these are:
a prologue noxious Hazen Hall it's matter... jazz poet finally got... anywhere bars in Halifax
the girl in the corner
scribbling poetic
on bar napkins
looks to others
sad and bored...
the seats are too short
and
the first act
just ran up the stairs
as his own manager
to get
two bottles of water
his glasses
purposely crooked
informal
joking
asking for Ralph-ing
because the other act
is Ralph
and then there's the metalqueen
and I dressed
for a jazz performance
like a punk
Hazen is the arts building
lecture hall
and I hate this place
after my high school embarrassments
field trip
to the library
with a tiny white-haired lady
I felt ten,
not 17
because I had to follow
through the cafeteria
and past
someone
I thought
I could grow to love
and the absent-minded prof
performing
is singing about love
isn't everything about
love
I don't think this is.
as much as I enjoy
these little shows
with the small artists
and the small crowds
I don't want to see
I don't want to hear
(part of me
just wants the inspiration
so I can write)
I really don't want
anyone asking me
to slap their hands
as penance
it's matter
it's smaller than
where I learned the 60s
weren't all the fun
those who don't remember
seem to be
(I'm sick of titles
and placing them
on my poems
like gravestones)
the seats are closer
together
(I just felt like
using parentheses)
and I never went to
learn about yippies
dressed in fishnets and eyeliner
(I'm trying to write headlines
to sing to Camptown Races
- the more morbid
the happier I'll be)
the seats
padded
not wooden with lab tables
no
performances sung
by a man who could pass
for a prof
at any small
atlantic coastal university
the words put to music
as long as it's good
almost never matter
on first listen
spoken word
spoken eye
spoken hear
not a part
the main
love forgot?
just different love
the kind attracting
stolen lives from songs
and dirty men
who look up librarians skirts
though many
would like it to be London
my much-beleaguered city
is the perfect
post-industrial industrial
mix of service and struggle
still raw and unsterile
to hear
pulling daisies
fade into tributes:
Joey Ramone
dead and gone
to never inspire
garage bands with performances
without the presence
big-lipped and swearing
larger than amps
goodbye Joey
the adults
living as such
won't miss you.
Some of us forever
to play at Peter Pan.
Sometimes
you gotta be a pirate
and face the facts.
you won't always be
small enough
for britches.
finally got Marshall
and his message
from jazz poet
and his performance
over and around
some flickering screen
a film is isolation
in a room full of people
even with a live band
and a visible 3D narrator
it's all about the
cowboy hat
the fur boa
and the little black
(I think it's black
it's a black and white film)
dress
and sunglasses
lying on the beach
marram grass
taken barefoot
shoes in hand.
undressed and dressed
all the same.
leaping
I know that leap
mine:
a jump
dolphin style
hoping to arc over the water
shallow
so you can use the bottom
like a muddy trampoline
you say
anywhere?
with Jeff, 1992
NYC
New York without the apples
and I want to be 25, and just there
by chance
maybe just to say, hi
I like your music
and respect your singing
and that would be
enough
it doesn't matter
which one
you park yer ass in
to have a drink
in any crowd
any corner
dark enough to hide
whether there's dancing
or depression
in smoky murky stagelights
there will be a poet
scribbling down your actions
or lack thereof
or any decent conversation
you pull out of yer ass.
© lily keller 2001