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Wednesday, October 19, 2011

The Result of Poets

A poetry reading in someone's side yard
Oh this will be a treat
It's literally a patch of grass
Surrounded by a white picket fence and
Lit by tiki torches and a porch light
I walk through the squeaky gate
(I feel they purposefully don't oil it
Because they ironically enjoy the squeak)
I find myself lost in a sea of flannel
And thick rimmed glasses
The girls all wear
The same sort of things
Full length skirts catch on their "vintage"
High heeled boots
And they wear their pleather jackets with pride,
Flipping about their jaggedly cut hair
Which has been styled to look like they don't care
No doubt with enough hairspray
To leave a carbon footprint greater than
Any industry about which they rant
While the women are similar
The men are exactly the same
Cardboard cutouts of the same manboy
Prance around the little yard
Sporting the same porn star mustache
Skinny legged jeans, leaving little to the imagination
And little to be desired
I could look past the fashion, but oh,
To hear them talk
Causes me physical pain
Such general statements are tossed about:
"Oh don't get me started on the economy"
"Fucking Bush man!"
"Yeah, it's so environmentally sound"
Then they swig on cheap beer and wine
And act like the silence where there should be an explanation
Is meaningful
Pretension so thick
You could cut it with a knife
Though perhaps a razor blade would be more apropos
When the poetry actually begins
I sink into the little lawn chair,
As it sinks into the over watered lawn,
Perhaps it feels the same despair
The hostess approaches the mic
Only moderately drunk
And speaks into it as if she is
She speaks with her lips to the mic
Like she's giving it a sloppy kiss
And keeps her voice low and soft
She brings up the first poet and
My hope is renewed
Her work flows like a constant rushing stream
And her imagery draws me into
This person she's describing and I find
I almost love him too
Her poems are lovely
But end too soon
The hostess, a bit more drunk than before,
Announces the next poet like she
Is the love of her life
Then my hope is squashed by a girl
Who thinks that her phrasing
Is elegant with a comical twist
She thinks a wry smile and throaty laughter
Make up for her lack of original thought
So continues the progression
Of plainly petrifying poets who
Pronounce pedestrian pieces
And pretend they are perplexing and profound
And the hostess, god love her,stumbles toward the mic
Poet after poet
Drink after drink
And so this waste of a night
Filled me with a frightful urge
To write

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