Tuesday, February 4, 2020


As a spectator,
you struggle to understand
it. An addict

of experience,
you fiend
for significance;

every gesture—need it—
to be special.

Only after you're driven
to participate
does it start

to make sense. Now
you know:
balance, intuition

upkeep, repetition,
the satisfaction of building
a pattern that lasts.

You find yourself walking
around the proscenium, 

to righteously indignant-

then bending
toward the floor
miming kisses,

as if pressing
your delicate lips
to the blackened

marks on the resolute fists
of the corpse
of your past.

Only the darkness
at the end
of each performance

could be considered
referential or important,
and only because it's

the exact same dark
as the dark
at the start.