Everything Goes Here

After a night of poetry, burlesque performance art at my neighborhood cafe on Staten Island.

come out of the darkness of your secret rooms you artists, minstrels, writers, freaks.

everything goes here.

this bundle of weird misfits of joy; that I am apart of.

wonderful singing and dancing in my head.

these whirling dervishes,

how they spin their tales,

In front of friends and strangers;

we are all strangers

wise women disguised in lovely young, too - young " for - me - succulent bodies.

beautiful eyes that lie and mouths that suck me in.

they whet my appetite for more.

pretending not to comprehend the vastness that is the universe

and all its secrets.

however; all knowing are these nymphs, speaking in tongues that I should not understand.

I don’t belong here; but I do.

I am comfortable here.

I am anonymous here.

incognito!

blending in the background among the paintings and books.

an invisible voyeur.

my purpose to observe, absorb and document.

social dysfunction no longer irritates me,

It amuses me; now.

eating soup coffee and pie.

the chair that supports my a*s,

the table that holds my elbow is mine,

I own it. I deserve it, I keep it.

as the poets with beards spew;

vomiting their anguish, their hunger, their frustrations and love.

coming to grips with who they are, who I am, who we are.

who are we?

chasing our tales through the cycles of life never fully understanding.

never satisfied.

fighting to the death to prove our point;

never really knowing what that is.

what’s the point?

but the women know.

they know.

they’ve always known.

why won’t they tell us?

perhaps they do.

caution to the young beards.

the illusion of time travels faster than light.

so burn.

keep.

keep and burn.

keep burning.

burn your bridges.

burn your maps that lead to nowhere.

beards " we, search for causes to lean on in order to rebel against ourselves.

to find purpose and meanings through the lines of our own dying;

Our own demise

and, as for we the stronger sex, spent and weary, chasing our tails only to find our way back to their arms again, and again;

hungry angry lonely and tired searching for shelter and rest,

back to the womb.

William Teague, © January 2013