Entranced
The Tuesday Poem...
Entranced
It’s in our DNA now.
Was it passed through the fetal sac?
Since radio, the 1930’s.
Can evolution happen so fast that
We got slapped on the ass
When we were expecting applause?
And then every room entered since,
From kitchens to classrooms,
We yearned for our ovations.
There had to be some director
That it clicked with,
Or perhaps a chagrined Jack Benny.
A moment of entering a scene
Into the silence of death.
But, Mom, I’m here!
And this headphone-wearing, clipboard-holding
Worker turned to the audience, wildly pumping arms and waving,
Until the audience cottoned on and broke like waves
Upon the shores of fame and obligation
And were rewarded by Benny’s smile.
O mother, O father, O love!
My first experience of it was Happy Days.
It sure seemed spontaneous.
Our chance for Beatlemania.
Fonz would enter the malt shop or living room
And the audience would erupt with applause.
Girlish screams quickly silenced.
A peek of anarchy, of exultation.
O, Fred Mertz, it should’ve been you!
But a sanitized Brando would have to do.
No need to list more, other than
To get to the ever-receding point.
And I’m going with Kramer
And Sophie Kachinsky.
We begin to see the pattern of the id
The rebel, drugged-out, inappropriate child
We’re applauding the exact archetype
That would get bounced from any bar we owned!
We’re raving over the parts of ourselves we’ve murdered
While our ego-selves, the other actors in the scene, have to grin and bear it
There are salaries to defend, fame boxes to guard
Yo, Ron Howard, ya wanna direct, shut up and take it
Yo, Judd, wanna another series, laugh at Jim
Yo, Mindy, who played you again?
And so, we enter rooms praying for applause.
We converse as if a live studio audience is listening.
Talking heads in starving bodies
Lying across laugh tracks, wondering when
The trains of thought will finally run us over.
Torturing metaphors.
Waiting to say our lines.
Freaking out if the script is changed.
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