My Very Own Beat Scene

The dimly lit basement room is full of poet wannabes, them dressed in second-hand scruff, me in coat and tie, just having delivered a lecture to a class of MBA students.

First thought, what am I doing here? Answer: I am needed here to provide balance for without me the entire room might tilt, might slide off the edge of the Earth.

Most readings are a kind of rant-rap-the military invasion of Iraq, the plight of indigenous peoples, the sins of the opposite sex [which was about being dumped].

My turn. I read a piece about the plight of my daughter suffering mental distress and drug addiction. I choke up, tears fall, telling me that I've bottled up my feelings. It seems to go over quite well with this "I'm cool because I live on the fringe of society and have a reservoir of disdain for anything normal" group, perhaps because I've mentioned the crystal meth word.

But, I don't feel particularly good about the piece – my critical voice warns that it's a bit smarmy, that the haiku are too contrived, that I shouldn't be writing about my daughter's plight. Oh, well. It's what I can do and that voice is always present, always trying to take the fun and emotional release out of writing. Regardless, I admit that when done reading a piece, however inept, I float between a bloated ego state and the mellowness of a mild depression helped along with a tote of raw red wine.

I did think that at least my haibun aka rant was REAL, whereas many of the overlong rants that I heard from some of the readers dealt with things imagined, with things not lived.

I remember being 20-years old, a member of a Berkeley, California mob ranting against the war in Vietnam. That was REAL because we were going to be drafted and forced to fight a non-declared war that we didn't believe in.

Home from the reading, the two cats that I live with appear when I enter the kitchen. They gaze skyward, as if praying to a cat god in the ceiling, their heart-felt mewing easily falling into the REAL rant form. I'd like to think that they were acknowledging me for my poetry reading feat, but I know that they are simply looking toward the cupboard where the cat treats are safely stored. Overwhelmed by their entreaties, I extend my hand, the desired treats in my palm. You see I have mellowed and made peace with the fat-cats of the world, indeed ...

though small,
I am the cat god
of abundance

published in Ink, Sweat & Tears