The Initiates

Prose poems that are a paean to Musicians, Writers, Artists, & Wingnuts: to folksingers, the troubled and disturbed, open mic nights everywhere.

Boris wandered lost in the crowd, stifling yet another
belch; knuckles sliding along the ground, a ham-fisted
grab-bag of Coca Cola, chips, and a stale cigar clenched
in the other hand.

Corncob was mounting the stage,
the first and last object he’d even come close to mounting
in the last decade.

These were among the real Bloor St. underground
denizens, cave-dwellers, morons, and the intellectually
Each of these unmentionables has participated in a
simultaneous and mutual evacuation that had completely
polluted several layers of whatever atmosphere existed only moments ago.

I sit back here, scribbling these words; praying that
nobody will notice me or call attention to the fact that I
am being what they please themselves to call cynical.

Though I believe it is simply relief that someone
else has taken on the task of description they would not be
able to contain once begun.

I guess it doesn’t help that our peerless leaders are
themselves in dire need of such therapy as this cast of
village idiots provides.

Both were kings of long sustained bursts of silent thought.


©Dean Baker



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