JUST ANOTHER FULL MONTY AT THE POETRY OPEN-MIC CAFE
You commence with an ultra-safe
picture-postcard piece from your
little patchwork poetry quilt of
Norman Rockwellian Americana…
just to get your foot in the door…
and yeah— now they know you're
alive up here at least… they're
settling down and settling in with
that good old obligatory applause--
but then off the top of your repertoire
you doff something slightly prurient…
scale it like a Chippendale hardhat
out over the coffeehouse darkness and
the chatter and clink of churning spoons…
and their eyes lock-on because suddenly
you're the Reality Show Network and
they're looking just a tad what, embarrassed
for you perhaps? yeah— but interested…
but for you, this is adrenal, this is liberating—
risky though, like oops, your soul's little bald
spot is reflecting in the spotlight like a chrome
hubcap and you’re simultaneously burning with
self-consciousness and breathing a sigh of relief
like the comb-over guy who finally gets a real
haircut, but hey— whatever doesn't kill you
makes you stronger, right… the truth will
set you free… so up next: a sassy little
indiscretion from your dark, drunk-alogue
diaries delivered with reckless abandon…
dropping your Mach-o, Mach-o Man ‘tool
belt’ to the floor and, hey dude, somebody’s
vulnerability's showing: you're flashing
titillating glimpses of psyche, the temperature's
rising, and everybody’s getting a liberal mind’s-
eyeful of your blushing soul au naturel… but
that's what poetry is, isn’t it: a personal,
but no-longer-private peep show--
Tonight: Real Live (spiritually) Naked Poets!
and you're thinking, Hell man, they're digging
this… they're wondering just how far you're gonna
go and, well… even you don't know that yet, as
your frantic fingers fumble your life’s pages
like buttons and zippers to expose whatever feels
right for this time… this place… this crowd, and…
How many poems did they say I could read...?
You commence with an ultra-safe
picture-postcard piece from your
little patchwork poetry quilt of
Norman Rockwellian Americana…
just to get your foot in the door…
and yeah— now they know you're
alive up here at least… they're
settling down and settling in with
that good old obligatory applause--
but then off the top of your repertoire
you doff something slightly prurient…
scale it like a Chippendale hardhat
out over the coffeehouse darkness and
the chatter and clink of churning spoons…
and their eyes lock-on because suddenly
you're the Reality Show Network and
they're looking just a tad what, embarrassed
for you perhaps? yeah— but interested…
but for you, this is adrenal, this is liberating—
risky though, like oops, your soul's little bald
spot is reflecting in the spotlight like a chrome
hubcap and you’re simultaneously burning with
self-consciousness and breathing a sigh of relief
like the comb-over guy who finally gets a real
haircut, but hey— whatever doesn't kill you
makes you stronger, right… the truth will
set you free… so up next: a sassy little
indiscretion from your dark, drunk-alogue
diaries delivered with reckless abandon…
dropping your Mach-o, Mach-o Man ‘tool
belt’ to the floor and, hey dude, somebody’s
vulnerability's showing: you're flashing
titillating glimpses of psyche, the temperature's
rising, and everybody’s getting a liberal mind’s-
eyeful of your blushing soul au naturel… but
that's what poetry is, isn’t it: a personal,
but no-longer-private peep show--
Tonight: Real Live (spiritually) Naked Poets!
and you're thinking, Hell man, they're digging
this… they're wondering just how far you're gonna
go and, well… even you don't know that yet, as
your frantic fingers fumble your life’s pages
like buttons and zippers to expose whatever feels
right for this time… this place… this crowd, and…
How many poems did they say I could read...?
