cuirt

rattlebag, slamdance, ballyswag, whatever you want to call performance poetry, i just saw my first bout of the show and i'm no worse for it. twenty poets from the father-mourners through the winter blitherers to the love-noir-ists gave it there all, and it was mostly enough. the one gentleman who took longer to describe his piece than perform it was an exception to the whole. but his dancing rendition of a dying bluejay run over by a train that doesnt run anymore made up for it. there's always one of those. the suicidist curled in a ball, the frenchman using french words like lafayette and gallerie to cover up that he has nothing to say, the retired st. nick type bellowing for some utopian liberty, the girl who was fat when she was little with a wickedly true take on her long-gone inferiority complex. sing-alongs and simon says and helpful audience shouts for a shy poet, midday guinness, jokes about midday guinness, poet hats and velvet blazers, and midday guinness.

now i'm off to create a budget for hotel tips and baggage handlers. and the poetry dies with me.