror, reflecting a mirror,
infinitely trading him for him,
them for them and all for one another.