It was another late day suburban circle jerk
Announced on Twitter or some digital song
To discuss the arcane science of wife swapping
Of every race and gender and if enough
Time to explore the fall of Paul
From his horse on the road to
The agenda was loose like an open
Source drama, everything out, everything
In, relativity on purpose, until
An invisible third hand steadied
The narrative the way a clown builds
His face outward to touch
The hem of a circus tent.
The men in the group wanted to talk
About sex, the women more interested
In playing the hangman’s game first
On the back of an envelope, then
On a series of hands and finally
On the dining room wall. By now
The energy had shifted
To the feminine side of the house
That is interested in art but would
Settle for a pound of flesh.
Mixed nuts and mixed metaphors
Fill the place and this night’s den
Of contestants on American Idol seem
To be sticking their necks out more than usual.
After the twittering subsides the tech
Chicks with a little help from Photoshop
Project a meadow on a far surface showing
Rolling wheat fields, blue skies
And a very large crow.
The group sighs at all this tranquility
And barely murmurs when a braced upside
Down L with six or seven nooses
Drops into the heart of
Men in the room clutch
Their throats as if on cue.
The artist does not notice as she is busy
Putting flesh and blood on those ropes
Choking, kicking up a story, reaching
For the stars though their hands are tied.
In the final tableau it isn’t clear
To the women in the audience
Whether the smoke coming from these actors
Is the soul leaving the body
Or just the fields giving off heat.