the comedian 3

i spilled soup on my pants while working on a bit about grandparents. my blue performing slacks now have a line of white that looks like i visit jack booths. i have had an awful time of keeping this sack on my face. it slides to one side, making me appear lazy and disinterested. it covers my eyes so i can't see and run into things, the mouth hole closes so i almost suffocate and the causes me to sweat profusely.

my mother called to talk about this:

'how are you feeling?'

fine

'you know there is a cold going around. are you wearing a scarf?'

no

'i sent one out, did you get it?'

yeah

'well don't complain to me if you get sick.'

...

'how are things going with ____?'

we decided to break up

'she was a nice girl.'

...

'when are you going to give me some grandchildren?'

here i can hear my father from the back ground.

'first he needs a job. then you get the woman, then you get the kids. nobody wants to commit to a bum.'

'harry, you shush, he has a job. he's a...what do you call it?'

comedian

'comedian, thank you.'

'a comedian? hah! now robin williams that is a comedian. a comedian? i never heard of a famous comedian living in portland. they all live in new york or los angeles.'

'well there can always be first one.'

...

'you know jerry is doing well selling insurance.'

'harry, he doesn't want to sell insurance, do you? but really, he is doing well. we could call over there. i saw he was driving a new s.u.v and you should see his wife, beautiful...'

it is about here i place the phone on the ground and pace my studio floor staring out at the city's downtown streets watching overcoats and umbrellas tread through weather to work.

i lay down and tongue the ruined spots of my mouth. i watch the light trace itself across the ceiling highlighting the water stains and dust. through the buzz of heater i can hear my mother go on, she is talking about my sister and her success in the film industry. she is talking about my brother and his awards from the banking industry. i hear of beautiful children and gorgeous new houses. then there is silence.

i pick up the receiver and can hear her breathing. it is the breath of someone trying not to reveal they are crying.

'i just want you to be happy.'

...

'i do not why you decided to do what you've done. my beautiful boy. i...'

'say goodbye darlene.'

'i love you honey.'

goodbye.

i hang up the receiver.

a joke

i have these two friends.

a joke

i have these two gay friends who told me they wanted to get married. i asked 'why?' to which they responded, 'because we want to be happy.'

when the light turns from sunlight to head lights i rise. i drink some water and head out. tonight is tuesday, it is open mic poetry night at the latern post. with the lack of comedy clubs i take my stage time where i can get it.

the latern post is full of fat broads in plaid shirts. it is filled with dark rimmed glasses, with pale and pasty huddled masses. there is no confidence amongst them. scattered about the tables they are tender and hold their journals slightly tilted, when they grab the mic. they are quiet for the first few lines and then move, emboldened, on fire with the idea of being the star. being the center of attention. in five minutes it is over, in five minutes they return to their chair, slightly different from the applause secretly waiting to be congratulated to be admired to feel powerful.

i am here and the bag over my head has to be adjusted. the stain on my pants stands out pointing to dark secret perversions. i am third in line. i can feel them watching me, i can hear some whisper wondering if it is a gimmick.

the gate keeper is a beard belly of a man. he has a pony tail and carries his poems in a 5x8 spiral notebook. he is always the first and last to go. he always talks of being young and wandering the forest.

after the host is a wisp of a girl. she looks more apparition. wanda, her of raven black hair, her of raven black clothes and eyeliner. she will smoke until her name is called. she will float through the crowd untouched or unable to be touched. she will talk about cutting, she will talk about meth and dispassion in sex.

i am next.

a poem

shit. i am on fire

the clown

with the bubbled skin.

think that's funny

you should have seen

the skin i use to be in.

i am sweating, blind and suffocating. choking my way through. tottering like a drunk.

a poem

i used my paycheck

on this monster of

a black broad

i tipped her half

her pay

and still

yet still i mean

she laughed

when i pulled out my sex

naked save the sack

on my face

say 'come get some.'

you can't win

i tell you

there is wanda. she is smoking outside as i leave. as i gasp the fresh air. as i lean against the light pole and adjust my sack.

'i liked it.'

what?

'that second poem. i liked it.'

oh, thank you.

she uncrosses her leg. she rises from the curb tossing her cigarette in the street.

'you should be a comedian.'