 |
The room was crowded and most of the chairs
in front of the make shift stage were full.
You'd think after spending so much time
in front of people that I'd be more comfortable;
but I still need my two shots and two beers
(minimum) just to think about reading
in front of any crowd. The musicians, at least
have a guitar to hide behind. I get up there
I'm naked
and all my inadequacies are hanging out
for the old women and their knitting
to take note of, measure, and judge me on
accordingly.
The old men are worse. Propriety
seems to mean more to them... they'll have
no dangerous dangling in front of their women folk –
though I haven't met a an old farmer's wife yet
who would blush. (Animal husbandry
and male inadequacy have taken
more of their years than they want
to worry about.)
Try to put it all in context, mention
the French root of the word “essay”
hoping they will then forgive
the profanity that is sure to come.
I can't help but cuss in prose;
it's as natural as breathing
and comes twice as fast.
My only hope lies
in tone; will they pick up
the humor, the dry sarcasm
the self-deprecating way
I am always apologizing
for myself?
I stand and read. It's worse
than that naked dream. Remember
not to read too fast but try
not to read too slow. Sometimes I hear
what sounds like light laughter
which makes me feel better
and I push forward
building steam –
until the last three sentences
in which I unveil “... where
there is nothing to do
but drink, get fucked up, and fuck.”
The post coital silence is staggering.
Two old men in the third row glare
shake their heads. Later, they get up
sing five gospel tunes, hoping to erase
the poor sinner
for whom their christ
was supposed to have died
in the first place.