Public Access Poems Episode I

Here is the first poem I wrote on the Reddit Public Access network. I'm curious about how well the work stands on its own, without the gimmick of the broadcast itself. 

March 11th 2021, Early in the AM. RPAN Broadcast. 

Less than a minute in and the horns start,

a prohibition house band, angular swing and a

hopscotch cinch about the waists - fold your beard

up inside your pores, child, you look like a man.

 

I toke in full view of my landlord,

indoors, trying to hide my stubble from

the seagulls, dialing in from polygons

across the flat earth globe.

 

What can I say to those whom

crypts and zoos are one and the same,

Those redjays crowwalking sideways,

Lit like a Griswald Christmas they come asking me

 

The blue ballest of them all,

for advice on cutting pink paper.

I’ve pawed at scissors, sure as sunlight

but sweaty palms are oasis rains:

 

you can only dry your hands so many times.

 

A head above sand never waits for ants

so here they come, I honey my complexion

With a punch-able sunscreen, my countenance

Conspiratorial as a museum guard, a slouch-

 

rate savant of the arts. “Now that my

priesthood has re-absorbed my cheeks,

allow me to lob a feminine cough

my best impression of a virgin/matriarch.”

 

My words a curtain for a pin drop.

I stand beside Nighthawks, a inky song

I recalled you preferred. Since your visit

And my new position I request

 

to sentinel the drunk bird often.

When it snows flakes falls on my uniform,

the stained glass letting the

         foux-rehearsed reprisals,

         a watched summer only simmers.

 

                                (Meanwhile In the Chat)    

        

                                 An acorn wants me to water them,

                                 clean my bong, so others can keep

                                 transparency as well. A sort of

                                 ouroboros rosy rung, and I dig,             

         man, I dig, I’ve crunched the numerology before.

         But a soul who likes their bong dirty is certainly damned,

aren’t they? I smoke for the taste.

 

A southern cat comes round about Pound,

you could set your watch to it.

 

         Mr. Vapor vainly pops

         Behind a cloud and

         Asking to see chemical

         Stains on my lungs,

         Fair enough in times that try.

 

            (Smash back to the Museum)    

    

         Across from Nighthawks is Dorian,

         His leer clapping the snowfall to a close ---

         I’m no art institute guard,

 

         a mere poseur, unfit even

         for federal pay. A gendered top hat

         Alms for ethers, astral prance:

         this here top hat, ma’am, it’s tinfoil.

 

                     A

                     Poe

                     Boot

  A)           Licker          B)

Will be                                W.C.W

  Silver            or         Sign of

tongued in                         adulting

the Land of                  Williams is

Lincoln.                           Truly warmer

 

                                 I sell flags with Blue Ridge blood stains

                                 Call Rick Coaster at (696-) for tails

                                 And pics.

“Leaches the lot of us,” I say.