I never thought it was circuitous,
onstage with a pen in place of a
tongue, contorting verse to veil its
significance. Suffering, faking, singing all
that’s erroneous until my lungs hold no air,
chocking on my own momentum.
Draped around me, an emotional impediment
clings to my shoulders like an old robe,
deflecting intermittent attempts at rescue,
empathy dangling like a rope thrown to the one
writhing at a well’s foundation.
There I undulate, flailing until the cold
penetrates, merges with what’s already erratic.
And on that stage I saunter from side to side,
front to back, ranting, piercing air with every
momentous message, finger slicing like a guillotine,
head estranged and with it all intelligence.
And I recite, lost in meaning:

. . . How unfair that the truth was hidden,
faded, but never quite completely.
Then I press and it’s all laid upon me,
rupturing my single hope and dream. A
scavenger leech sucking, draining,
but the hemophiliac doesn’t die, the
parasite a monument to ineffectiveness . . .

The crowd cheers and claps upon the
curtain close, fabric isolating me, but
I can still hear them mumbling. Later they’ll
bow and rest their lips upon my feet
and remind me of just how disconnected
I’ve become;
talent not a gift but a plague.

09/11/2001

Posted on 07/23/2005
Copyright © 2024 Alex Chambers