Every Saturday Night Open Mic of the Seventh Future

This place smells like piss and beer,
But she can’t get outta here
And she can’t stop Drunkenly dripping 
On her guitar while singing…

All these things have to happen
For the next things to happen,
Because if they don’t happen
Then the following things don’t happen. 

She keeps singing
From under sweater and on stage
Into your ears
And beyond...

Basically, you must trade
First choice for second meaning,
Even if catastrophe keeps
Knocking on your nights. 

Her pain has lead her here,
To this place in time,
Where she shines
A light back on the dumb, defiant audience...

every pain and joy 
and thought and sigh 
must come again to you, 
all in the same sequence.

She knows what’s coming next,
Because she has seen it
Many times before,
And many times before that...

The birth of tragedy
Out of the spirit of music,
Because of what hasn’t
Happened yet to yesterday. 

She is not a god,
She has just been around
For a very long time,
And has witnessed many lives, many masters...

The prospect of having to live one’s life
Over and over, every detail repeated,
Every pain alongside every joy,
Giving a glimpse of what’s to come.

She can’t be who she is,
Without who she was,
And she can only see what’s coming,
Because of what she’s singing…

Owning up
To recollect, to regret,
To be responsible, 
Ultimately to forgive and love. 

She drops the guitar,
Smokes her cigarette,
Walks off with a warning,
That she has seen this all before...

We keep living the same life
Over and over again,
And we will keep living the same life,
Until we get it right. 

A tray of drinks drops
In the background,
And everyone flinches
But her...