Killin’ It
There I was, on stage, for some reason,
with the Blind Boys of Alabama, at some
big palatial opera house in front of a
sold-out crowd of tuxedos and gowns,
like I was meant to be there,
like I was in the goddamn band, man,
and supposed to know all the words
and what the hell I was doing (though
I was neither blind nor from Alabama),
like I wasn’t just some hayseed, chuckle-head
whiteboy who somehow wandered in
off the street into what surely had to
have been a dream but sure-as-shit
felt pretty goddamn for-real right then
and there and I was killin’ it, man,
I mean killin’ it big time, then
bringin’ it back to life; great God
a’mighty I was good!
Civilized
When it all comes down to it,
are poets not just a bunch of
raggedy, gold rush tin-panners
sifting for whatever little bits and
nuggets of the big motherload of
capital “T” Truth and Beauty that
the old heads drone on so much about
from their rocking chairs and front porch
stoops, brown bags out and tipping
between bouts of laughter and the
odd moment of tense debate.
And would we all not be better off
if we traded in our picks and shovels
for a pawnshop metal detector and
a pair of Crocs and spent the rest
of our days probing for our modest
little treasures down at the park or
maybe even a beach somewhere
a little more civilized?
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