Poetry Slam Performance: The “F” Word

Video of Poetry Slam Performance:The “F” Word

Video Courtesy NorAZPoets


 

Octogenarian Lament – The “F” Word

I am an anomaly.

An anomaly on this stage

at this time

within these measured minutes.

I arrive.

I do not have a strident shout

to rocket in your ears—

I do not, currently, have dilemma of losing yet

one more lover

nor insist upon a prolonged whine

a wail

a strangled gasp

or even timpani

of longing.

I do not have six hundred sixty-seven

names for koochie.

I am not waiting

striving

hammering some sharpened nail

into convention’s Board-face

into injustice’s hydra hands

not even

into hypocricy’s bloated heart.

An anomaly again because I do not rant

or leap and boomerang

the famous F…refrain:

that furfuraceous, fraught, fuliginous decree —

that fusillade of forms that fustigates

the fire of agape, of eros, charitas—

or even lust!

That furinculosis fear is fescanine!

is fulminic and fulgurous—

that fantasizing, farting F…

I fail to feel its fresh allure…

So why in fulminating perdition

am I here?

 

Is this a stage of happenstance

undaunted

erected for some untried, unkempt deliverers

of words—

those poets who formulate emboldened questions:

how to stroke raw fires

in moribund society’s mind?

how to make verbs dance —

in minuet or waltz or jive?

how to lance that smothering television tongue —

to free it

from its visual contraceptive masks?

Or is this shaky stage of contradictions

humor

argument

of straight or crooked dialectic debate

for spearing grass-head poets

wide enough — also —

for the uninhibited old, those geriatric wrecks,

we seniors?

we druids of the muse?

 

Is there room for us, we crones,

we warlocks of obscurity’s old age?

Because we see, we speak, we are

almost a century’s raw vision!

a dream-lapse wide sagacity of words

to be woven into hope

paranoia, ambivalence, fury

derision—determination, joy, etceteras?

We are anomalies

with immense desire of longing

inconsequential stumbles into courage—

our green hopes burnt to brown

but still with fragrant pollen bursts of gold!

We have need to be reborn here —

Here

upon this Delphic dolphin stage.

 

For this is a forum of wonder

where an underworld exists

that stutters, whispers, screams —

creates cantatas of words

still leaking song!

It is a stage where youth possessed

can contrive

to be absorbed as lightning,

poltergeist or seer

as anarchist as drone

as chorus of wild sandhill cranes

cavorting across the moon!

They are young and brown bruised acorns

who become oaks

in growing.

 

So!

Let these old vagina-vigilantes veer forward!

Let us varicose-veined viragos

become virile!

We will no longer be vilipended viewers!

Can we share our last vital vespertine

perambulations—soon?