Tag Archives: open mics

King of Americana

Being the King of Americana
might mean nobody knows your name:
except for the local bartenders
who still serve you just the same,

while you’re sitting on the mike for three hours,
singing songs that nobody knows,
wearing out strings for a hobby that brings
in about thirty dollars a show.

Being the King of Americana,
you know at least a thousand songs by ear;
but in a three-strong crowd, there’s always one who’s loud
with something else they want to hear:

another song about scraping the bottom,
another ditty on the journey down;
and you hate it, but you play it, one more time,
just before you pass the tip jar ’round.

One more round, please, for the band,
who’ll shuffle, waltz or swing
at your command; the next four hours
they’ll play anything.

Hold your applause until you hear
the last guitar chord ring…
then give it up again
for the Americana King.

Being the King of Americana
might mean you know no one cares
about how songs are born and die
in curses, tears and prayer;

and each one takes another’s place
to catch the public’s ear.
You hope to find enough of them
to pass for a career.

One more round, please, for the band,
who’ll shuffle, waltz or swing
at your command; the next four hours
they’ll play anything.

Hold your applause until you hear
the last guitar chord ring…
then give it up again
for the Americana King.

05 SEP 2007

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The Poetry Reading

Three hours into a heated discussion
on how entropy is unavoidable
in most applications of modern philosophy

having drunk down to the bitter dregs
black coffee laced with chicory seed
and double shots of expired yesterday creamer

hand calloused from holding cheap pens
like vise-grips on a burred bolt

watching the casual observers roll in about seven
as they try to avoid walking by the corner table
where the ashtrays boil over, still burning

then the loud click of the amplifier
as the mic, ungrounded, fails then passes
its tentative check – the gathered throng murmurs
as the cash register punctuates like a meditation bell
and the same old welcome, call to order is issued

there is so much bad poetry in the world
like scenes from terrible highway accidents
so many seem to want to share it
and they do
punctuated by short glimpses of beauty
a whirl of words, from wanderlust to whimsy
then for a brief span of moments
there at the mic, barely looking at the freshly inked
page, it comes out brash and loud and wild
like a panther from behind the brush
it catches you by the throat and pulls
your strength and suddenly the caffeine is not
enough, then too much, shaking with it
hanging on to the mic stand for dear life
knees weakening as your mouth dries
like too much cocaine and that metal taste
of seizure
and then you write another one.

14 AUG 2003

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