At A Poetry Reading

I'm at Javas coffeehouse or maybe it was Ja Bons, I really don't remember
Because I'm feeling all cool and hip and it's all good.

I'm nothing but peace and love and joy and happiness at one with God and
The universe and all of this without the the use of chemical substances or
Any sort of ingested matter except for a touch of zen and jazz and beat
And so forth.

I invoke the power of the saints, St. Jack Kerouac, St. Bob Marley, St. Janis Joplin, St. John Lennon, St. Ernest Hemingway and for good measure I
toss in St. David Thoreau, St. Walt Whitman, St. Shel Silverstein and St. Robert Frost and St. Rumi
And a whole slew of others in a literary litany.

I'm called up to the mike to the shouts of "Bring him up, bring him up!" and a marvelous metamorphasis takes place.

It's not the usual and everyday me.

But it's the essence of myself, the truth, the balance of mind, body, and soul.

It's my spirit and my strength and my love and the creative part of me.

It's the romantic and poetic and meaningful me.

The parts of me which only come together, as can only be brought together

By poetry.

I'm standing up at the mike for a few brief fleeting minutes of fame or perhaps infamy?

The fingers snap and the keys rattle and I feel a focused wave of

All that is humanly good washing over me.

A wave of pure poetic power for all of us.

I don't want it to end and flushed and glowing,

And content I take my seat.

Now the lights come up and I have to go home - maybe.

I'm actually quite satisfied, I'm at a poetry reading.