Well, I went to an open mic poetry reading this afternoon. Generally, I avoid such events. One of the last open mics I attended, I had to sit through a reading of the first chapter of someone's unpublished science fiction novel. By the time it was over, I was praying aliens would swoop down, beam me up, and do experiments on my occipital lobe. Call me silly, but I like to know who will be reading before I decide to go to a reading. I did know a few of the poets who read this afternoon, so it wasn't migraine-aura-inducing bad. Plus, I got to read a couple of things myself, including today's new poem that I wrote at about 11:00 a.m.
This poem is about the huge rainstorm that hit the Upper Peninsula last night. Knocked out power lines and trees all over the place. I had the misfortune of driving along the shores of Lake Superior around 7 p.m., and it looked like a hurricane was blowing in. Trees were literally bending over the road. I thought I was going to end up on the receiving end of a lumber accident. At one point, something hit the roof of my car. It was loud. I assume it was a branch, but it could have been a grey squirrel that lost its grip. Anyway, the poem is about that, and boxing.
When I read the poem to my wife, she said, "You don't know anything about boxing. What the hell?" I admit, I don't follow the sport that closely, but I knew enough to write a poem using boxing imagery. I think it works. I threw in God and death, as well. You know, same old shit.
Again, I extend a welcome to Stephen and Keith. And I also thank all my other followers who've been so loyal for so long. (If you are feeling guilty about reading the blog regularly but not becoming a follower, you should. Pony up and join, for God's sake.)
Guess what? One more follower, and Saint Marty will have twelve disciples. How cool is that?
Bell. Round one. Drove along the lake last night. Waves, tall as Jack Johnson, sparred, danced, jabbed, trapped my Freestyle against the ropes. Let me have it. Blow after blow after blow. Bell. Round two. I kept moving. Dodged garbage can and chair, a crowd of deer in a field, jittery, wet. All the way, man. All the way. Bell. Round three. I got home, stepped out of my car. God’s fist pounded the pine in my backyard, split the bastard right down the middle. One half, flat across the lawn like Sean, my alcoholic neighbor, on Saturday night. The other half, straight up, its white center prodding the night like a ref’s arm. One. Two. Three. God stood back, shook the maples, waited. Four. Five. Like Max Baer. Six. Seven. To exercise. Eight. Nine. His fatal right.