About BS I saw at a conference... a poem.


The ruffle of suede and faux fur
being hung up diminishes in
the echo of eager voices
awaiting the recital and reveal
of the salutations
The plain podium rattles with cascades
of coffee stained papers
the ruffle stops, the silence forebodes
the mechanical mouth of the ancient
orator that opens with a cough
the speech is chewed vigorously
professors count the letters as scribes
with ink saturated palms smearing images
on ledgers made of dust and slate
they talk to themselves and describe the
faulty bridges, verses and lack of philosophy
as they all go over the transom as wonderful
wisps of waxing and waning bewilderment 
building tension and stress as the seated audience
feel their backs bend and crack and soon
they will seize
The orator slips on his embroider jacket made of dog hair
linen and lion’s regret, it falls and fits
A quietude resumes, the words
are counted, spoken, and placed
Under shoe and step
To be ground down into paste to fill
the wrinkles on their faces
and in a casket of ancient resolve
the feast of language is consumed
with soft sensitive dentures and
ready bent forks
The ruffle of suede and faux fur
is furious as the flight from the
benediction is swift out into the winter gates
No longer do the pundits read
from the stained pages that fell
the rattle of wooden shoes stomp off

and diminish with distance.