She said, ‘you’re not going to read
the poem about Michael Jackson
I said, “I am going to read the
poem about Michael Jackson”.
She said, ‘you can’t’.
I said, “I can”.
She said, ‘Aw…it will be awful,
I can’t bear to watch, you can’t….’
I said, “I probably will still read it…”
And then several different
poets got up to read. There
was a song or two as well.
And a story, a prayer, one
or two jokes also – though maybe
they were just poems…
Anyway, it was all going well.
Then the poet before me
got up to read her poem.
She had Michael Jackson’s
music playing in her headphones
so everyone could hear – she even
Then she read a poem – the gist
of it: Guns are bad/Michael Jackson,
not bad. They said he was bad. But
he’s not bad. Guns are bad.
She finished by saying the words
“Beat It”, “Beat It”, “Beat It” about
nine times in a chant – and it was in
reference to how we needed to
beat guns. To control them.
Then it was my turn.
I got up and read my
poem about Michael Jackson.
About how back in the day
he was deemed wholesome,
while Prince was the one that
everyone thought was weird. A
pervert, so obviously strange. And
sinister. A creep, apparently.
I read lines about Michael Jackson
masturbating onto the split
cheeks of his victims.
And then I read another
one – about Eddie Van Halen,
joking – since it was already
fairly awkward – that this was about
a different kind of masturbation
I really enjoyed getting back
on the horse.
And hearing most of the work
by the other poets as well.