the analysis and comparison of the performatory aspects of poetry and rockstar-dom, or why i will never be adored by the masses.

an image on the television screen: a man stands with his head tilted skyward. his jaw hangs slack, his eyes are shut tight. sweat has plastered his shoulder-length hair to his forehead.
his name is john frusciante and he is jesus on guitar.

pay close attention to the tightness around his eyes. his music is translated in those few centimeters of flesh, with guitar riffs writing themselves in the creases and folds of his skin. lines appear and disappear in tune with the guitar's keening. the higher and longer it sings, the more he tries to hide himself behind his eyelids.

he hits his musical climax, he undulates against his guitar, and his face contorts in euphoria. we are voyeurs, we see him orgasm close up and he awakes to a million screams. there is a prurient aspect that marries the exhibitionist to the peeping tom.

a song is a means, not an end. the purpose of writing a song is for it to be sung, performed, preferably in front of the adoring masses.

writing poetry, on the other hand, is its own denouement. once written, it is over, done with. the act is the writing itself, and committing one's thoughts to paper is the performance. anything after is inconsequential, unnecessary.

an analogy: a rockstar is jesus turning water into wine, feeding the hungry, and preaching on a mountain. the rockstar is worshipped, and for worship to occur, two or three must be gathered.

an analogy: a poet is a sinner confessing misdeeds to the self. confessor and confessant are one and the same. the mouth does not have to say things aloud for the ears to hear.

an image on the television screen: a man pirouettes on the stage. his body is his instrument.

the poet does not, cannot pirouette. the closest thing is the movement of the hand on paper, assuming that the poet still uses a pen. loops, curves, and lines--the wrist dances as dictated by the shape of letters and the tempo of thought.

i could milk this some more. but i'm tired, the moment has passed, and this has been sitting on my desktop for too long. on to the next...