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Spoken Word poetry about inspiration and fleeting muses.
A Gift Ungrasped
by Jolie Blond (that's me)
06/16/04
After eight hours on my flunky graveyard job,
I slunk home in the dead of five a.m.
to my flophouse,
flopped onto my flophouse bunk bed
fully dressed in my B.O.-flavored work clothes,
bent, with much grunting
to untether my work boots,
and lazily toe-heel them off.
I lied there,
flopped in a flophouse bed,
taking an End of the Day, Middle of the Month, Middle of the Year
inventory
of my few accomplishments
and many flops
and suddenly without warning,
without fanfare or trumpets blaring,
without proper introduction
or even a "News At Eleven" tease,
a comely poem birthed itself
in the air above my forehead.
Line by line flowed from the air above my forehead
into my mind's ear
and it was such a beautiful poem:
truthful, but kind hearted,
vigorous, but not overbearing,
thoughtful, but remorseless,
a poem which guided me unblinkingly
into the heart of forgiveness
of all those sons a bitches
who let me down.
I lied there thinking
I should be writing this down, this needs saving,
and the poem kept reading itself
line after line after line
and I lied there thinking
I should be writing this down, this needs saving,
but I was too weary ,
too graveyard shift muscle tired
to lift my fat head off of the pillow
as the words kept reading themselves
line after line after line.
I lied there trying to memorize the words
and their order
and their flow,
trying at least to catch the gist of it
as the poem kept reading itself
line after line after line.
Stop! I cried, Wait. Hold it!
and grabbed at the air above my forehead
with both fists.
Lemme get a pen . . . my tape recorder . . .
but the poem kept reading itself,
its lyrical self,
its lyrical march of clarity
doubletiming unstoppable towards its own end,
line after line after line.
STOP! I wailed, This is great stuff.
This is like free gasoline,
this stuff will fuel a thousand souls
up the hill to a higher plane,
if only you would stop long enough for me
to take dictation,
but the poem kept reading itself,
line after line after line.
STOP! Don't waste this meal on me alone,
but the poem kept reading itself,
reading over my protests,
the current line burning bright
and the former lines evaporating
like the smoke trail from a burning line of gunpowder,
a long, winding streak of flashing gunpowder.
Don't waste your . . . I tried to reason,
but the poem read its last line
and signed itself: "A Poem For You"
and was gone.
Silence.
The low hum of my window fan now.
A hum
and nothing else.
I lied there in my flophouse bed,
stunned.
Damn.
A good one got away.
I could still feel its healing warmth in my chest,
but its essence was gone,
lost forever.
It was a tragedy,
a tragedy in my bunk bed:
a gift ungrasped
and all gifts, ungrasped
are tragedies.
Spoken Word poetry about inspiration and fleeting muses.
A Gift Ungrasped
by Jolie Blond (that's me)
06/16/04
After eight hours on my flunky graveyard job,
I slunk home in the dead of five a.m.
to my flophouse,
flopped onto my flophouse bunk bed
fully dressed in my B.O.-flavored work clothes,
bent, with much grunting
to untether my work boots,
and lazily toe-heel them off.
I lied there,
flopped in a flophouse bed,
taking an End of the Day, Middle of the Month, Middle of the Year
inventory
of my few accomplishments
and many flops
and suddenly without warning,
without fanfare or trumpets blaring,
without proper introduction
or even a "News At Eleven" tease,
a comely poem birthed itself
in the air above my forehead.
Line by line flowed from the air above my forehead
into my mind's ear
and it was such a beautiful poem:
truthful, but kind hearted,
vigorous, but not overbearing,
thoughtful, but remorseless,
a poem which guided me unblinkingly
into the heart of forgiveness
of all those sons a bitches
who let me down.
I lied there thinking
I should be writing this down, this needs saving,
and the poem kept reading itself
line after line after line
and I lied there thinking
I should be writing this down, this needs saving,
but I was too weary ,
too graveyard shift muscle tired
to lift my fat head off of the pillow
as the words kept reading themselves
line after line after line.
I lied there trying to memorize the words
and their order
and their flow,
trying at least to catch the gist of it
as the poem kept reading itself
line after line after line.
Stop! I cried, Wait. Hold it!
and grabbed at the air above my forehead
with both fists.
Lemme get a pen . . . my tape recorder . . .
but the poem kept reading itself,
its lyrical self,
its lyrical march of clarity
doubletiming unstoppable towards its own end,
line after line after line.
STOP! I wailed, This is great stuff.
This is like free gasoline,
this stuff will fuel a thousand souls
up the hill to a higher plane,
if only you would stop long enough for me
to take dictation,
but the poem kept reading itself,
line after line after line.
STOP! Don't waste this meal on me alone,
but the poem kept reading itself,
reading over my protests,
the current line burning bright
and the former lines evaporating
like the smoke trail from a burning line of gunpowder,
a long, winding streak of flashing gunpowder.
Don't waste your . . . I tried to reason,
but the poem read its last line
and signed itself: "A Poem For You"
and was gone.
Silence.
The low hum of my window fan now.
A hum
and nothing else.
I lied there in my flophouse bed,
stunned.
Damn.
A good one got away.
I could still feel its healing warmth in my chest,
but its essence was gone,
lost forever.
It was a tragedy,
a tragedy in my bunk bed:
a gift ungrasped
and all gifts, ungrasped
are tragedies.
Tags: Revver, flophouse, rts, inspiration, jolieblond, literature, marquisdejolie, muse, muses, poem, poetry, prose, reading, spokenword, bum, tramp, hobo, tragedy
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