Open Mic Night

My courage wasn’t equal to the task

of plugging in, performing for a crowd

so ‒ pint by pint ‒ I’d paint a public mask

until my blood like bitter honey flowed

from vein to vein. The mic glowed on its stand;

behind it Marshall stacks from last night’s band,

cymbals, organ and acoustic guitars ‒

each instrument transcendent in its poise.

My name was on a list of would-be stars:

newbies, greenhorns, most of us still just boys

come into town with dreams of the big time

to try our hand at harmless pantomime.

Just then, as I could hardly stand, I’d hear

my name, its syllables a foreign tongue,

eyes rooting me out everywhere. “I’m here,”

I’d stammer (as I fashionably swung

my guitar case across my back) and strut

across the bar: eyes angry, flashing, hot

as coals or lava smoking in its bed.

A thrift-store jacket and black turtleneck,

Frye boots, on my uninsulated head

brown silky hair that floated on the wreck

of an impaired visage. Hand over hand

I’d titillate the cobra from its sand

connect electric cables to the amps

until the feedback rattled in its cage.

It set your teeth on edge. Halogen lamps

irradiated the postage-stamp-sized stage.

I’d launch into my spotty repertoire:

ten-minute Dylan songs, and clear the bar.

The boos and catcalls only fed my fear.

I flopped and fled ‒ the faithful snow outside

on Ludlow St., immaculate and clear,

still falling, flaking. I picked up my stride

a groaning pit of hunger in my gut ‒

acidic, urgent. In Katz’s I’d glut

two sour pickles, half a corned beef-on-rye

slathered with mustard tart as young lemon,

a steaming bowl of soup and apple pie

then sit in the sulphureous light alone

with a full belly and an empty mind

my chicken heart inconstant as the wind.