“You, you,” he points at you,
“You can’t be in my audience,”
And collapses.
There are no stagehands here
To shuffle away his bones,
“It’s a one man show!”
He now understands his mistake,
But he’s proud of shrinking
The universe down to a man.
Who does that?
“The Artist!” he’ll inevitably cry
And laugh because it’s ludicrous.
“I took tickets too.”
And he cleaned the aisles
And he built you a throne
With cheesecloth and cardboard,
“And my soul!” Yes, yes, of course.
And there now you are
In the throne he constructed
And he’s not ready to be seen or heard
“Or exist!” No, no, of course.
I just recorded “A Throne!” (http://t.co/k40ZwrGYvk)
Listen: https://t.co/KwP55wIJIW
[poem, 51 seconds]
I am dissatisfied with the recording. I’d like to do it over, but I don’t know if or when.
I have updated the recording—rewriting some of the poem in the process, need to update the image sometimes.
Although, I don’t like how I approached “collapses”, and I can say “shrinking” better than that.