Performance
Homer walks into a bar. Yeah,
he's blind, but he can tell where
he is—all bars smell the same:
a dark sea of sour wine, sweat,
and dissatisfaction. He locates
a bartender by listening for
the rush of beer into frosted
mugs, the gloop of a popping
cork. He offers to perform for
free drinks. The bartender's not
having any of that: number one,
this is a sports bar; and number
two, their license doesn't cover
live music. Homer says he's
not a musician; he's a poet.
What about that lyre, then? says
the bartender. Oh, that's just
for rhythm, to enhance the voice,
Homer says. Business is slow,
so the bartender draws him
a tap beer, mutes the tv, says
Go ahead. When Homer invokes
the gods, the bartender shifts
from foot to foot uneasily. As
his voice swells with power,
lyre thrumming, and the gods
enter the battle, in the corner
a maimed veteran clenches his
remaining fist until it bleeds.
F. J. Bergmann frequents Wisconsin and fibitz.com, and claims to have an MFA from the School of the Americas. Previous occupations include used-book seller, rural postal carrier, illustrator of a manual of interesting diseases, steeplechaser, and failed visual artist. Further attainments include the 2008 Rhysling Award and a third chapbook, Constellation of the Dragonfly (Plan B Press 2008). Both the hairstyle and demeanor are deceptive.
