by Ben Nardolilli
I have been doing tiny desk concerts for years, where is the following?
More importantly, where are my scalpers with dented coats?
The footjob of fame is getting through to me through fishnet stockings.
I need awards. No cash prizes. No fees. Just recognition.
Arriving late at the Imagist feast. I took turns as an ironclad or zeppelin,
trails of smoke, screaming at the top of my lungs,
“Have fun if I don’t see you!” to everyone I thought was behind.
Turns out they were debating a trip to NYC, but not with me.
All the posts contain the word engaged. I’m adapting resources,
putting on full armor and sometimes more. For a doctor, my sister.
If I’m under house arrest, I can design uniforms for Vichy France.
At breakfast I will have galaxies in my bowl. I want spoonfuls of universe.
Who will recognize me? A version of the Golden Globes as realized
by Philip K. Dick as long as we can find a venue.
Without awards, what was all my human training for? All the other
following methods don’t work and I’m running out of material to burn.
I will try to give you the best crucifixion I can,
Unfortunately my body lacks the tone,
The ascetic aesthetic you have come to enjoy,
Muscle and sinew twisting with bone
Against a rotting piece of wood with rusted nails
I offer you a body to share after I am gone,
One which sags over the hips,
A navel stuffed with lint, and a fat belly covered
In a jungle of hairs when dry and a sea
After I let loose with the sweat of unholy water
Think of the advantages of my martyrdom,
How relatable this already bloated corpse will be,
If the hair disgusts for now, after the demise
Each follicle will fall like dark snow,
An instant collectible for future pilgrims to kiss
Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, THEMA, Pear Noir, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish a novel.