Our Nation Is A Concert Hall

The acoustics in this place
are fabulous — drop a dime
and it reverberates like a 
cop’s Glock in an alley — 
snap your fingers
and the echoes celebrate
like snobs in a gallery of pretense —
say the word “No” and 
men for miles beyond
will hear its glassy clarity
and be able to ignore it
as if it were uttered directly
to them. The sight lines leave

much to be desired; every seat
has an obstructed view although
you can’t see that until you sit.
From every seat
every other seat looks better
(and then the whispers start and
groaning starts and muttering and
the acoustics kick back in and
you can’t even focus on what you came 
to see because you’re drowning
in sound). Whoever lights the stage 

washes everything in such a 
hot white glaze that desperation
and passion bleach into hokum
and mistaken identity — imagine 
artists looking so blue-white 
you and they are blinded — the tech crew 
stumbles over them as they scramble
to keep things on track — and when it comes

to the season, the schedule, the booking
policies — well, it’s hard to tell an opera
from a mosh pit these days so perhaps
all can be forgiven as long as the public
is happy and buying tickets and 
not hurling pounds of their own flesh
at the performers singing their hearts
right out of their chests while 
blinking up there in the brutal light
that makes the stage blood look like
sheet cake frosting smeared all over
after the wildest party in the entire wild history
of the whole entire damned and damning world.

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About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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