Don't "half ass" anything. Don't live via "conjunctions disjunctive" (LOL).
Watching last night the realization of a musical personality, an effort
that shows itself like the familiarity of friendship, like sex after loss
of virginity, stronger, more fully enjoyed for the repetition,
I derived a pleasure that equaled and enhanced what I felt
for a woman of Baltimore whom, time out of mind, I see, and who sees me
though what the import of the recognition is far from matters
to either of us, or to those possibly observing our crossed glances, more
movable than rivers down rocks, not yet stalled by winter.
An audience understands and even sweats the receivables of effort.
I was happy to see this executed in real fun, in no light,
in transmissions reverberating, in decorative clown and decanter,
in a whirlwind dervish dance duo of best friends sweeping me up
into bumping laughter, far from the slicked onion giant
and the gagging girls trapped behind his ignorant dance. Sure, he
loved the honeyed orchestrations of the band, but a shower,
not of weeks-old sweat, would have been a boon to those back-walled
behind his hopping height. When in that hand-linked circle of band mate friends
by the door I freely romped, so quick the shadow man received the woman
I watched look back, look left, bop, but to whom I can communicate
nothing outside of small blue eyes that in seconds dart to the nerve endings
of another so differently awkward man, a violinist, whom the shade consulted,
and if I venture nothing or stop accident,
the spiders of time still web the gnats
and hairy flies that, as mummified afterthoughts, are meals for dark evenings
to come in the analytical loneliness of twin predatory prey, one carted away
in the remembered arms of the shadow, and one dumb,
holding a three-quarters eaten birthday cake, rich present to a friend,
out in the adventurous and peopled street, under a cigarette-burned tree.
I want to say that the effort is key.