Waiting in line for DPL, I’m anxious. Cold.
Really need to pee. I’ve brought a friend
who has no idea where we are, but will do
anything I endorse. I should really
be more careful with that. Anyway,
we barely make it in. The crowd fills
every seat, every inch of stage (save
a halo of space around the mic), and
leaves us sitting on matte concrete
in front of the front row. The emcee
lays down the rules: no ringers, no bailing,
no talking while someone is on stage
unzipping their ribcage while we watch
from 360°. We listen to eight people
with three minutes a piece. Some old-timers
riding their rewrites. Some kids
trying too hard to seize situations they
still don’t understand. A lot of God. But one girl
rocks it. Sixteen with sad eyes sick of crying
spits the tale of her first kiss, of Harlem, of the abuse
stories we’ve all heard in fiction and non, but
unapologetic. Unmerciful. Unafraid and
over our pity. The stage shakes when she steps down
because that’s slam. I don’t remember
who goes after her. Probably another Born Again
spinning synonyms for Christ because
he got clean (again). After him, the features
wring us out. Jon Sands reads a new piece: White boy
listens to black rap. White boy gets his ass kicked. White boy
feels at home in Whole Foods. My friend, still pasty
after six weeks in Hawaii, likes this guy. I think
we’re laughing in different ways. Sands introduces
Tatyana Brown, badass and heartbreaking. Anyone
who opens with a piece about vajazzling
deserves a goddamn drink. She sets us up for Buddy Wakefield--
or tries, knowing no one can. He’s awkward,
a philosopher, fucking hilarious and honest. He looks through
our baggy jeans, hooker heels, stunna shades, I-don’t-
give-a-fuck demeanors, grabs our insecurities by the throat
and flings them in the corner, then takes what’s left
and lifts us in a transcendental inhale. We remember
that’s what it’s like for someone to take your breath away.
Really need to pee. I’ve brought a friend
who has no idea where we are, but will do
anything I endorse. I should really
be more careful with that. Anyway,
we barely make it in. The crowd fills
every seat, every inch of stage (save
a halo of space around the mic), and
leaves us sitting on matte concrete
in front of the front row. The emcee
lays down the rules: no ringers, no bailing,
no talking while someone is on stage
unzipping their ribcage while we watch
from 360°. We listen to eight people
with three minutes a piece. Some old-timers
riding their rewrites. Some kids
trying too hard to seize situations they
still don’t understand. A lot of God. But one girl
rocks it. Sixteen with sad eyes sick of crying
spits the tale of her first kiss, of Harlem, of the abuse
stories we’ve all heard in fiction and non, but
unapologetic. Unmerciful. Unafraid and
over our pity. The stage shakes when she steps down
because that’s slam. I don’t remember
who goes after her. Probably another Born Again
spinning synonyms for Christ because
he got clean (again). After him, the features
wring us out. Jon Sands reads a new piece: White boy
listens to black rap. White boy gets his ass kicked. White boy
feels at home in Whole Foods. My friend, still pasty
after six weeks in Hawaii, likes this guy. I think
we’re laughing in different ways. Sands introduces
Tatyana Brown, badass and heartbreaking. Anyone
who opens with a piece about vajazzling
deserves a goddamn drink. She sets us up for Buddy Wakefield--
or tries, knowing no one can. He’s awkward,
a philosopher, fucking hilarious and honest. He looks through
our baggy jeans, hooker heels, stunna shades, I-don’t-
give-a-fuck demeanors, grabs our insecurities by the throat
and flings them in the corner, then takes what’s left
and lifts us in a transcendental inhale. We remember
that’s what it’s like for someone to take your breath away.
Your links round out your post and make present for us a slice of your night...new media and its immediate wonders...what a wonder how these things are possible now which weren't just ten years ago.
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