Member Rara Avis
Large, lifeless stars hung from the ceiling
By wire, twirling slightly with the fan.
As I sat down in the realm of the audience,
I quickly found out how the stars had died.
The poor things -- blown by and absorbing tired breath
Of performers of such rambling length.
Comedy about sex,
Unsubtle guitars struck,
Drowning out the traffic on Sunset.
There was a smattering of talent;
If you could ignore the moderator,.
Speaking with vibe -- f___ the system, right?
Hypocrite reply: "I can only allow four poets. You can't read tonight."
After picking the third ant off my arm
Resting against a cushion the color of paint-swallowed vomit,
I stood up to her, made her face me instead of the cash register,
And asked if I could just read one poem;
One minute, only.
"No. I can't show favoritism," she said as if it made sense
As the next performer went well over the six-minute line.
So, after my friend was done, I left a sliding trail
Of poetic license on the door.
Marking the place for other lambs to stay away.
(as if it matters anyway)