by Pat A Physics
Stammering into the microphone, the scarecrow mannequin version of you spits hay dribbling down like zebra stripes. The audience is a mechanical one. It gives you comfort to peer into their blue lit faces. Intensity can be bracketed with all your entries. Buttons are suggested, glass is tapped, and phones are ringing off the hook. Oh, but you are not off the hook as you feel the wizard’s harsh evaluation thwarting your bright future. The one you thought you could perceive in the lonely padded saloon. Is it my time to shine? you wonder to yourself while delivering anecdotal snares and figetting figetting forgetting your lines your lines your life you feel lifeless. Remember that cool moment? The light is in your face with pauses languishing in an involuntary sputter. Hell hanging on your serif driven nightmare. There is an illegible blur making the avalanche slip closer to your poorly constructed igloo of a mind. Leonard shows a moving tarantula through the zoepraxioscope rhythmically crawling toward you from your podium lamp. Will they give me a few seconds to recompose? Doubt sprung from dependence sprung from your need of affirmation sprung from your nettlesome lack of esteem sprung from the dull as fuck monotony spitting coins like a goddamned jackpot of ennui! The miller’s daughter’s teeth rotting yellow as your greasy hair that falls in your face. My hands are frozen and why can I not poop? And that song makes you cry, of course. Like a spelling bee baby cakewalk, we are sorry- you can’t sit down. You didn’t move fast enough, and the song has stopped. Music paused abruptly. Jarring lose tears of frustration which turn to fists of construction paper and pacing in the hall and bedroom. What to do? Pointer finger closing and opening, closing and opening. A wide sweep with your palm in a circle as you bring it toward your chest and down toward your other hand. Smooth breathing with eyes upturned. Monday will make us thankful for the weekend. Tuesday will let us get halfway through. Wednesday will give us our marching band music. Thursday will make us joke with you. And Friday will be the day when we will finally get paid. You can’t trust in God when all you see is dust and stars and clouds and mirror pools from rain. Chicken juice!
2 thoughts on “Every Moment”
I feel my pulse in this one. Reading it has me accusing myself of crimes against my own humanity. Lucky for me I know the judge. Got off Scot free. Love that chicken juice. Felt it drip warm off the Dixie plate into the pleats and crevices of my corduroy lap.
Self seduction has its own deduction and its own ways
of induction and destruction.
BZ Niditch international surrealist poet.