Glued to the Spotlight: Prose Poem
Saturday Poetry Prompt: provoking the theatrical
Had I been different, I might have phrased it differently — the way this floor, this stage — no-graceful-exits — had become part of the base of me, part of the functioning spine of me — while magic and realism squabble and squat in alternative houses, pressing themselves together and again into the diligent nights that find me
reading still, always, forever — yes, then the verbs become orange and red — like wattle tree leaves in rainy April — so many, like the pages of the books I am madly scrambling to try to read aright, all night — thrown in with some violent violet headdresses in the distance —
ah, you’ll find me, you’ll find me — I know at least you’re looking and this is something that takes on behaviour like a curse and crutch, like the swallows of the last bits of bread that descend from lips onto lips — because becoming — fucking Heidegger — is just that sensation of being glued to the spotlight, of finding an audience
just as bloody, just as lost, just as amazed by the absence of the ticket to a stall that shows only mirrors and mirrors — like the foreseeable ocean, that crests and wanders and calls and wraps — and undoes those scraps of dialogue responsible for holding so much together for so long and then release —
