Strange Day
4/05/2005
It began rather dull, the bigh whimper, from waking up to going to work to trying to get something done to not giving a fuck whether I accomplish anything or not because of too many goddamn fucking interruptions telephone calls conversations heads up type this do that look this up. Fuck.
5 hits. Storm is coming. Wife calls just before work is over, mentions something about big hail falling around the house. Perfectly clear and sunny at work, just 5.5 miles South of home. The wind from the south kicks up fierce, then someone kicks on a bloody television in the other office. Radars, tornado warnings, all the oklahoma excitement of potential damaging storms. It's like a football game of charts, graphs, scientific jargon and promotions of the latest, newest storm tracker. Like I give a fuck. It's a storm; I can see it out my window.
Get home, but the place smells pretty bad because something died in the house. A mouse or something. Go do laundry, cook a frozen bloody pizza. Take out some fake bacon and add it as a topping, then shake on some garlic salt, oregano, basil, thyme and damn I don't have any extra virgin olive oil.
So it goes in anyhow.
I toss laundry into the washer, run back up from the basement, aerate my shirt because it's been in that stinky house all day, and I can't wear a work shirt to a poetry recital.
The activity never ceases.
So I get to the coffeeshop, signup for position number 5. Recognize a couple of performers, we hit it off in conversation. Meet a new guy, Todd. He's 2 years younger than me, very eloquent, enthusiastic and charming. We go inside, find seats, and get ready for the show.
What amazes me a little is how much talent is coming to this thing. When I first started frequenting Gypsy, there were 2-3 decent performers and 5-6 horrible ones. My plan is to latch onto enthusiastic people with talent, get them to sign up, take up the space so the mundanes have no stage to go to, and then blow the fucking roof off with hard-nosed, quality poetics. At least that's the theory. And it works, subjectively. But a lot of people sincerely don't give a rat's ass about poetry, so those people can't be reached anyhow.
I read one poem. S'ok. A little introspective. Then I move into angry mode. That's over, then I pull out the most angry, violent thing I've ever written, and at the end of it everybody's literally screaming and people I don't even know are hugging me. Very surreal. I guess they liked that last poem.
Macree (sp?) once again proves that none of us really have any talent at all. This guy is brilliant on his guitar. It's his baby, and he handles her with compassion and fervor and joy and intensity. He brandishes her like a fine wine, a drawn sword, a knight's armor gleaming. He gets screams and applause. He deserves so much more that we can't give.
Feature poet, Pauly Hart. What a neat guy. His own thing. Seeing the mistakes of my 40-minute monologue last week, he appeals to the senses of the audience and gets them involved in a group participatory mode. I'm too high-strung and hiding behind my little poetic papers to think of such an idea. Simple. Eloquent. I only wish he'd talk a wee bit slower so we can chew on the words a bit. But he's his own engine, and it comes out the way it comes.
The best line of the evening was written by Todd. "We were naked save for our smiles."
God, that was good.
posted by novachild @ Tuesday, April 05, 2005,
