Writer’s Neck

A famous poet just came to town and featured at some of the open mics. Their voice was strong and their words were true and they had the Writer’s Neck…
 
It rose outta the torso at that certain angle
It reminded me of the dinosaurs
It was made of stone age
It was made of plastic youth
It was made of too much flesh
The skeleton poked out a little
Poetics were poking out a little, leaking out before they could reach the mouth
It was all concealed beneath a thick hood
It was 65 million years old, but the rest was maybe 65 single years
It was a crane in the act of lifting
It misplayed the spinal chord
It was brand new, 0 million years old
It was a treetrunk in the act of lowering
It was quasi modo but fully brontosaurus 
A tie dangled from it
A head dangled from it, the head was inside it, the head was not part of it
The tie was too tight around it
The scarf was too loose
It had been staring down there for so long
It would yell out “giraffe!” at all the right moments
It couldn't afford a tie or a scarf 
There was food and water and oxygen transported in there
There was blood somewhere in there
It protected a throat
It had been staring up there for so long
It would extend and retract as the reading went along
It would yell out “chiropractor!” at all the wrong moments
It needed a massage but appeared very calm
It took an entire lifetime to build
It could choke at any moment
It was such a writer’s neck, only a writer could have it, filling the gullet with wordies until it gagged
Weight
It was soothing and terrible for me
It reminded me of my own neck
I looked in the mirror, my neck was exactly the same
I rubbed it gently
And this poem popped out
 
- August 2016, Westminster, CO