The ball rolling on the sidewalk fell into the black hole

The bicycle riding on the sidewalk fell into the black hole

The guy on the bicycle fell off of the bicycle and into the black hole

The sidewalk began falling into the black hole

Block after block of sidewalk sucked into the black hole, silently disappearing before my eyes, the black hole hungry, the hunger sucking my shoes, my socks, my pants into the black hole, my keys, sparechange, body piercings into the black hole,
but mysteriously, not me.

I stand naked in the nothingness of a black hole hangover. I look around slightly terrified, wondering what it is about me a black hole doesn't like, because although it would suck to experience instantaneous implosion, it's not very fun to be the world's only black hole reject either.

I begin walking, thinking thoughts about the party next weekend that probably wasn't going to happen now and how that problably meant I wouldn't score and I think about all those people who always knew exactly what they would do if they were the last person on earth, and all those people who told me what they wouldn't do with me even if I was the last person on earth, and now I am the last person on earth.

I look down in despair and an ass in tight jeans in front of an ameriacan flag shines up at me. Behind those jeans are 12 inches of vinyl reminding me that Bruce was born in the USA. But I don't have a record player and I don't have an outlet and if i did the power plant disappeared along with all the ballons I could rub in my hair to make enough static electricity to power the record player I don't have. I'm fucked.

The lyrics are printed on the inside cover. I spend months in the nothingness, eating a small piece of the paper the lyrics are printed on each day, staring at my disappearing bruce and his disappearing words and making mental pictures of it all in my head so that when the day comes when my paper Bruce is nothing but a memory i will still have him, in my heart.

Gnawing on Bruce's words one day, inspiration strikes. I bite my fingernail so that a needle sharp sliver hangs from the end of my pointer finger, I grab the record and begin spinning it on my other hand and when my Springsteen sense tells me the record is spinning at precisely 33 and 1/3 revolutions per minute I bring my fingernail down on the record. Vibrations shoot up my finger and throughout my entire body. Springsteen's songs explode from within me and out into the nothingness.

Behind me, I hear a scream like the sound of a hurricane arguing with a tornado, turn around and see the black hole I thought was long gone twitching and threatening me. But I know not to stop, I know that Bruce Springsteen is this black hole's kryptonite. The hole vomits out the world I had almost forgotten. I continue steadily at 33 and 1/3 forcing up the contents of my beloved world, Springsteen like a finger in the throat of the black hole.

[Michael Lee Burgess, lebt in Kopenhagen, Poetry Slam Pionier. Text von hier. Video via etcpp.]