This Should Be Yesterday’s Post
So I hit The Redondo Beach Poets Reading at Coffee Cartel. Daniel Romo was featured poet. Rocked that house. And the place is always the fullest of the readings I go to. I really like Daniel’s prose poetry, but I tend to admire those who do well the things that I cannot do at all. And I lack any skill in prose poetry.
I sat with John F. Buckley, who is probably regretting it. He is so quiet during a reading; diligently taking notes and listening attentively, where as my head is a constant dialogue, and to those that have the misfortune of sitting near me sometimes what is going on inside spills out through my lips in nearly audible sounds.
There are always moments that stand out during the open mics for me. Usually the wrong ones, but I found myself fascinated by a nick knack hanging from the beam above the “stage”. There is a trapped stuffed parrot in a teapot like cage. As if somehow the parrot had been cooked in the teapot, but kept its beauty, the way lobsters become a brilliant beautiful red when boiled alive. Maybe death just makes some of us more beautiful than life ever can. And then there was a man (I believe his name was Philip) who read from memory, a poem that reminded him of a character in a friends play. A performance piece, which was obvious when he broke out his sunglasses and began. I immediately saw him as the mystery figure in Fun’s song We Are Young. The lines:
My seats been taken by some sunglasses
Asking ’bout a scar
And I know I gave it to you months ago
Why? Does it matter? Probably not, but I have to say I think my heart skipped a beat when he came up to me, at the end of the night, and said he liked my work. Maybe it’s Corey Hart’s fault, after all he did make it cool to wear your Sunglasses At Night.
I got a card to pass on to my students about slam poetry, which I do a unit in anyhow, and the night closed with conversation and a drive. I hate the drive. It always seems harrowing. It’s not, but for some reason I hated it far more last night, and when a “friend” did not respond to my call (who lives in Redondo Beach) to lead me to a bar, I just sat for a long while, despondent and searching. Someone else answered my lonely poet call and wasted the dark with me, and home I went at 3:30ish.
Summer will end. . .so will this.