a poetry reading

I was parked down on Mercer Street

listening to a poetry reading

over the speakers.

a disc so old it skips now

but I have all the words

memorized anyway.  in my rear view

I could see a young prostitute,

maybe 19 in a tube top

and blue jeans

propositioning an

octogenarian to meet

her on the playground.

dozens of children

poured

out of the venue

where I was to read

at an open mic.

the promoter charged

$2 for performers

and $3 to sit in the audience.

in exchange we were

offered stale cookies

soda and burnt coffee.

it felt moderately like a support group.

“hi, I’m joe and I’m a poet.”

“hi joe.”

reading at an open mic

is much like farting

in the supermarket

while you’re bending

over to retrieve an avocado.

everyone hears

something

but they never

make eye contact

or attempt to locate

the source.

a couple poets read to

a bare audience

to children running

and texting

and twatting

and fingering the

future of their own idiocy

and then an all female

children’s musical

group is announced. 

they are all 13 and they sing

songs by Led Zeppelin

and The Velvet Underground

and flick their tongues

at all of us as they

crash their instruments.

it is all highly

inappropriate

and slightly

discomforting.

one of the mothers

records them

from the front row

the crack of her

fat ass slicing

through the back

of her lawn chair.

I leave before

I’m called

to the stage

saving my poetry

about fat people

farting

nervous pissing

and critical judgment

for a bar, a bedroom

or an old cardboard box.

outside the hooker

and the old man

are missing.

I’m sure he got

his money’s

worth.  

maybe some day

we all will.