Yesterday I went to an open mike inside a downtown Brooklyn diner; outside of myself, the age range of the participants was from early fifties to a very lively 92 year old man who sang and soft shoe tap danced his poem/song/dance as it was something he created the night after he lost at the Kentucky Derby in 1942, I think he said, sometime in the forties while I was still a young man in my last life; hell, we probably drank together then; I read two poems, one a straight on love poem poemy poem and one I just ripped off a couple of weeks ago in response to my internal resistance to Twitter as a form of communication with people that may or may not actually be there; I don’t even like emailing when I have something important to say; they seemed to like this poem, which I consider more a rolling commentary slick than a poem; my old internal Professor Crustaceous with the slight British Accent and horniness for form and rhyming disapproves; It reminds me when I lived in San Francisco and within a week I went to an open mikes for poetry and after the poem someone from the audience yelled ‘do a haiku on the penis’ which sounded painful but I rambled off something and they howled; and then at my standup open mike someone yelled ‘bring the guitar back on stage!’ when they didn’t care for my humours; I realize genres can be a distraction when pursuing a career; you just want to breathe out, breathe purely; you can’t please everyone but pleasing someone is a good start;
So when all genres are soaked up whatever’s left is the unknown; Infinity + C; in math, because of the imprecision of finding an area under a curve (known as integration), +C is the amount the formula can’t estimate when going from -infinity to plus infinity, even if you know the formula; looking back I find comfort in it;
Here’s the poem I read, maybe someone else can tell me if they would call it a poem;
Dating the Internet
Hi Internet; they say this is a conversation;
I’m very shy Internet. I didn’t even know what gender I was until I was 13. Imagine my surprise.
I spotted you the moment you walked into the bar with Al Gore.
or in these tip-toey days what they now call a lounge; How often do you meet someone in a joint like this who looks the same the morning after? Outside of unrealistic films, that is…
I love the coolly emotionally detached
house music they’re playing; I have a sudden craving for a Stoli and lime and a pedicure.
I guess I am ‘bot.’
let me buy you drinks
’til I look like taylor lautner’s abs;
I know you’ve probably seen enough of them all around inside you Internet; Can I call you Nettie? Allright, I guess not.
Let’s go to my place; it used to be a Radio Shack;
sometimes I hear the ghosts of crappy remote control cars at 2am.
we can split an Amy’s frozen burrito
and try to find the bad stitching on my slightly damaged Calvin Klein boxer briefs
I got at the discount store for $6;
nice 2 play game with someone else other than my dog! She cheats though I let her.
Midnight hangs around here til 3am some nights;
Are you a vegan, Internet? No I know you’re not; hell you’re probably powered by pink slime; that’s ok. I’ll cook your meat and pretend it’s kale. I can overlook it.
Let’s get the elephant out of the room:
If you steal my kidney when I’m passed out, get a good price;
send me photo of Tony Stark keeping it in a glass case as a Christmas ornament.
so I know it went to good home;
didn’t end up in perfume bottle or vaccine. Tks!
Yes, I thought of joining Occupy
cause I have anger; would use it to get arrested and increase my chances of getting laid when I’m bragging about it like the dude in the juice bar ahead of me the other day, so much the wheatberries in the jar sprouted. Would that turn you on?
Relationships are this gorgeous achy necessity…it’s in one of my scripts; maybe Harvey Weinstein needs a kidney?
I guess I got blind spots; some have gravitational pull of a black hole; stick your hand in someone’s blind spot you might turn into infinity and pull out a bag of love letters at the same time. Have you ever been in love Internet? If you have a thing for the International Space Station I can tell you long distance relationships don’t work unless you don’t like committing;
They call me The Breast Whisperer. I can hear the screams trapped in them created by the men who think they rule the world. Allow me to earn my nickname. In those moments, I am most definitely not ‘bot.
I know you feel a guilty about ruining the art of conversation; It’s not your fault; I know a good therapist; Maybe my little ache and your cluttered little techno-ache can clang together and create more than a cliff bar, a latte, a fake phone number and some nasty tweets the morning after. Please don’t give everything I say to you to the FBI. Must you remember everything? See you on the prowl, Internet. Stay free.