Forty Two 03.26.10

I am sitting in a small crowd watching Queer Open Mic night in San Francisco. With legs splayed comfortably, I sit on a folding metal chair and my right leg is bobbing up and down like a vibrator with ADHD. My hands are feeling a little slick, and it is making snapping at the other poets I see perform before me muffled and unsatisfying. It comes out like more of a soft pop and less of the loud crack I want it to be, punctuating the moments I feel their words the most. My heart is hammering inside my chest, hiccuping at my sternum and bouncing back off of it like a pin ball machine on tilt. I keep trying to breath deeply, I push my shoulders down and inhale into my core, feeling my body still as I exhale slowly and soundlessly.

I'm counting down the performances, because when they call Number 7, Morpheus, to the stage I will make my debut as a slam poet. I've been coming to these slams and open mics for almost 2 months now, I've been getting more and more hungry for the taste of the spotlight, for my chance to embrace my inner poet and let it loose upon the audience. I have been practicing and working so hard for this moment, writing non stop, honing my skills at editing, learning my voice and style, and then running those pieces through until my voice is raw and broken. The only obstacle now that stands in my way is my anxiety, my crippling stage fright that I want so badly to shed. I am trying to invoke the calm before the storm, it comes in short staccato pockets of peace, but nothing I can really hang onto for long.

Then I remember your words, they come sweetly drifting into my mind and I wish you were here to see me, to hear me, to know that every word I speak is about you. I remember you said that I should turn the nervousness into excitement and that I am a prophet meant to spread beauty, truth, and love. My face eases into a wistful smile and I feel my heart swell with pride. You should be here right now, bookending me with my devoted slam coach Lee, but you are elsewhere watching movies with your friends, or laughing so hard you shake, or maybe off in a bar somewhere. I wonder if you are thinking about me right now. I wonder if you are wishing you had come to see this, the way I am wishing you were here.

As the last performer finishes his song and looks up from his guitar he mentions with amazement that there are a whole lot more people there now then when we started. I crane my neck from my seat in the second row to see, that much to my amazement there are people standing in the back, crammed into the doorway like a school of herring shoved into a 5 gallon fish tank. I start to tremor a bit having seen this, but serendipity blesses me once again. The MCs call the feature poet, one of my FAVORITE of the slam poets I have seen thus far to the stage. My eyes shoot open with disbelief at my luck. Sam Sax, enters the room wearing a cherry yellow sweater and painted nylon yellow butterfly wings across his back. He walks smiling to the stage, his sideways cap and slow shuffle swagger displaying all his confidence. Dusty Rose, another poet I have come to know and appreciate, enters with him and takes a seat at the foot of the performance area. My eyes shine. Sam Sax goes up before my performance and suddenly I am FILLED to overflowing with excitement. I couldn't have planned this better if I had tried.

I am beaming in my seat as his rhythm and style carry me away, and I remember, I am one of his troupe. I AM a slam poet, and for him to grace the stage before me with his words and power is to literally litter some of his magic like fairy dust on the ground my feet will soon grace. One happy thought and I might just fucking fly. I feel my heart grow less startled with each piece, my body filled now with a jittery kind of excitement. My moment is about to break over me like a waterfall made of champagne and I grin lost in the moment and the imagery he evokes. I snap until my callus smarts and I punctuate the rhythm he sets with his flow by the sway of my body. He is electric. In my grandest dreams, I see myself ascending to the upper echelons of poets like Sam Sax, Jenn Genius, Kim Johnson, and Dusty Rose. He performs his last poem and I feel the aniexty tremor just below the surface of my skin. But I am on cloud nine after having heard what great poetry is comprised of and I shrug off the nervous energy. I want to hold onto this moment as long as I possibly can.

