The title is totally descriptive. Open mic night is really a world within a world.
THE LAST STAND OPEN MIC, MAY 2024
The first thing I remember is
the night’s last conversation
where I’m like I’m too morose
to write love poems
like Ray sang to his wife Kathleen
and Avila says that’s ok
life has always been bittersweet
a kindness I put on marvelously
like a life vest
with silk screened survival instructions
or running shoes
you wear out of the Foot Locker
lugging your old pair around the mall
in a shopping bag
like a kitty carrier at the vet.
Yes bittersweet
the order of the day
my dueling to go cups
of black coffee and chamomile citrus
perfectly honeyed by Audrey
the barista extraordinaire
I nurse for two hours
after performing my fortieth original piece,
where water becomes blood,
at this open mic
which feels like a lot of poems
until Aileen reads her sixty-second
about two guys named Manny
who trade persecutions
in the name of God.
Dusk settles in with Amy
dabbing tears after Sagar howls
traumatic truths
holistic lines of liniment
that bite deeper than the midges
at the patio rail
when the wind dies,
and knowing by instinct
the communal sting
we will be worrying to purulence;
we all possess it
the desire to salve the wound
but Rick is the man who acts
on his blessed agape
the art of human touch,
and Liam croons the blues
about death
dragging us willingly
into our personal depths
while this year’s goslings
downy innocents
and their dad
forage sweet tufts in sugar sand
Mother Goose reading me curiously
through balusters; at first
I think she could love me
but her glare remains steel
even when I concede the staring match
and her focus hardens
like my nuns in grade school detention
ensuring transgressive hands remained
folded forever on a desktop
if not in prayer then in dutiful bondage.
And then she drops a turd.