The poets believe they’re sanctifying
this old church, de-sanctified
three decades ago. Ginsberg fidgets
on his metal folding chair, paying the penalty
for fame, a two-hour open mic. My voice

shakes as I begin to recite. Ginsberg
once asked “Who killed the pork chops?” 
My first poem ends, “Who killed Saint Sebastian?”
What’s the sound of no hands clapping?  
I imagine arrows showering down toward me
from the readers waiting their turn.  
  
My next poem (I’ve got a minute left) 
recounts an evening years ago, car camping
with a male friend, our bedrolls in the back 
 leaning together like an old couple.
Ginsberg perks up. He looks right at me,
staring hard as I return to my seat. 
 
I sit there on the metal chair, sweating,
hearing again the sound of no hands
clapping until someone passes me a note,
an origami swan, which, when I unfold it,
is initialed “A.G.” & asks “Are you my angel? 
Copper Queen Hotel, Room 144.  10 tonite.”
                        

Zipper squirrels tumble 
from pre-lumber to pre-lumber.

Several pre-venison
watch you, their markings

like butcher’s diagrams,
dotted lines that indicate

choice cuts.  Best of all,
you can feel safe here

even if you’re lost.
Fifteen paces, exactly,

between the trunks
of each susurrant pre-plank.