Encouraging Words
“He who approaches the temple of the Muses without inspiration, in the belief that craftsmanship alone suffices, will remain a bungler and his presumptuous poetry will be obscured by the songs of the maniacs .”
March 30, 2005
Hooker, a friend from work, was hosting "Poetry Karaoke" at the Bowery Poetry Club and invited me to go.
I asked Sara, another co-worker, if she was going.
“What’s Poetry Karaoke?” she said.
“I don’t know. Let’s find out.”
It was a lot of fun, actually. The only complaint I heard from anyone was that it started too early, and no one had time to get shitfaced drunk enough to make fools of themselves onstage. I must've heard this exchange at least a dozen times:
"Are you going to read something?"
"No way. I'm not drunk enough."
In other words, just like regular karaoke.
Anyway, here's the deal: Anyone could get up and read a poem. If you wanted to read one of your own, you could, but otherwise, some binders were going around, filled with assorted poems that you could choose from instead. A DJ mixed artsy, ambient music and projected eclectic video imagery on a large screen over the stage. Meanwhile, the reader was superimposed, larger than life, into the middle of it.
No surprise that some people took themselves too seriously. A guy with a big gut, long, frizzy, colorless hair, and wearing some sort of tool belt, pushed the heavy, clear frames of his thick glasses back onto his sweaty nose as he read something by either Bukowski or one of Bukowski's million and one imitators. In any case, the poem involved plenty of fucking. When the guy finished, he strutted off stage and through the room, leering at the ladies as he passed.
"Ew," said Sarah.
He was my favorite.
I ran into my old friend Russell, “I was wondering if I’d see you here,” I said, knowing he was friends with Hooker.
He told me what he'd been up to, then asked me the same. "Have you been playing any music?"
He and I used to play in a band together. He still sings and plays, but I told him I hadn't touched my guitar in months.
"That's too bad," he said. "You really should."
"I wrote a book. I've been focused on that--shopping it around and stuff."
He jerked his head back in surprise. "I didn't know you were a writer."
"I didn't say I was a writer, I said I wrote a book."
"What kind of book?" said Russell.
"A novel. I guess. A fictionalized account of actual events. "
"Based on what? All the shit that went down with you and your ex? The saga?"
"Yeah," I chuckled. "The ongoing saga."
"Ongoing? What do you mean? You guys still talk?"
"No, no. We haven't spoken in over a year."
"Yeah, man, you have to let that shit go and get on with your life."
"I know, that's what I meant by continuing saga: The continuing saga of getting on with my life. Whatever. Never mind."
"Well, anyway, that's going to be a tough sell. A first-time novel by someone who isn't even a writer. I mean, you don't have the background for it or anything. You know? It's not going to be easy."
"I know. I’m not naive. But I'm still going to try. After all, stranger things have been known to happen."
"Well, yeah. I guess so. I know a guy--a musician--who had no background as a writer, and his book just sold. I forgot who is publishing it. Some big publishing house. But the thing is, with this guy, he already had a certain level of fame to begin with. You, on the other hand, you're not known for anything."
"Yeah, I'm just a big nobody."
"I'm just saying, don't kid yourself; it's gonna be a tough sell. Hey, listen, I need to get myself a beer. I'll catch you later."
"See you around. Oh, and thanks for the encouragement."
