The Reading by Marcus Bales
Her mouth too near the microphone She first intoned her title; Her voice a buzzing monotone She said, I think, our souls would moan With howls like Allen Ginsberg’s own, And slurred and blurred her dreary drone, In tedious recital.
She gripped the podium on stage, Her poem never ending -And only her decrepit age Assuaged the next three readers’ rage As, turning yet another page, She spent our time as if her wage Depended on its spending.
As moderator, I did not Perceive a lot of choice As murmurs grew: somebody ought, No, had, to halt her verbal squat So toad-like in our garden spot, And find a way to staunch this rot By stoppering her voice.
So arms out toward, as I’d been taught, The middle of the mass, I aimed, breathed out, and squeezed, and shot The leather-lunged and doddering blot Who’d droned along as if she thought That once she'd seized the mike she'd got Some sort of life-time pass.
The general approach of Law, And many of its minions, To shooting someone through the craw For her inane blah blah blah blah, However last that last last straw, Is that it is a fatal flaw In not a few opinions.
The prosecutor even shed A manly tear to show it Had moved him greatly she was dead: “Her pure poetic spirit fled Prosaic Death’s pedestrian tread … “ “Wait, wait – “ the jury foreman said “You say she was a poet?”
The prosecutor said “Indeed! And she was published widely – I’ll use your question to proceed To show you.” He began to read. At length, the foreman knelt to plead: “Stop reading! We have all agreed! We can’t abide this idly!
“You’ve put us through this punishment And made your case absurder; We find the shooter innocent Of any criminal intent -Indeed, we actively lament Your sly attempt to represent This noble act as murder.
“We hold free speech must know its place If it is to continue: You must not underbid your ace, Nor doubt the Holy Spirit’s grace, Nor sing the tune if you’re a bass, For decency demands you face The moral law within you!
“But poets who have read too long Must all be superceded – We urge you when you’re in a throng While poets thus are in the wrong, To make your protest very strong And aim to end such ceaseless song With shot and shell as he did!”
The prosecutor gave a sigh And packed away his pleadings, Then gave me such a look goodbye It made me think he meant to try To mutely say, or just imply, That maybe I’d be wise if I No longer read at readings.