The world of poetry
never stood a chance
next to the world of music.

I'd take Miles Davis
burping into his trumpet
over Allen Ginsberg
singing his gay praises
into a microphone,
any day.

Or watch Elvis Presley
ricochet his pregnant
hips from east to west
and croak his
hand me down tunes,
over Shakespeare
In The Park
any day,
adieu.

It's that ****** tune
that gets me every time,
that jolts me from my seat
like a reversed lightning bolt,
and into my red dress
and perpendicular thinking.

and then its poetry that
ushers me back down
the aisles towards
the exit sign after
the whole show is over,
and to the silent
dormitory of my brain,
left with my thoughts
and words to crochet together
when I am all too tired to
pluck the strings
of my dusty guitar.