Your Grandmama and Dick Butkus at Broken Mic

I made it back to Broken Mic for the first time in a few months.  I've been working a lot, often on Wednesday, and taking a night for myself is taking a night from my wife and kids.  I'm glad I made it.  Being around writers, whether you agree with them in content or style or not, is good for my energy.  It always makes me want to work and reminds me I am more than a guy who does a job for money.

I attended the local Slam Championships back in May when Team Spokane was selected.  They will represent us in Boston for the National Championship.  Individual slams take place every other Sunday throughout the year with the best performers making it into the finals.

It opened my eyes.  It's a whole different game.  I've always been a critic of "Slam Poetry" primarily for the fact that it calls itself poetry.  Poetry is something different: written for the page to be read when the writer is absent.  Slam is written to be performed aloud by the writer in three minutes or less.  That's a whole different art form.

But I thought: "I can do this.  It will be hard, but I can do this."  Everything I've ever read at the open mic I had written previously to be read from the page.  Never before had I written something specifically to perform in front of people.  I've written to a specific length, but never to a specific time.

Last night was the first time I brought something to Broken Mic written specifically for the time and place.  I won't call it a poem, rather a script.  The open mic suggest a 3 minute "time guideline" that often is run over.  In truth, the event has to end at 9.  It's an all ages thing in a bar, so minors have to get out.  If your piece goes 4, 5, 6 minutes or more, you're robbing time from another.  Every night, some people are trimmed from the end of the program because of time.

So, starting with an emotion I began to feel as I headed of to my last job (hell no, I don't want to go back) I wrote a 3 minute piece and memorized it.  To this day, I can scarcely remember anything I've written.  Fake Flowers is about it.  I just don't do that.  But I did it.  I repeated it over and over before sleeping Tuesday, timing myself and finding the results between 2:40 and 3:30.  You need to factor in some stammer time.  You may pause to remember a line or read more deliberately than intended.  You may have to stop for laughter.

I had it nailed as I drove downtown, but nothing prepares you for having a room of people staring at you and hearing your voice over a mic.  But as Kurt Olson put it last night, when do you have 40-50 people actually listening to you?  Behind a bar or table-side, I'm comfortable talking with people and feel very natural.  But until you've spent a lot of time on stage, you are understandably rattled.  So I didn't know if my memory would fail or if I'd bring the personality I wanted to the piece.  Of course I had a copy on me.  I had to look for the third line, but after that I nailed it.

But it's terrifying.  Someone should monitor our vitals over the course of the night.  Heart rate, adrenaline, sweat, facial color.  Before, during and after.  I don't know how they decide the order of the readers.  It's not the order in which you signed up.  Half the readers read, then they have a featured reader and a break, then the second half.  It seems to me they bracket the first and second halves with someone they know and fill the middles with the unknowns.  Yet my first time there they just threw me on first, which was a bit of relief.  Just throw me in the water with no time to think about the sharks.

I find myself going through rapid cycles of emotion.  I never know if I'm reading next.  Naturally, I'm excited to do it, nervous about my performance, anxious I might forget and proud of what I wrote.  I feel all this in the moment before someone does or does not call my name.  (Awesome that this is the only place in the physical world people will call me Eighty Six.)

I am relieved every time another's name is called.  For 3 minutes, I don't have to worry about reading.  I can make no mistakes during that time.  But as that reader finished, my pulse increases, my nerves begin to rattle. If I took the mic at this moment, I'd be tight as a drum skin and shaking like a willow.  I need to calm myself.  I take deep breaths and try to be zen.  Paper in hand, I get ready to stride confidently to the front of the room.

Then they call another's name.  The cycle repeats.  In 3 minutes I'm vibrating again, wanting to be next so I can finally relax but knowing it will be easier to just sit and wait.  It's exhausting.  The constant up and down.  I've been trying to describe it and hope to get it into a poem.  It's something like sound waves, the rapid oscillation.  The effect compresses as the night moves on.  The later it is, the more sure I am the next one will be me, which is some relief.  I know it's finally coming.  This is like the Doppler effect, perhaps, where the sound waves are compressed and increase in perceived frequency because of velocity.

We're approaching 9.  I know they ask people if they'd accept being cut.  Typically they ask people they know are understanding.  I haven't been here in months.  I don't know what side of that line I'm on.  Tim asks me quietly how long my piece is.  I hold up 3 fingers, happy I timed it.  I've walked in here with 4-5 minute pieces before and felt guilty about it.

