At the poetry reading

3 01 2009

I suspect her voice is raspy on purpose
to approximate coming from a deeper place
you or I would never ever know, of course.
Brow pinched
ripping inanities from the depths of a bland beige soul:
Love and dead roses
and a donut with a hole
a hole like the one in her heart.
Go whole hog, throw out the simile,
headlong into metonymy…hol-l-ly Shit.
I’m bored, sick
of watching her at worship of her Self.
Sick
with the suspicion
that what I’m watching
is myself.


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