MidStream

In from the rain, the club was crowded and noisy. He followed the building back away from the front door; it ran back fifty or sixty feet, then there was a curtain. Behind the curtain was the audience and the stage. But before the stage was a small bar, and he round an empty stool at the corner.

He ordered a beer, a Yeungling. It was a cheap beer but not something he saw much in bars, so he ordered it. It came and he paid and he arranged the space around him. Putting his wool cap into his bag, he found inside the bag his notebook and laid it on the table. Into the top spiral was stuck a pen, and he pulled it out. He opened the notebook to the first blank page, clicked the pen three times, and set it down open on the page.

The Yeungling tasted good. He wiped his palm across his head and blew on his hands. It would take him a while to fully dry off, but he shaked the water from his hands and got to writing.

There was a young woman on stage reading. He didn’t pay very much attention. He took another pull on his glass and began a poem that would tell the story beginning from his walk around the block. Poetry readings were new to him. The whole environment was simultaneously inspiring and fearful. Within the Bowery there seemed to be something real going on. The audience was comprised of old and young, most paying close attention. Behind the poet was a smattering of melodies from a small keyboard manned by David Amram, the Beat contemporary, a presence of relevence. There were many connections to be made in verse.

He wrote a few lines and then scanned the audience for familiar faces. Some of the writers on the site included their picture on their site profiles. Up in front three people were sitting at a little round table just below the edge of the stage. He recognized them as Jacob, Carrie and Bonnie, the moderators of the site and organizers of the event. Behind them, at other tables, were some other young men and women, presumably also writers, including a slim, striking woman. She seemed to be tall, she was dressed in black, with blonde hair. She smoked and watched the stage reading. He couldn’t help but stare at her eyes. In the dark of the crowd, she seemed to glow.

He caught himself and tried to listen to the poet as she read. She simply wasn’t compelling, and he went back to his own poem, struck by her amateur attempts at fitting in. of course, they werent much different from his, except that he kept his thoughts to himself. Or tried to. He wondered if he was dressed okay, if he held himself properly and drank his beer like a poet. He wished he had a cigarette, and that he smoked.

The pot was taking effect full and strong. He was glad that he stopped for food. They had chips at the bar and he might have seen some cakes and candy at the front, where they serve coffee, but nothing that could have replaced the ten dollar hamburger he had up the street. His poem moved along nicely. He was thinking of 1950 San Francisco and the first hat-passing reading of Howl. He was thinking of momentary lucidity in even amateur writing, and he was thinking of silly small efforts to make a footprint on history, as they all are, right to the last.

After this poet was done, the guy who looked like Jacob walked up to the microphone to announce the next performer. He held himself small and had a nervous sway, but had a good voice. Carr listened as Jacob announced Christiana Cash. The blonde dressed in black stood up and, head down, strode to the stage. She wore jeans and high-legged high-heeled black boots. From her shoulders to her ankles there hung a flowing black coat. Her blonde hair hung way low and Carr went into a visual meditation as he watched her take the stage.

First she read a collaborative story, and then she read a heart-wrenching poem that she wrote about a friend who died too young. Carr didn’t move. She was humble and seemed shy when she got the applause that her very skills demanded. After she was done, she stepped down from the stage and made her way back to her back corner chair in the audience.

Carr listened carefully to the rest of the performers. None warranted his attention. He finished his poem, wasn’t sure what to do with it, but closed the pages of his notebook, satisfied, over it and finished his beer.

- posted by seanmh @ 9:26 AM