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Len Krisak
reads
Amateur Avant-Garde Dance Recital
in Real Audio
format.
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Eight are the modern company they keep,
So sixteen soles—and twice as many scarves.
They move about in space not all that deep,
Four female figures that their Master starves,
And four young things who either writhe or lift,
Depending on the need. They’re out of breath
By minute five, and bottoms start to shift
From cheek to anxious cheek. “Birth,” “Life,” and “Death”
All seem the same to those of us in rows
We can’t escape, waiting our cue to clap.
At last, the octet, clearly in their throes,
Expires—but no! They’ve got yet one more lap
To take, and then no more of Philip Glass.
We rise, applaud, and think, “My aching ass!”
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