There was this struggling poet. He had dedicated himself to following his muse after his girlfriend said he made a better poet than a lover in a breakup tweet. He was headed to the stage one night, and in a somewhat spontaneous inspiration, he set down his laptop, launched iMovie, pressed record, and turned it ceremoniously toward their reactions. He explained that this was because he had been reading from his iPad and didn't really see the audience. His solution was to record the crowd for study later. It did not take long for a group that had not paid that much attention before, to arrange themselves in a more self-aware listening posture.
The night after that first recording, he started to identify details he felt were positive in the open mic attendees. He applied what he had learned to subsequent poems. He felt the new greater attendance was evidence enough that the work was getting better.
In an effort to get a wider view, he started posting his videos to YouTube. When one night at the open mic, a certain drunken local legend tried to denounce the effort as "anti-artistic delusion", the recording on YouTube made it on to Slashdot.com as an geek "oddity". It was then the whole thing went viral. Thousands of hits is poetry stardom and the Twitter-jilted lover poet had arrived.
The open mic was a shambles as everyone who had ever attended vied for the hipster equivalent of aggressive disinterest. The YouTube viewers started commenting on certain coffee-house denizens with sweet and sour nicknames, some of which were, "Top Hat", "Tea Bags", "TV Lips", and "The Hopeless Twins". Some started dressing for the occasion. Couples made out. Guys mugged like pre-teens at a photo shoot, and there were even discussions possible "flashes".
It did not take long before there were hundreds of new poets recording audiences all over the country. Slam artists showered listeners with spit and style. Whole schools of types of viewers blossomed on the internet seemingly overnight.
Fame is a rocket ship, and eventually it landed him on stage on late night television. As the lights came up the host said, "We have a surprise for you." The cameras turned to reveal, collected in the studio audience, parts of the open mic crowd from those early recordings. He began to speak and was drowned out by a roar. When the cameras turned to him again, he was gone.
The following week, he did not come to the coffeehouse, jammed as it was with expectant faces ready for their chance to react in a way that would get them mentioned, acquire a nickname, stand out from the rest. They collected at the sign-up sheet, and the final spot, #13 remained blank. The next week, there were more in attendance. No one wanted to be the first to admit they had only come to be recorded.
Then when all the wind was out of the sails of the ship of public attention, one night, deep in the cold of winter, in classic dark poet time, the #13 spot read, "Lessons". A young poet from a local high school slam team walked up, put a laptop on the stool and turned it to the audience. There, frozen on the screen was a new posting on the audience recorder's feed. The student pressed play and his voice intoned,

When the poet's poem is last in line,
there often is no poet there in time,
For It is in our quest for fleeting glories
or our manic journey in passing stories,
when we forget about collective mind.

It's true, one should make no mistake,
that I was only on the social make.
I don't even know what I was thinking.
but that one idea was not my doing
which I had missed as I was turned away.

For this sin against the will of art,
I have paid a certain price in part.
Though you know the pen is in my hand,
it's not often mine, at my command.
What happens then it is sometimes cruelly kind.

Poetry is not always what we meant,
and is often quite opposite of intent,
It's as if we should start to write without,
a thought in mind when starting out.
To bring true inspiration in to play.

We cannot compete and find in skill,
a way around our searching real,
sitting at the keyboard being ready,
Heart in chest and head on steady,
Eyes aloft and antenna aimed.

Starting, then seeing somewhat else occur,
we haven't really lost our way for sure.
All an empty poem I could not mend,
fame I gained was worthless in the end,
for "lost lover" is the only name I use.

When at last I looked upon the audience,
for the lover lost in this sad instance,
I was simply looking for a substitute,
and I would surely fail there's no dispute,
deprivation had had me down and maimed.

Not knowing I'd not obtain the fantasy,
of peer acceptance or artist fraternity,
For proving a better poet I have not,
but in my lover I found what I sought,
I rededicate myself unto my muse.

12/10/2011

Author's Note: This is a performance piece, a funny idea written out, to offer it's own revelation, in the end, to me. We are not the chauffeur of the momentum of our creativity, only reporters on the street. There is actually video of a live coffee house performance posted on YouTube. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qq3dsffbwrE

Posted on 07/16/2012
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