So I went after class, to a different university than my own, to read. 
I wandered around the bookstore until I saw a guy from my coffee shop reads,
Buck, in line at a candy counter.  Buck is a hairy man, thick bodied guy. 
Wolfish sideburns.  He shook my hand enthusiastically, and walked me to the
event.

On the walk, I fell behind.  Buck walked with a decided pace.  Like
a college junior, who hasn't yet realized that the walk to class can be some of
the most fun all day, looking at members of the opposite sex, taking in the
sights.  I meandered behind until I found the event and signed up.  I
sat next to a friend.

Quite a few people read, but I really couldn't tell you anything about what
they wrote or read.  Which must be the worst kind of poetry death I can
imagine.  Buck got up to read something overwrought and drug induced,
replete with unicorns and pixies and lots of big words that ultimately meant
nothing to me.

I leaned over to my friend, Dion, and whispered confidentially.  We sat
in some sort of lounge.

"She reeks of old skank,"  I said of the emcee of the poetry reading, a
local professor, a doctor of creative writing or something similar.  She
was wearing all black and a swanky black hat.  The only poem I remember of
hers was a poem about a slinky, sexy dress she wore once, and maybe having sex
in it before she picked up her kid.  She seemed to like my stuff, and came
to see my band once.

"And the next reader I have seen many times," she said, "And we're really
glad to have him"

I walked up and grabbed the mic.  I looked around the room.  Lots
of girls.  Girls that were strangely unformed.  And just a step below
in looks.  Nothing defined them, and no characteristic stood out.  A
creative writing professor sat in the audience, flanked by a phalanx of young
creative writing students.    The Dr. watched me with glinting
dark eyes.

"Most of my poetry is obscene," I began matter-of-factly, and the crowd
tittered in anticipation.  They seemed excited about the prospect.  It
made me wish I'd had brought something really filthy. "THIS isn't," I quickly
supplied, "Not really, anyway.  And before I begin, I want to thank Jules
for inviting me.  I think he was drunk at the time."

The crowd laughed.

"And I'm going to do two.  I have three minutes, so I can do anything I
want, right?"  I looked over at the emcee.  She nodded, and mouthed,
'Do whatever you want.'

"Good, I just wanted to make sure, because..." I paused, you could hear a pin
drop, "she scares me"  I said in a small voice.  The crowd laughed.

"This first one is a protest poem..." I began, and I detailed the motive
behind the poem Big Metal Dicks.  Not too complicated, that one.  The
crowd laughed in the right places, and got a real kick out of my standing there,
giving the finger to them, or, ostensibly, the SUV-driving soccer mom mentioned
in the poem.

They applauded, then I mentioned the title of the next poem, 'Never Party
With Strippers', and they got a kick out of that, too.  I started the read,
and I acted it out in my usual method.  Sometimes I wonder if I cross the
line into performance art. 

They laughed at the right moments, and really GOT the poem, which is more
than I can necessarily say for the coffee shop crowd.  They just shifted
nervously in their seats.

I finished and sat down to loud applause and cheers.  The emcee got the
mic and looked at me.

"I've seen Argentum read and perform with his band at the coffee shop many
times.  They're really good.  And Arg," she said, looking me in the
eye, "I'm not scared."

The crowd laughed.  I laughed, too.  Later on, I started to wonder
if she was coming on to me. 

And the rest of the slam went on.  Lots of poems, of which I have no
idea what was read.  Even immediately after they sat down.

Well, there were two with a little novelty merit.   One was from a
slightly obese girl whining about not getting fucked.   And another
was from a country girl, milk-fed, unformed, practically a fetus.  The type
of girl who hadn't been face to face with a penis in her life.  It was
about her great-grandma dying.  As she finished, saying something like, "I
won't forget you, great grandma!" the whole room went "awwwww."  The
cuteness factor was overwhelming to them.

A few african-american students got up and rapped or rhymed.  I don't
remember what they spoke about.  The better readers did well worn , very
practiced stuff.  I don't like repeating myself.  Fortunately, I write
enough that I don't have to repeat myself.

And the slam was over.  A cute kid who put together an amusing list of
new year's resolutions won third.  The girl who whined about not getting
fucked got second, and an african-american with a good voice took the grand
prize.  I have absolutely no idea what he read, no mental images, no
feelings about what he did, even seconds after he got done.

I would have won if they would have let me compete, but I don't go to their
university.