Member Rara Avis
The first poet of the evening
Gave a rambling soliloquy.
Some diamonds in his verse,
But a lot of cubic zirconia, too.
He made the mistake of prefacing his art
To try and make connections
In a crowd of others not quite like him.
The second admitted it was her first time,
And soon proved her virginity.
Her words were sentimental,
Studded with too-easy observations
And surface feelings.
Being her first time,
She brought some sunset paintings
(quite beautiful -- her gift isn't words)
To supplement the lack of meaning.
The third was a young boy in a wheelchair;
The audience clapped and cooed,
As if sympathy and pity
Are more important than understanding.
He had no pretensions, a soft voice
And a sweet wisdom in his words.
A carefree unspoken nuance
That told us he knew where he would be in his life.
The first best poet of the evening.
A man so angry that his words jumbled together
In a cauldron of bile, at the point of unfocused rage
Where beauty is an absent, leaking sore,
Stumbled his words -- both english and spanish --
Into the mic.
He was hard to understand, his intensity so melting.
He's going to be the featured poet next month,
Because we all know that anger equals profundity
To the uninformed impressionables.
Next, someone from a local club
Came to theatricize his words.
I was impressed at how well he moved his body
With the sounds spouting unchecked like a burst spigot.
He had to get the words out fast
To keep that glob of memory from becoming a stroke.
Sometimes he became unintelligible.
But he was very handsome, so he has two tricks to his name.
He's going to go far.
There were the regular poets, who came every month
And their work was fine. I can't quite remember specifics
Simply because I know well their peculiarites
And avid, purposeful phrasings.
I guess I take them for granted.
(to make amends, I bought a chapbook from one of them)
150 minutes in.
The chairs from the podium spread back
Like unbroken knifeflattened butter.
Since the readings were four minutes longer tonight,
Many invisible poets flooded the mic.
The more professional used the extra time to plug other appearances,
Where we could no doubt go and here about even more appearances.
Meanwhile, my ass was a steely pain
Against the bookstore folding chair.
When I finally came up,
The moderator told me he was sorry,
But the bookstore was closing.
Could I keep it short?
So instead of reading 10 minutes worth of work
Selected and read several times in front of the mirror
To get the timing, the nuance, the unseen craft correct,
I read three poems, three short poems,
That I brought with me just in case.
They were serviceable, and I do enjoy them,
But they didn't speak in the tone I wanted to take.
I learned a lot.
I'm going to try and break my leg,
Have a profane tattoo needled into my neck
And do somersaults to the stage next month,
Cast thudding heavily like small stone.
With a voice of stolen thunder,
I'll scream words into feedback.
I'll sing tuneless notes,
Set a piece of paper on fire.
And then, for the eyes rapt finale,
I'll place a wordless gun to my head and
It will be a water pistol,
But oh, the impression it will leave.
I will be respected.
Or at the very least,
I will be an artist, too.
[This message has been edited by bsquirrel (edited 03-26-2000).]