First Poem of the Year

Folding Chair

…pushing the boundaries of violence
To its broken conclusion.

A kaleidoscope of petulant sounds
Inundate the belly of the ear,
A sunken vessel laid out on the rocks,
Split open, stern to belly,
The contents streaming into the atmosphere
A distress signal--
Smoking on the beach,
A fire of driftwood and sand crabs,
Skittering and popping,
The end of a violent day, the start of a violent night.

The opera reeks of sandalwood and spiced oranges,
And heavy curtains lay on the body--
The tragedy of the German language.
I am an imbecile and I will sing for you
So you can feel my pain.
(Here you will supply your favorite tragic love song, an aria perhaps, or a ditty by
Johnny Hartman, you know, whatever grabs you in the guts, nuts or whatever,
Whatever takes you down to that place--you know the place--the place where violence sits quietly on a folding chair.
You will take me there
And serve me tea and you will dance with me
The way tormented lovers do--
As if, by dancing, they will stay alive, together,
On a stage, behind a heavy curtain,
With the footlights blinding you from the body,
The body, the beautiful body at your feet,
As if, by dancing, you would raise the dead,
Raise the dead into the air,
An exultation of the moment we realize that
The moment has passed ,
Has passed us by,
Has passed us all,
Into the wings).
Exeunt.

RJS
2am, 010106