Isaias remnants! Sit inside a backyard shed, riding out the remnants of Isaias (portions recorded this past Saturday) with some added textures and notes. Whether you're studying, working, reading, sleeping, or unwinding after a long day, this immersive, ambient soundscape provides the perfect background. Ignore the world. _________________ I will not recount the tales of old storms. No, I would like to talk about poetry. I don’t like poetry. Every cell in my body wants to scream when someone starts audibly performing a poem. I would rather listen to 911 dispatch calls—cringe, unguarded, desperate… miserable. Still better than performed poetry. I’m worried the person won’t be able to land the plane on their prose—and will be forced to witness earnestness colliding with YOURPOEMSUCKS. Germans have a word for acute embarrassment on someone else’s behalf: Fremdschämen. And that is what I have for spoken word artists. And to be honest, the poem aversion isn’t entirely random to tropical remnants. (So you are recounting tales of old storms?) Look—when Isaias hit this past weekend, I saw a squirrel fighting the elements for a discarded pizza crust. It reminded me of a summer storm on Martha’s Vineyard (2006, I think?)—a storm that hit days after I absolutely bombed a poetry reading. It was the mid-aughts. I had seen a note in the Gazette about a poetry reading at a local coffeeshop. And like the hero of a movie—I signed the **** up. I was convinced my fifty-page opus would wow. The coffeehouse had a patchwork of mismatched, living-room-style chairs. Random old photos of other people's families hung on the walls. The lights were low, the room felt artsy, and folks were having a good time. The other poets had ranged from decent to good. (Wait until the ambience gentlemen grabs the mic—LIKASHOT!!) I confidently strode to “the stage,” whipped around. And then the sea of eyes hit me. I started, “my poem is titled The Divine Comedy Part II.” Laughter. I spluttered, sniffled out six lines, then settled into a better rhythm. That’s when I realized how many swears I’d decorated my stanzas with. “Krice-sakes, man,” came a muffled voice from the darkness. Immediate tunnel vision. I continued a few more lines, trying to replace the swears with new words—imagine the Guitar Hero interface but instead of flaming circles it was F-bombs. Then I was walking, my body already halfway through its escape routine before I realized what I was doing. A few gasps. A lady in glasses nearby muttered, “Oh!” and that reaction was enough to snap me from my spiral. I abruptly returned to the stage. “Thank you… I'm done.” ...To call it a smattering of applause would be generous. I hadn't earned it anyway. The lady in glasses tapped me on the way back to my seat. “Takes a lot of guts to get up there.” “Thank you,” I said, and then sank faaaaar into the chair. The woman in glasses quietly rose, thumbing through a few loose pages. She chose one and started to shift, then plopped it back down and pulled one from her back pocket with a nervous giggle. Swept up her cup in a smooth motion, sipped, then headed to the stage. Then slipped while facing us, almost teetering over, “Wooph—just learned to walk this week, folks.” Laughs. She beamed back, searching until finding my eyes. “What’d I say about needing guts?” Laughs from crowd again, with notes of assent. She stood a moment, a tiny pause to let the jocularity pass—and then absolutely murdered every other poem read that night. About a ****ing squirrel that lived in her backyard.