So I did it pretty strong.  As I said, I had to check my sheet for the third line.  That was all nerves, not memory.  I came off fairly natural, though I was certainly stiff.  I mostly looked up at the lights and over people's heads, but did look down into faces as I moved on.  I delivered the last lines the way I wanted.  I got some whoops, as you always will, at the dirtiest parts and when I said "selling pot".

Relieved to be done, I could have taken a nap right there.  One more person read and we were done.  I'm not sure what to think about my second-to-last placement.  I'm sure they deliberately finish strong, but I don't know the psychology behind the selection of the reader just before.  Nerve racking, though.  I'd almost rather be first.

I want to condense these thoughts into some verse, but that will come later.  Until then, here's my script.  I'll call it a script, because poems are something else.

Hell no, I don't wanna go back

I'm choking on post-its, staples and thumbtacks

This train is off track

The discipline's slack

From HR to PR, FNGs to presidency

You have no spines in your backs

Our competition's on the attack

And our whole business structure is cracked

We aim to be 5 star

But the sky is clear and blue

It's high noon

Day dreaming like the last day of school

Fornication, inebriation

But I need some production from my work station

I don't know if your money's delivered by elves

But my bills just don't pay themselves

Looking over the fence for greener grass

Shoulder-deep in my pocket and I can't find cash

Just sweat and lint

My glasses are losing that rose-tint

Getting that happy-feet syndrome

I'd rather be home

I'd rather be gone

Rather be fed to ants than be here

I don't care

Put me back table-side in the food and drink biz

At least I know how that is

Do it right, collect more tips for the night

Screw up, crumbs and pennies in your cup

So while you're in you cube, typing reports for the shredder

I'm serving kobe beef and aged cheddar

And while you're calculating profits, losses and risks

I'm stirring shrimp bisque

Shaking martinis with twists

But that game's gotten old before

Give it a few months and I'm staring at the door

Thinking, why am I in here banging my head

On the wall serving water and bread

To the boozed-up and brain dead

When I could have a career instead?

But office, hotel or barber-shop

Casino or truck-stop

Hu-Hot, astronaut or selling pot

Cafe or race-track

Or if you go to work flat on your back

It all sucks

They never have enough bucks

Enough pay

Enough sick days

The right perks

And every single day is berserk

The wrong benefits

And the shoe won't fit

I'm filled with apprehension I'll never live to see my pension

And I just can't get gay

About this 401k

I'm giving myself a permanent vacation

Because I get no satisfaction

No warm and fuzzies

No joy

So hell no you can't employ

The EI to the GHTY 6

I'd rather lube your grandmama with chap-stick

I'd rather turn butt tricks for Dick Butkus

I'd rather visit my sister for Christmas

This company and I, we're finished

In the Toaster

I lost my last bartending job because I was drinking near the end of my shifts sometimes.  Always I worked hard for my guests and team-mates, but I used alcohol to ease my stress, numb my physical pains and to celebrate the everyday completion of a job.

I've been in purgatory working a job that doesn't pay well, but at least they gave me a shot.  As of today, I haven't had a drink in seven months.  I have regained my balance and remembered my priorities.  My wife, kids and home are all that count.

I'm about to start another job that should pay me what I'm worth again.  Maybe I've proven that I'm responsible.  Maybe I'll be released from purgatory.  Does that mean I get to celebrate a little?

I've been thinking about it.

In the Toaster

So long

I've been dry and square

As a slice of toast.

Need a little butter

For smoothness,

Spread some jam

To make me sweet,

But take care

To keep my shape.

Too much jam and butter

Just make a sloppy mess

On my fingers,

Down my shirt,

All over the floor.

Nothing

Feeds the family

Like a wholesome loaf of bread,

But too much time

In the toaster

Makes an ashy crust

Good for nothing

But crumbs.

So I need to spread

A little butter and jam

Sometimes.

In the works is a book of my poems.  Currently I'm calling it "The 86 Collection" but it needs a real title.  Some phrase from one of the poems will distinguish itself.

Secrets for the Man

Things have been going well at The Penalty Flag and Bright Hub Education.  I'm one of TPF's featured writers this month.  Bright Hub is asking me for something about every week.  Come to think of it, the cartful of groceries Jajamilevska, Zero-Eight the Poet, Stomper and I bought yesterday was entirely paid for by freelance writing.  That's something.

