Poem: Philosophy Volume 2

Poetry is forever vague, or merely thinly visible

like a fog, by the sense of it, unstructured

is the only way to be floating

cotton candy clouds, so like that

they point heaven’s way, maybe

this will be useful, to be beautiful

in pace and form, syllable structure

staccato, wise and deeply considered, flowing alike

a face first waterside, whooshing a’ la wave wind

whiskers, whatever again, point is

I can get distracted by the language, I apologize

for nothing, as this may come to a head

but I don’t care, because that would be the point.

 

Not yet however, as this is only volume

two, of how many I don’t know

there will be in the end, if one ever comes

like it will to everything, because topics may reveal

themselves at an accelerated rate, and probably

never finish, but I wonder what

I’ll uncover, and I’ll die in the attempt

to see the truth, so be it, for the destination

is a journey questioning existence?

 

Is it true that every journey, grand day out

tennis tournament and tea party, refutes the supposition

that we live in a Skinner box, prodded cattle through

holes in the sides, of course not, for as freedom

resides inside, you see in yourself that the matrix

is real after all, perhaps being the only solution

to be hoped for, there is no reason to peek

behind the curtain, really, as there is

no air in the open, either.

Poem: Philosophy Volume 2

Poem: Writer at the End

Personified like a simile, for instance as an example

of some drunken reveries, lay bare the facts

pimpled and phosphorescent, amplified bass tones

burst a farting reality, unimpressive as hell

on a sinking ferry, spanish con men play baccarat

with millionaires, or whatever

the case may be, language is naught but squeaking

motorcycle mice plunging off a cliff on purpose.

 

So if poetry is poisonous, panacea for an unblink sky

masking truth numberlessly, rise up to the flood

stinking of sulfur pots, strangle the clown

booked for birthday parties, combat it with shit

in its eye, bubonic juices pour like tears

tearing down the blue yonder, as rats roll

poop into tiny balls, rhymes are the song

making slavery seem suitable.

 

What we do to get by, in this chain gang game

to sing from the soul, progressively of course

listing liberal leanings, manifesto’s of a lush

theoretical society, shangri-la was a lie

striven for of course, as only should be

like a puppy treadmill, a cuteness kaleidoscope

being shoved fitfully into a furnace.

 

They sound like sprung tires, popping a hiss

as the oxygen exits, wavering not on flat fatigue

over untrue wheel wells, gasping at fuel

fire in the air, fear in a mother’s eyes

will turn us back, but not soon sorry

fella, await a baptizing inferno shut-eyed

leg-shackled and blindfolded, what doesn’t kill us

makes for a novel future so take notes.

Poem: Writer at the End

The D.A.C (Differently-Abled Comedian)

  1. Cole’s Open Mic (2338 N. Broadway)

It’s Wednesday, and for Chicago standup comedy, that means it’s time for Cole’s Open Mic.  Cole’s is the most popular open-mic in the city; the reasons for this are many, and plainly obvious.  The bar’s layout is perfect, with an open bar area ideal for drunken socializing cut off from the back performance space by a shallow walkway, which does a good job of limiting the noise pollution.  The beer specials ensure that the crowd, which is often quite large, will before the mic starts be more than suitably tipsy.  Beyond that, what most sets Cole’s open mic apart from other open mic’s in the city is its exemplary opening act, Foz the Hook.

Foz, who frequently refers to himself as “Your old pal Foz” is a tunesmith, piano player and raconteur who frequently launches into carousing renditions of crowd favorites like “Drunk Astronauts,” and between songs regales his audience with wistful observations of life, most of which are forgotten nearly immediately.  After Foz brings his set to a close, the open mc host, Adrienne Brandyburg takes the mic and warms up the audience with a few minutes of her own comedy, which does a good job of bringing the room together and getting them ready to laugh.  Each week, Adrienne also offers free to drinks non-comedian audience members, ensuring that the crowd will be mostly passive and friendly.

I have been going to Cole’s Open Mic for seven years, and thus I have the privilege of getting “bumped” up near the top of the list upon request, but this is a privilege offered to few.  “Bumping” is a thing that most Chicago open mics participate in, wherein those whose comedy has been frequently seen and are known to be talented are given preference; therefore they receive a better spot on the list.  I remember, when I was first starting out in the open mic scene, I felt “bumping” was a horrid injustice, and one that I would never support or participate in.  After a few years of effort in open-mic comedy, childish principles like this are easily discarded.

