I guess the next two of these are going to be--
I'll say that they are probably inspired for me to read tonight
by Theresa, we had a conversation last night
about list poems and if I've ever
written a poem for a particular audience, and I told her
I had not really ever thought about that,
but in fact, I have and I'll read one of those pieces.
But this one is an audience participation poem.
I wrote it, so I did my job, so if I
can get you guys to help me out, that would be real cool.
The first word is amen.
Amen.
All right, all right.
We'll get there.
Next word is hallelujah.
Hallelujah.
All right, the next boomshakalakalaka boom boom
boom.
Boomshakalakalaka boom boom.
All right, all right, all right, I always
have to give people these instructions,
I realize that we have a lot of Catholics in the audience,
you know what I'm saying, and a lot of other religions really,
and some people have RDD, rhythm deficit disorder,
and that's all right, I'm cool, I understand that.
I'm just letting you know, if you get stuck,
you cross your legs, you do a Mudra,
and you call on Mabel, which is that big Black Pentecostal
woman that sits at the middle of everybody,
saying maybe I'll hook a brother, hook a sister up,
she will be there to help you out.
She usually shows up wearing the body of Aretha Franklin,
so if you need some help.
This is called "All Praises Due."
I guess it's a rant upon living near Cambridge, which
is really easy to do when you live near Cambridge
and dealing with a lot of stuff happening there.
So it's a poem that probably offends everybody.
All right.
It's "All Praises Due," you guys know what to do.
All praises due to lonely women at home breastfeeding
their babies while their men come other places
and play poet.
Who forgive them for trying to find themselves
in crowds of strangers.
All praises due to the United States flag
frame like American Gothic in the rear windows of Beamers
and Hyundais.
All praises due to the lost chord which
will come in midnight visitation to a child, fear her
into music and madness as she attempts
to manifest what she's heard.
All praises due to our mamas, and our mama's
thighs that brought us here, what
it looked like, what it is, what it be like, what's the best,
let the church say Amen.
Amen.
Let the church say hallelujah.
Hallelujah.
Let the church say boomshakalakalaka boom boom
boom.
Boomshakalakalaka
There we go.
Boom boom boom.
All praises due to misogynist lesbians,
wet t-shirt wearing feminists, crack smoking clergymen, chain
smoking vegetarians, and ignorant professors
with their heads up the asses of tenure.
All praises due to the unshaven poet with liberating metaphors
trapped in his beard to end Sexton's and Sylvia Plath's
menses, whispering shamanic prophecies of death
and deliverance, and to pagers and cell phones,
smart enough to turn themselves off at a poetry reading.
What it looked like, what it is, what
it be like, what's the best, let the church say Amen.
Amen.
Let the church say hallelujah.
Hallelujah.
Let the church say boomshakalakalaka boom boom
boom.
Boomshakalakalaka boom boom boom.
Reluctant praise goes out to bullets whose unfathomable
ignorance killed John Lennon but fucked up and let
Reagan die of natural causes.
To elections that steal themselves
while we sleep in fits of naked grace,
to the pimps with broken hearts, to the hearts that broke down
pimps, to Rice Krispies that scream kiss
my ass when told to snap crackle or pop.
And to corn flakes that know how to stay crunchy
no matter how white the milk.
What it looked like, what it is, what
it be like, what's the best, let the church say Amen.
Amen.
Let the church say hallelujah.
Hallelujah.
Let the church say boomshakalakalaka boom boom
boom.
Boomshakalakalaka boom boom boom.
All praises due to a lover's tongue finding
sanctuary in the inner bend of your left elbow,
to daughters nestled in the cold round oval of a left testicle,
to the bumper sticker that read God said Nietzsche is dead,
feminists are sexy, Jesus would really kick your ass,
and did you know that most people happen
by accident less than five miles away from home,
all praises due.
All praises due to Philip Glass to, Philip Glass to, Philip
Glass to, Philip Glass to, Philip Glass,
Glass, Glass, Glass, Glass.
And to asses so big they suck all the oxygen out of the room.
And to breasts so small they demand
that a man look into a woman's eyes when she's talking to him.
All praises due, all praises due for my son, Jordan,
and for condoms that break when they're supposed to.
And for all words still finding the compassion
to love us, even after we turn them
into shit poems like this one, what it looked like,
what it is, what it be like, what's the best,
let the church say Amen.
Amen.
Let the church say hallelujah.
Let the church say boomshakalakalaka boom boom
boom.
Boomshakalakalaka boom boom boom.
Thank you.
Should I read one more?
Or you also--
Just a fun piece, you know.