A Day in the Life of a Poet
short story
by Bryce Lawn
It's been two days since I've slept and three since I've last
shaved.
I'm dry heaving in the back alley when Pigs, the guy who owns and runs
and bitches about this coffee house, comes to get me. When I look up
he winces and says I look like crap. I say what the heck do you expect,
I'm a poet. He smiles and says get your butt in here. I cough a little
and followed him into the club.
I still have ten minutes before I have to go on. But I feel sick as
hell and I'm starting to second guess how good the poem actually is. I
consider it unfinished, but Pigs won't hear of it. He loves the words
like I dunno, whatever Pigs loves. I can't really see him with a woman,
but I know he'd kill himself if he ever turned gay. He's like that,
like some are. I bet half the guys who stand on his stage and recite
their poetry are gay, but I've seen him throw bottles at ones on streets.
My mom used to be like that, too. I really can't stand anyone like
that, but this guy pays me, so I never say anything.
And then the band out front, in full view of the audience, exposing
their personal insights and ulterior dilemmas, finishes up and walks off.
I hear Pigs yell: Five minutes! I don't hear you rehearsing!!!
Fine. And then, softly, so know one hears, Blood on my hands, blood
in the street, government projects stamping their feet, escaping to
memory, feeling - wait, that's not it. Why'd I agree to do this?
Money, yeah, but why really? I could get a weekend job, still afford the
minor luxuries and occasional date. And probably make more money too.
But no, I really do want to do this. I want to go up there and make
some magic, make people say Ohhh.
But it looked like I was gonna come up short tonight. I had done a lot
of great readings, or so I've been told, and today looked like...not good. I
didn't know the poem, and Pigs made you memorize. I guess I could just
bring out that paper and read it to em, but Pigs would undercut the
check. And be furious.
I tried to concentrate on the poem, but my mind wandered. Now I was
thinking about this girl who I was with last night. I just
couldn t stop feeling guilty over the smuttiness of it all. And no, loyal
audience, it was not her that was smutty. It was I. I am slowly
building my life to be an unlovable and lonely person. I understand that
this will most likely blossom into great creative writing, but I am still
horriblely depressed about the issue. Fix it, you say? Turn your life
around and find God? Well, loyal audience, I say: over my dead body.
Poets, the good ones at least, don't compromise. And I'm living my
life to be a good one.
I hear Pigs running around outside. He is seriously the funniest
person ever to see run. I can imagine him now, hunched forward, sack of
meat bouncing from his stomach, screaming my name like a black girlfriend
who I cheated on. And then he throws open the door to the closet I'm
hiding in, heaving and out of breath, bent over, trying to gather enough
breath to say something evidently important, and when he gets that
breath, he bursts out, Your freaking ON!
So I jump past him before he can smash my face in and run out to the
stage, completely forgetting my fright of the crowds, him trying to keep
up with me while yelling, I'll never hire your dirty butt again. Hear
that? Never! Time is money you dumb freak! Try to grow up and learn
that!
And as I slide out onto the stage I get hit with that panic again. A
bunch of half-drunk faces, burnt out neo-hippies, my peers all, waiting
for what Pigs called the act to end all acts. Thanks, you fat piece of slime. Now I gotta live up to that.
So I walk up to the mic, fully aware the place is packed. There's a
girl at one of the front tables with hair like midnight, curling around
all over the place, Medusa style, with a face like ah, forget it. She's
hot as hell. And I don't even wanna think about what she's looking back
at- a teenager that looks like he's five, his face getting bonier and
paler by the minute from not eating in days, his beard coming in slowly
but sure as Hell ugly, with obviously no fashion sense and a hell of a
bad hairdo. But nevertheless, she seems to want a good poem outta him.
Hey everyone. No feedback. I'm Eric, and I gotta poem called well,
I don't have a title. Aw, just listen.
And since no one will remember my stupid poem in a hundred years anyway,
I start:
Blood on my hands
and blood in the street
government projects
stamping their feet
on singing faces
gurgling screams
lost in their so-called
beautiful dreams
escaping to memory
feeling loved
while government projects
eat white doves
burn thru forests
after they conquer the world
apocalyptic fantasies
magically unfurl.
Deep breath. I think they like it. Continue:
The kingdom called death
monkeys, slit throats, screaming
raise acute muscles of agony
while the Man looks on, beaming
this rebellion
world order
government projects
invading borders
pillows smothering babies
axe murders fighting cops in streets
United We Stand
and the authority is done beat
storm drains are mass graves
gluttons thrown to dogs
instantly ripping at flesh
with their starving maws.
Deep breath. I smile and turn to go. The whole place is silent as a
graveyard on Christmas, but I'm just so proud I came through and
remembered it all I barely notice. A guy calls out: Freaking crazy poem man.
And a huge applause ensues as I'm walking off, and I get my first smile
since last night. But just before I get back to the safety of
backstage, Pigs comes out and smiling ear-to-ear, he turns me around to face
them and walks me back out. They're still clapping and whistling. And
Pigs takes the mic and says, That's your poet. He's Eric Morrison, and
he's yours.
And I blush but have the presence of mind to looks over at Medusa, and
she's got this sexy look like she wants to be with me. And I can only
comply.
Three hours later, after minimal talking and a stupid movie, my
back's pressed against the back window of my old Toyota, and me and
Medusa (that reminds me- gotta get her real name) are getting to know each other. I'm drinking from a bottle of beer (and
trying not to spill it all over us, but those involuntary jerks are
pushing it), musing over the complete awesomeness of my life, and enjoying
the show.
A Day in the Life of a Poet© COPYRIGHT 2004 Bryce Lawn. Reproduction prohibited without permission from the author. 11/17/04