For new comics going to Cole’s Open Mic, I would recommend showing up between 2-3 hours prior to its 9:30 start time, for if you find yourself late on the list I’m not sure how attentive an audience you’ll have.  I usually show up around nine, allowing me to gage the mood of the room and predict how large an audience I’m likely to receive.  Showing up early, especially when you are just starting out, is vitally important for the open mic comic.  The time you spend getting to know the other comedians, and the friendships you are able to build with other people in the scene, can be an enormous help in your journey to become a standup comedian.  It is very important to know your audience, what they are looking for, and what they will laugh at.

If I am soon to perform in front of a large or medium sized group of people who’ve never seen me before, as I was this night at Cole’s, it is important for me to get them comfortable with my “accent.”  The “accent” I refer to is the sound of my voice, as it was altered by the traumatic brain injury I suffered a little over a decade hence.  Because of my “accent,” it is important that in my first bit I either address my speech directly, or quickly disabuse my audience of the notion that I am to be pitied in any way.  In this instance I used the latter technique, opening by saying that “despite my voice, which might lead you to believe that I am somehow mentally handicapped, I crush pussy on the regular.”  The shock of this vulgarity, and the brazen nature of my self confidence, normally, as it did in this case, causes the audience to react with raucous laughter.

After this strong start, and in a way that references my personal malady, I can flow through the rest of my set easily enough.  I then did this by saying that though I “crush pussy” regularly, there is only one for me, as I am in a committed relationship with a woman that I am in love with.  I then slid from this description of love and wonderful commitment into some details of our relationship, namely, that my girlfriend does not shave or trim her pubic hair.  I described how it is a favorite habit of mine to give my girlfriend a “noogie on her bush,” though she finds this particularly annoying.  I described that when she tells me to stop, I tell her I will, and then I just go back to it.  I explained that I do this until she finally responds with fury, yelling in my best imitation of an extremely annoyed and perturbed woman, “Stop it!

After these two bits, as is often my habit at Cole’s Open Mic, I launch into some fairly standard crowd work, gently ribbing the audience and laughing along with the assembled crowd.  Being a differently-abled comedian, this is normally one of the more interesting things for me to do on stage.  For most comics, crowd work normally concerns handling crowds of people who disrupt the flow of ideas, adding their own egos into the comedian’s stage time.  These people are typically called hecklers, and I can say that my condition, and the sound my voice makes due to my condition, has meant that I’ve very rarely had to deal with hecklers.  Hecklers usual     intention is to gain the support of the crowd at large, and if it seems as though the heckler is picking on a disabled comedian, the crowd is liable to turn on them.  Conversely, because my tone of voice may seem pitiable to a large portion of the audience, I instead must use my interaction with the crowd to make them more comfortable with me.

After my set, I customarily hang out for a little while, but as the back performance area becomes choked with comics waiting to go up, I tend to take my leave not long after performing.  Cole’s on Wednesday night displays the always-beating heart of the Chicago standup comedy scene, and as I am a (fairly) beloved veteran of the room, it is where I can take the most chances.  It is there that I can explore the possibilities open to me, being a disabled standup comedian and a standup in general.

The D.A.C (Differently-Abled Comedian)

Poem: Edible Baby

two flat hands held open over a black expanse,

like a pedestal or a baby changing station perch,

with an infant on it and a simple message above,

it says Don’t Panic,

bring a safe baby to any police station hospital or library,

the sky full of letters saying they’ll ask no questions,

cannibal dogmen jump and pant at the concept,

rubbing their hands,

 

get a uniform and an I.D. badge, speak hard,

“hand the baby, I’ll put it where it should be,”

desperate daddies handing over sweetmeats,

I will never eat an infant, I want to make that clear

 

I won’t, but if I did, how would it taste?

like veal, one would think, right?

jerked jamaican spice blend or wet rub

pineapple, papaya, exotic flavors,

 

we’d have a party with grass skirts and flower necklaces,

Then we’d feed them their dinner, “some kind of bird?”

“no,” is all I’ll say,

“please tell us, we are ever so curious,” with hands folded,

and I’d tell them grinning with an air of impish respite,

“infants are egg yolks.”

 

“horrors, horrors,” they’d all say, tee-heeing,

because everyone knows its a joke really,

I would never eat an infant, not for curiosity,

not for flavor either, I’m pretty sure, I think.

Poem: Edible Baby