Standing before the microphone
Blank faces stare from cushioned chairs
Jewels sparkle, acting like they’re real
While bow ties just seem sad…it happens

Marching to the beat of clicking heels
Unbuttoned vests as strange eclipsed spotlights
Illumine smoke swirls in overhead rafters
Flowing from my ember’d fingertips

And my hair is a mess…but it always is
And I don’t care…do you?
I’d clear my throat but that does no good
Gravel has taken up residence…it pays the rent

The room goes dim, the audience worries
Glares spark like steel on asphalt
I can see them clear, slowly fading in anxious doubt
Scratching on some ink pad and dusty sheets…ideas

Yet I love you, I love everything that is you
Need surpasses desire, and I need
My arms long to cling you, crushed against me
Breathing as one, harmonious breath…thoughts…they come

The bass player plucks and that is my cue
Flicking my ashes I begin to read…poetry
And the audience smiles…I am a poet and poetry is cool
Leonard Cohen was right