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 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 strangled gasp
or even timpani
I do not have six hundred sixty-seven
names for koochie.
I am not waiting
hammering some sharpened nail
into convention’s Board-face
into injustice’s hydra hands
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
erected for some untried, unkempt deliverers
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
of straight or crooked dialectic debate
for spearing grass-head poets
wide enough — also —
for the uninhibited old, those geriatric wrecks,
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 —
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
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
Let these old vagina-vigilantes veer forward!
Let us varicose-veined viragos
We will no longer be vilipended viewers!
Can we share our last vital vespertine