Ken Poyner

Three Readings

1.

When she produced her own
Stiletto candle, placed it at the edge
Of the podium and lit it with
A match from a matchbook that
Could have come from any slop beer
Bar in town, I knew her poems
Would be celebrations of her tragedies.
I would be un-disappointed and disappointed.
The night was endless.  Since when we
Were first dating, I had not spent so much
Time looking idly into my wife’s lap.

2.

Despite having many architecturally
Accommodating spots, the reading director
Placed the podium nearly equidistant
From where the waitresses called orders
To the bartender, and the double duty
Exit-Entrance door.  As not all patrons
Present, arriving, or leaving, were concerned
With the poetry reading, there was
Traffic at uncoordinated times
Between reader and audience, and shouts
Mid-line for shots or drafts or rare
Bottles.  Of the fifty copies of the highlighted
Poet’s book sold in the surrounding months,
I learned the author bought thirty-seven,
I bought two, and the remaining eleven
Escaped elsewhere.

3.

In a performance hall specifically designed
For such gatherings.  A podium well lit.
An audience prepositioned in made
For the occasion chairs.  The poet
Nestled into the reader’s place.
He went to even his loose sheets
Of poems by tapping them
Against the bottom lip of the platform.
He missed, and the papers floated
Carelessly down about his feet.  Two
Attendants leapt to gather them.  His
Sole word, a reverent “Shit.”

 

Department Store Warrior

He believes the conspiracy theories
Because he has to.  They make him
Special, in the know, someone
Who can see through the mirage.
What would he be without them?
Someone who doesn’t understand,
Who does not think long or deep enough,
Who is so out of touch as to be
Irrelevant?  No, he has his theories
Supplied by someone from somewhere
That make him whole, make him
Belong, a superior being not to be fooled.
To his cause he belongs.

He loves his guns.  He has to.
They give him power and importance
In a world which, for intellect
And talent, has passed him by.
Unless he is a threat, he is nothing.
The gun is his expression of self;
He has no other.  The world
Will notice a man with a gun.  Without it
He is invisible, unremarkable,
And in his own fears dull.
Menace is his special standing,
His only respect.

Self-loathing is the most violent emotion.
He does not hate you.
He hates that he cannot be you.
And so this is his charade,
His gutter theater.  Avoid him.
Becoming a victim of his shortcomings
Is nothing to strive for.  Let
The poor man play by himself.
He understands the game.

 

 

The latest of Ken’s twelve collections of poetry and flash fiction is Science Is Not Enough, speculative poetry.  He lives in the lower right-hand corner of Virginia, and is married to a world champion female power lifter. He spent 33 years herding computers.  See him in Analog, Asimov’s, Café Irreal, Blue Unicorn and another hundred or so places.  www.kpoyner.com.