untitled 128
we the invisible
walking past bright billboards not now nor ever meant for us
with names of fame and names unknown
to sit in black box rooms on 9th and 10th
to practice art and claim our worth
while sirens blare straight through the walls
(the great and sainted houses an avenue east
have sound proofing, we’re all thinking)
while seedy hallways light the way to one room stalls
and the deli charges fifty cents a cup for hot water
which no where can we find in this supposed performance hall
I saw a mouse once
trapped and dead in the ceiling light
its shadow only but definitely a mouse
and I thought – across the street they’re pretending at the great white way
but here is where the real work lies.
not to lie: so much of it is terrible
not worthy of the hallowed footlit tourist traps
that we all heard of in our quiet classrooms and dreamlike fantasies
(we forget, of course, the astaires left for Hollywood long ago
and left us our bright light boulevards for Disney harpies)
we might deserve the dead mouse lamps
but some of it is beautiful
and all the more for all the grime
we are no broadway fantasy, we
art for art a battle cry
no façade of glamour here
9th and 10th and living rooms and crowded Brooklyn fake performance halls
we’re here because we seem to need to be
though I can’t pretend that I know why
except to say we feed on pain
and martyred for our cause we lie
and die unknown, never having played a house of thousands
oh to be a broadway star?
we scoff and turn down 45th
away into the light up night
