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Poetry Reading And Pink Shirted I Go before/after Poetry reading last week. It went well. I walked in to an empty coffee house, showing up early this time as there was supposed to be a jam of musicians, including a violin, and it turned out to be just me on guitar and vocals and an art professor on the piano. That beautiful black lustrous piano, always in tune. Can see your reflection in it from any angle. And the organizers hustled and bustled about, nervous energy coming off of them in waves. Being used to shows and entirely unafraid of crowds, I meandered through my preparations. "Poets are never rushed." said the art professor. One of the organizers tripped and fell down. I got out my twelve string and started to play, slowly hooking up my amplifier. It provided a backdrop. They still hustled, but seemed to be more fluid in what they did. The coffee shop began to fill up, people watching me. I switched guitars several times between the three that I brought down. Eventually the shop was nearly full, and the art professor who'd been watching me stepped up to accompany. I started out on my nickle body so shiny you can see your face in it steel guitar. We played some blues that tinkled off the ivory and I laid down some snaky riffs. He was a good piano player, insisted on following my rythyms, though. I could slow melody, play bridges and add movements without throwing him, so I was happy. I'm always happy to have someone to play with, no matter what the circumstances, though. The crowd was burgeoning, applauding appreciatively. Then I got my twelve out and played an original, with accompanyment by the piano. I did not sing the song. It was inspired by the Palestinian conflict and I'm not sure how words would go over. Never sang them for anyone. Plus, for me, anyway, singing is part of the flow, and if I'm not taken by the flow to sing, I shouldn't. Its a musician's axiom, and if you don't know it, then you're really not a musician, but a technician. 'Don't force anything.'. The song is good. In the past, it made the crowd hoot and holler. It built to a creshendo and then like a wave, rolled back slowly after impressive passion, and stopped, to thunderous applause from the crowd. Then I started in on a melody of sublime/johhnny cash, reworking cash songs to an uptempo beat, in tribute to the late great. I sang very well, working in verses of "what I got" to verses of "I walk the line". It went over very well. Then we tailed off, and I held up my coffee and asked the crowd for a round of applause in tribute for Johnny cash, and the room lit up. Then the reading started. Some of the poets droned. Many of the college professors in the audience used their clout to step to the front of the line to read first and leave early, as if they're too good to listen to anyone else. I suppose if I wrote that poorly, I'd think that poetry wasn't worth listening to, also. Maybe it isn't. I grabbed a copy of the magazine from the art teacher as he sat and sketched readers, and read which one of my poems they published. To my considerable surprise it was one of the more lasicvious poems. "In the Darkness." written awhile back about a girl from Denver. The phrase that always sticks in my mind when I read it is "priestly arcs of roping cum". Which is fun. I bought several copies. So I read it, and several new peices. I read well, with a certain amount of presentation. It felt good. Several other people got up and read. Eventually, it was done. The crowd dispersed into the night. And I sauntered off in my pale pink polyester shirt, in search of something to eat.
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