I'm still getting to Broken Mic at Neato Burrito, but maybe only once a month.  My two days off fly by so fast, I'd rather be home with my beautiful people.  If I was rolling solo, I could be a brooding, roaming slam poetry rat, sitting in the corner, sipping and looking deep.  Those days are either behind me, ahead of me, or both.

Last time I was there, I put together a piece specifically designed to be read there.  It's been a piece of music bouncing around my head, but finally I got it on paper.  Think anything you like about the religious implications.  I'm not the type to tell people what to believe.

Secrets for the Man

What kind of man

Slides down to Satan with a briefcase in his hand?

Snaps open stainless to flash 500 grand,

Says: “Bub, what you got?

I'm buying secrets for the man.”

What kind of man

Sits sippin' with the spirit:

Shots of whiskey,

Black and tan,

Says: “I'm a ghost, too.

Thanks for the brew

And all the secrets 'bout the man.”

What kind of man

Jaunts off to Jesus,

Says: “Son, I know your plan:

You convinced them all it hurt,

Hid three days in the dirt,

Then got under their skirts

And whispered: “Keep this secret from your man.”

What kind of man

Glides up to God

With a tablet in his hand?

Double-taps the screen to show grift

And greed

And scam

Says: “We got 'em smoked like ham.

What you gimme for these

Gigabytes of secrets for you, man?”

He's a pawn-broker of sin

Who just wants to get in.

He wants to know the price

So he can get the cash to Christ.

When he's dredged up all that stuff

He finds it's not enough.

What kind of man

Steps to Saint Peter with a heater in his hand?

Smirks sarcastic,

Says: “Is this your promised land?

Where the virgins and and lambs?

The angels and the bands?

And please put up your hands.

I'll take all those acres.

I brought some secrets for the man.”

Acres of Diamonds

About a month ago someone I'd just met challenged me to write about Russell Conwell's Acres of Diamonds speech.

I'm working on it.

It's been a busy month, with Bright Hub in particular, and I'm running behind.  But I've read it and it's rattling around in my brain.  Within a few days I'll have some good ideas about it.

Mr. Conwell is a very persuasive orator.  I'm beginning to think I might actually want to be rich.

June 29: Update

Yes, I'm about 3 months late but I did it one better by writing about Acres of Diamonds for Bright Hub.  So I got it done and I got it published in a place where young people can learn from it, just like Conwell intended.

So if you're out there, mystery assignment guy, I'm finished.  And I learned something.  The "money will corrupt me as an artist" concept I had throughout college was faulty.  Understanding business and building an income will free me as an artist.  Took me a long time to figure that out.

If I ever get to found Eight Six University for the Arts, every idealistic dreamer will be required to minor in economics.  If you ever make any money, starving poet, better know how to invest it.

Find my Acres of Diamonds article and lots of other smart stuff here at Bright Hub.

Blog Flash 2013, March 6: Island

(Eureka!  I've done it!  I crafted a time machine.  I transported you all to the future.  While you write on the date and time you believe to be March 14, 2013, here I am back on present-day March 6.  Shine on, you crazy futuristic time-travelling diamonds.  To all of you who thought a poet would never invent a working time machine, put this in your pipes and smoke it.)

Destroying the world is hard, even fictitiously.  The more my Cathartes Aura series grew from animals in a zoo to human experience in the larger world, the more difficult writing became.  Conceiving of a disaster that removes 99% of the world's population and remains believable is nearly impossible.  Most savvy readers will poke holes in your plot.  "Why aren't they all dying of radiation sickness?"  "How come the aliens destroyed every city on the planet but Moosebutt, Alaska?"

What I love about the post-apocalypse is the character study.  What do you do when you realize the life you had is gone, the world you lived in has changed forever and the people you love are dead?  That's why I write about those situations.  Each one of us will react differently.  Some will come together while others fall apart.  Some will have their most noble traits shine through, while others use their most evil instincts.

An idea that's been brewing in my head and crawling through my notebooks is this: a disaster on a remote island that, for a while, changes life so dramatically it might as well be the end of the world.  I'm building my own fictitious Caribbean island on the map next to the existing ones.  Its history and culture will be a mixture of its neighbors'.  Wickedly, I might put it in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle.  If power and communications are down, if hurricane weather prevents travel by air or water, this island might as well be on Neptune.  How will a few thousand residents react to that, especially if they are reduced to a hundred?

I have a lead character, some supporting cast and an idea of the disasters.  I just need time.  Currently, The Penalty Flag and Bright Hub are keeping me busy freelancing.  Plus my job and the search for more freelance work.

Fortunately, I now have a time machine.