I am not a poet. My thoughts are a long memory; wet kindling that will never burn.
I am a drummer.
I am not a drummer. My pattering hands are slow and stuttering, never continuous.
I am a photographer.
I am not a photographer. My eye is set skewed and never focused, fading periphery.
I am a singer.
I am not a singer. My voice is strained and weak and hacking and to low for a falsetto.
I am a dancer.
I am not dancer. My feet are not fleet but flat as wooden slats that do not slide. But, Drag.
This studio is a mess, this office, this station, this house, a disaster.
With all the memories over grown and haggard,
Like yellow grass. The racket of the smashing clang
Drums, searing the silence with impertinence. Pictures
Hanging loose and crooked on worn hooks and a hollow wall. The droning call
Of a buffer idling, dancing in the same spot.
There is a need for cleaning up after.
I am a janitor. I am that.