THERE’S NO AUDIENCE FOR A POET

It’s a rush to play your piano and make music
Even if you’re all alone at home, whether you’re composing or reading
The music itself that you’re making is rewarding to hear
Like listening to your iPod only your wholeness is making
Making the sound you are hearing
But even more so, is performing to an audience
And maybe some people are up dancing
And you watch a girl’s body moving to your beat
And you can change the way she moves when you change the beat
You feel the vibe redouble, performing
And you and the audience are in the moment together, Dionysian
A kick you don’t get from poetry
There’s no audience for a poet
Sure, you can go to slams, open mikes
But maybe you’re shy, or shake in public
So you write your thankless poems in private
And on a good day, maybe read them over to yourself
Or post them online and wait for likes, which is an audience of sorts
Crave publication
Which you fancy will be the validation of your words
An audience of sorts
And on a bad day, maybe corral someone to read or listen
You’re lonely: you won’t cave to trends
Because the poetry that matters, the poets that matter
Found their own voice, write in their own voice
I would write in deconstruction if I thought that it mattered
And I’m lonely
But it’s better than being someone else’s voice

The Blues Musician Plays

The blues musician plays out of dejection

Racial rejection

Keeping the beat

The rhythm of the street

The blues musician plays

Making the groove

The dancers move

Another city, a ride in the van

In a world that doesn’t accept the man

The blues musician plays

The dominant race hears

Unconcerned with his bitter, choked tears

And now new beats reject him again

The audiences age and wane

The blues musician plays

A world of rejection, of dejection

The blues musician plays