Open Mic Night
This one's an experimental poem within prose about language, chaos and confusion.
“I really want to do stand-up comedy and integrate it into my poetry,” I told a male friend after finishing a poetry reading last Saturday.
“Ha you’re not funny,” he told me - fully amused. Sure I was offended for a second, but this coming from a guy who frequently masquerades in art activist and community circles for clout (and cute girls) ultimately encouraged me.
Confusion is a hell of a tactic. It can be used to lift and uproot you so far away from your wants, desires, truths, and needs that you find yourself small and calloused. I see confusion as a challenge. I could really care less at this point if I make anyone laugh or not. That’s beside the point. Every art form is not for everybody, but to have the courage to produce and share is generous enough a love language - even if just for the self.
I’ve been practicing my prose and free writing to reach this point of generously sharing — turning the confusion of language I give and receive into something more digestible.
So, we’ve reached the last lunar cycle of 2022, and here I am with the capacity to share again. There’s no better time to sit back and melt into reflection about how much of a sensory overload of emotional ups and downs this year has been. (And if you need a reminder, you can read a great piece, Chaotic 2022 in Review by Whitney Mallet in Kaleidoscope.)
As a segue to an end-of-year chapbook I’m working on, I want to share a work in progress that is a cluster of confused prose. It’s an exaggeration of the conversation with my snarky male friend woven into a narrative about language and chaos. Let me know if you like it!
Open Mic: A poem within prose.
"Ha!" he snorted in amusement. "You're not funny." The room around us paused for a moment as if I had just sucked the astringent juice of a grapefruit. My head felt small, my face puckered inward — he doesn’t notice. Duh… his dad is a famous comedian, and this made him the gauge of all humor.
That was the last laugh I’d receive before being called on stage for my reading. "And next up, we have Ta-ash," a voice announced from the speakers outside We had been hiding in the green room with a bottle of wine that I had smuggled in –in an attempt to calm my nerves.
Toward the gallows, I walked through the never-ending aisle of stares. Like a clown on trial being mocked to faint purely for entertainment. I didn’t actually faint, but the invisible bricks at my back gave out the appearance of a forced and intentional delayed gratification.
I gathered my words to climb onstage. “Here’s your bird suit,” a friend grinned. Never showing teeth, not when she spoke. Was I imagining this? The air felt charged and light around me. A garish feathered affair, I thought. Maybe an added boost of support. I mean, I’m not that funny anyway.
I put the bird suit overhead on top of my clothes. The sleeves are short and an awkward fit. The feathers are sharp and intrude at every angle — forcing my arms to stick out and away from my body. It hits me that this is all orchestrated. My friend grins again — doing that thing mean girls do. You know, the ones who play bestie in private but still snub you in front of their cooler, DIY scene friends. “You’ll be great, love,” she winked. I use ‘cooler’ loosely because by that, I mean she just wants them to F^ck her.
A rock, a bird, me, disguised, it’s all the same. The lights flicker as if to signal my last call, and someone shoves me on stage. Maybe my mean friend. I figure the bird suit was cramping her style. Standing under the spotlight (maybe a figment of my imagination because it’s actually dark), I grab the mic and clear my throat. My congested mucous echoes through the space—followed by the clipping screech of distortion. Suddenly it’s silent. I want to spit it all out.
The one comfortable face I could make out in the crowd cringes with concern. “Ugh if she bombs, I’ll have to feel guilty for hating it,” Is what I imagine them to think behind squinted brows.
“A whispered advance,” I began to project my words. I awkwardly grab the mic — a feather stabs into my side body.
“A whispered advance is all she hears. She had a hard shell and mommy issues that she carried in her pocket. Posing as a boy, she remained disguised. An electrifying edge that made all the high femmes merry.
“Marry me, marry me,” they’d whisper from all around. But they were invisible to her. Reaching for some distant shore where the high horses did their dance, she just wanted to fit in with the boys.
Somehow, though being claustrophobic, she’d find a way. She always squeezed into voided spaces. Because in her mind, the void meant full, and only opposites mattered. So, she’d just smile and think, I belong here, although everyone else jumped ship.
“Why you always carrying that backpack around,” they’d laugh and ask her. She’d wink and grin, but none of the guys get it or got in. They didn’t understand her relationship to their stature, or her always energetic tone.
They’d fade away like shadows missing compassion. Acceptance was destiny in her eyes, but she shied away from the deeper connections.
“Pick me, pick me,” the girls would chant and whisper. Still, she couldn’t see through her own guise. She wanted to appear like Morpheus in glasses, but her shades were smudged with grease.
Popping pills for pleasure and extended ecstasy. She planted seeds in the ears of the lonely girls, who were often like her too. It’d ultimately end in dismay because she allowed no one real to observe her insides or the true comforts that were once dreams. She’d only fade in and out of reality, transfix, and fake being whole again while waiting around the desires of a broken mother.
I looked up to address the crowd, having forgotten I was onstage. Drenched in sweat from the added layer of my bird suit. The crowd initiated their slow, cautious applause. “Nice job! You’re so funny,” private bestie exclaimed as she quickly gestured me off stage and out of the spotlight.
I try to inch my body out of the bulky bird suit, and realize it was all a dream to begin with.