OPERA POEM
			
  
                                                 I swing the spoon and the chimes 
			                         sing thrice through the chambers

		   	                         (Performance advisory, Fog!)
			                         and all of a sudden I’m in another

				                             place, where lush euphoric decrescendos
				                             and mauve dolphins lick my gleaming interiors

			                         the baleful rays become glistening tinctures 
			                         palliatives turn to cures

				                             then the ding dongs fade
				                             the silky people fill the house

		                    hulking lanterns light the lobby 
		                    —my life isn’t headed anywhere!

				                             and then I’m in the same place 
				                             yearning to be somewhere else

			                         where everyone might as well be a brilliant torso 
							                                            heading toward the light

				                              wanting sadness to feel like sadness—
						                                        It doesn’t! It doesn’t!—

									                                                     brooding:

		                    the most meh minds
			                         of our generation
				                              are spilling the same splooge
						                                        in each other’s print

         I delve into the dark eye of my material 
         and arrive at something more sinister:

			                         the gaze of ambivalence

						                                         don’t we all feel passed over? 
							                                             ushered out the west exit
								                                                  before the second act

			                         pining—as if I was sheer fabric
						                                       hanging on the soft breast 
							                                            of  a sleeping patron
							
							                                            in the theater of a modern opera

			                         singing—“I make myself scarce for the bourgeoisie 
						                                       but they’re never scarce for me!”