At the Microphone
all its potential made
suspiciously, irrevocably incarnate.
Outside, ornamented
as stained glass.
An empty barrel inside,
perhaps. Pulse
like a bass line lends
it coherence . . .
it's unknowable promise wants
to bubble forth . . . who will sing it
alive? The singer
is stoned in the van out back.
This singular catalyst for something
revolutionary rests on its salver,
unable to resist
the flies and temptation
to toss what's left
in the rubbish jumble when
the stage lights go out.
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