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The dimly lit basement of Yanni's Greek restaurant is full of poet wannabes, them dressed in second-hand scruff, me in coat and tie, just having come from delivering 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 current drug rage -- crystal meth.
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 critical 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 cheap 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 carrying our draft cards, forced on us by a nation engaged in an undeclared, and illegal war that we didn't believe in.
Home from the reading, the two cats that I share a home 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--the very kind of praying one can see on TV evangelical programs. I'd like to think that they were acknowledging me for my feat of reading poetry in public, 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
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