June 15, 2010


by The Poet Spiel

sometime wednesday morning
maybe around 2 a m you found yourself
scalding on the x spot
you’d swear all the klieg lights
were suddenly blasted directly into your pupils
blinding you witless a warm trickle down your leg
yet you knew you sensed you could hear
the riot of flesh against silk against polyester against
wool against denim chiffon ostrichfeathers against
those nylon white sometimes aqua uniforms which swish
and hiss around the armpits against rubber soles screeching
against slick painted concrete against brittle leather fracturing
against slamming wooden seats brass hinges screaming
against the rush and shove
into this massive hall echoing echoing bouncing about
the overflow of your caretakers plus all those gawkers
come for staring wanting their money’s worth

the noisome sting of hot oil dripping onto squeaky gurney axles
the indelicate crushing of candy wrappers beneath
the behemoth you believe you sense beyond your wits
you freeze you see nothing you see white like no white

you see that first time you took the chance to look
directly into the sun and never saw again you see
you cannot see a way out of here sometime
last wednesday yesterday morning yesterday night today
right now that they expect the max out of you the big one
from the x on which you stand center stage alone
as they continue to appear relentless in their stirring
their skunk perfumes the stink
of gunpowder nearing you the crack of cocked rifles the snap
of a regiment of hard boots their ultimatum these lights imposing
a vast cavern
where your head should be
spinning the x like a hamster wheel firing spit
into the lights popping spitting back at you as you babble
in useless fragments of your tongue your tears splattering
all of those in noisy garments banging their seats like tommy-gun fire
yet failing miserably at shattering the merciless bright
the light the light you know
you know your tears must be reaching them as they begin to close in
around you now ceaseless breathing downward
into your earholes expecting of you you you you must
and you will be here tomorrow
and tomorrow
and tomorrow
and you cannot will not no never fulfill them

*just released from March Street Press "barely breathing" a 200 page perfect bound book by The Poet Spiel celebrating this lifelong artist's past ten years as a writer. spielspeak@earthlink.net


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