The MCs jump up to the front and prompt the audience to cheer for Sam Sax. It doesn't take much because the crowd loves him, and rightfully so. His poetry is a mix of rhythm, flair, and haunting beauty. He evokes so much with just a few simple words and the character he dons for his performances is one I never tire of. The crowd cheers him twice and I whistle emphatically. Then they still and Sarah calls "Morpheus" to the stage. I rise, feeling my body coil like a spring and I walk to the stage.

For the last three weeks straight I have seen countless poets struggle with the microphones. Knowing the stage fright I was going to have to combat already, I have been making mental notes on the inner workings of each kind of mic stand, so that when the time comes, it will be easy and fluid for me to adjust. I walk up to the stage, and slide my fist around the coupler like a wrench on a leaky faucet. It gives way, and I slide the mic down to a comfortable height. Twist of my wrist and the mic is in place. I lean into it and say casually, "sorry, I'm short." It's an endearing opening line and I smile at the crowd.

I stand straight and move the mic back from me a bit to the left explaining, "I'm going to back up from the mic, 'cause this is gonna get loud." People in the crowd are waiting with curious expressions as I continue to play with them. "Ok, how many of you out there know what the word Unctuous means?" I have been playing this moment over and over in my head to prepare before this night. But each time I never anticipated what would happen in this moment. I sound confident, even though inside I am shakey and unsure, the crowd does not look so imposing from here, but their attention has me balanced on the edge of a straight razor called tension. Hands bolt up all over the crowd and I find myself saying "Great, yell it out!" Answers come from around the room and I nodd, they are with me now, I can see them starting to engage.

The moment is all but mine, and I savor this, this is the last moment I will really be myself before the piece takes hold. "Right, so it's like greasy, it's like oily, it's like slick, it's SO WET. So that's the title of this piece. Unctuous." I look down at the paper in my left hand and take a breath. Then I begin. The piece roars out of me, its beginning loud, but not angry. It carries a forceful tone of confrontation, and I punctuate it with the nuances in my voice that I have been practicing now for a week. My left hand holds the piece like a teleprompter. I glance down at it from time to time to read what is written. But I stun myself, because I find I am acting out the piece with my body, my right hand gesticulating at just the right moments, and my face wearing every word like a costume. I look up at the crowd, engaging them more than I ever thought I would. Their faces tell me everything.

The sounds of cat calls, low whistles, gasps, and slack jaws fill the air as I summon the best of my piece. The crowd reacting is something I have only dreamed of. I smile wickedly to myself on the inside as I watch them squirm in their seats. Eyes fly open and disbelieving grins spread across their faces. I am in heaven. It is well through the piece when I glance down at my paper to look for the next line and I realize, my left hand is shaking. The paper stutters like a leaf caught in a breeze and I trip over a line, breaking it in half, but still managing to save it. The line slips out of my mouth like a fish through water and its smooth seductive delivery has Dusty Rose shouting out "Whhhaaaaaa-T?!" I wink at her, elated that she felt connected to the piece in this moment with me. The next line, earns an exuberant "SHIT!" from someone off stage left. I am on fire as I bring the piece to a close.

Near the end of the poem at a particularly poignant line, something falls over in the bookstore and a loud bang emanates. Ordinarily I might be frightened by this and freeze up, but I find its timing perfect and I point to the sound as if to say, "that is the sound!" After that, the poem ends softly and subtly. I sway closer to the microphone for its delivery because I want them to hear what is in my voice: longing and bittersweet nostalgia. After the line is delivered, I fold the piece over on itself and the air is thick with silence. I lean into the mic and returning to myself say a quiet but simple "Thanks," while my head does a little bob of a bow and I smirk smile to those around me. I walk back to my seat, but it feels more like floating and flop down into the chair.

The crowd goes wild with cheers and clapping. I am beaming from ear to ear, as Lee my trusted friend and slam coach squeezes me tightly in a bear hug. The female MC gets up to the mic to announce the next performer, fanning herself with her clipboard. "WOW! wow! I am totally overwhelmed, I need a minute! Wow, that was great! Thank you!" She smiles with an almost pained expression gracing her face, staring straight at me. I grin like a Chesire cat and nod. The male MC jumps from his seat, twisting in the air as he does so to find me, not knowing I am sitting kitty corner to his rear. He spots me, leans over pointing to me and screams over the audience, "YOU! You were AWESOME! You ROCK! THANK YOU!" And I laugh in disbelief at how exhilarating this moment has become. I say back "Oh Thank YOU!" and then crowd quiets down.

Some of my friends came to watch for support and they lean over the aisle to heckle me about pumping gas, a reference to a line in the poem where I pantomimed fucking a gas pump nozzle, and I smirk in spite of myself. I am still shaking, but I feel like I could run 40 miles and not even be winded. The rest of the night went something like a naughty poetry slam. The man up after me does a piece about being a Literary Masturbater, a piece he was inspired to pen after coming home from a poetry slam one night and being turned on. There are a few sporadic pieces and then Dusty Rose gets up and reads her poem about learning to feel ashamed of what your body does in a moment of passion, spurring her to swallow "thunderstorms and galaxies" from then on to spare others the shame. I am in heaven. I am loving every minute of this and riding high on the rush that all my hard work has paid off. I can finally call myself, a slam poet.

I glow with excitement and realize, you were there with me the whole time. As I read the piece, it was like an invocation to your heart. I wore the passion you stir within me like skin and through it they all saw how we mix like hard liquor and parched tongues. I would say that I miss you in this moment, but it wouldn't be true. I was missing your absence, but your spirit was with me and I felt it beam with pride and disbelief. I felt it impress its love and ardor all around me like a straight jacket around my heart. After the show was over, I went up and introduced myself to Sam Sax. He was the nicest, sweetest guy I could ever hope to meet. Unlike his stage persona which he wears like a costume. I introduced myself to Dusty Rose as well and was surprised to see she seemed suddenly nervous and awkward. She told me she loved my piece and my head swam. When I revealed to her it was my first time reading she jumped back in surprise. I had to explain, this was the first time I ever performed in front of anyone and she was so encouraging it felt like they were embracing me as one of them.

When I walked from the room to catch a smoke outside, I was still purring like a jungle cat in heat. I glanced to my right and I saw to my amazement, Jenn Genius, talking with a small group of other people. She recognized me and nod waved in her usual supine manner, like a large cat would wave at stupid drooling dog with its tail. I waved back, eyes twinkling and shot for the front door. Outside, Lee and I jumped around like idiots in our excitement and I chain smoked to quell my shaky hands. People walking by from inside sent me sweet little nods with nervous eyes, or they would stop and thank me for reading my piece. Suddenly, I knew what it felt like to be one of the slam poets I always shuffle up to after shows. They were just ordinary people, who have groomed extraordinary talents with skill. They weren't monoliths I should be afraid to approach. And in fact, there was every reason to, to tell them how their piece spoke to me, how much I enjoyed it. How alive it makes me feel to feel their words.


After the show we were invited to eat burgers with the MCs and anyone that wanted to join. We went with and people around the table complimented me on the strength of my piece. I modestly accepted their thanks, and someone asked me how long I have been doing this. Again, no one believed it was my first time. Another person asked us if I had more poetry. They asked me to read more in the burger joint, but the only other piece I had on me was Carrion. I was not about to read Carrion at a burger joint, it's too loud and I might scare someone invoking the big bad wolf in public. I told them to come to the Starry Plough next week. Because after that moment on stage when the crowd started clapping, I knew I had embraced my inner poet and my writer's heart. And I knew I was never going to look back. This was only the beginning and I felt alive, so alive, like my life really started in that moment. I couldn't wait until next Wednesday to slam at the competition for the first time. I couldn't wait for the rest of my life. And I couldn't wait, to share it all with you. I am hoping you'll come and see me perform sometime. I am hoping you'll be sitting there and I'll watch your eyes light up with sparkles like miniature displays of Christmas tree lights and fireworks mating on the backs of fireflies as I shine for you and all to see.