Performance Art

My brother passed me the mic.

We went back and forth, reading our work at Sam's Soul Food Restaurant Bar and Lounge, up in the Grand Concourse in the Bronx. The house was packed with people, and our hosts, April and Marilyn blew us up before we got on the stage. Suddenly they left a very big hole for us to fill. Everyone was expecting a good feature, and I feared that we would disappoint.

I started off reading my Hobobob's resume. It' goes something like this:


HOBOBOB’S RESUME

Hobobob,
You motherfucking Skeksis assed,
Low life, no job holdin’,
Out in the streets sleepin’,
Garbage pickin’, four flushin’,
Broke assed laptop using,
WIFI hackin’,
Side walk smoke, smokin’,
Public Library livin’,
Wendy’s Restaurant Sleepin’,
Can’t remember when you last washed yo’ ass walkin’,
Change your shirt talkin’,
Soup kitchen eatin’,
Hand me down fuckin’ clothes wearin’,
Skeksis fuckin’, fuckin’,
Rotten, moochin’,
Stinkin’, welchin’,
Motherfuckin’,
Welfare suckin’,
Give your parents a coronary,
No talent,
No education,
No poetry,
Senseless,
Useless Prick!!!

Whew

But, I mean that in a good way.


That left the audience stunned for a moment. I asked was everyone an adult. I meant to hit them with my worst. My brother came back with his bone crushing 'Motherfucker'. And once that went over well...it was ON. We thrashed back and fourth like wild dogs let loose in the audience. People shrieked as we tore wounds like pieces of hamburger out of reason and rhyme. We fucked sensibilities until we made our literary penises sore. We came OUT OF THE BOX. I was never so proud of my brother and being a part of something with him that was so much fun, so much of a release that I felt it deep inside. It uprooted itself from me, a ancient oak fallen to the side, raising clumps of soul like earth from my innards. I was at peace and alive all at the same time. The audience applauded and it sounded like explosions in my ears and I was high and stoned by the rush I got from the reading.

That's why I love poetry so much.,

Later, we listened to others read, and the entire show was lively and down to earth. It was like hot buttered soul, with a side of cornbread. In fact, that's exactly what I had to eat. Hot buttered cornbread with D2theL. The night grew late though, and my proverbial coach was about to turn into a pumpkin. People, including OBSIDIAN do not realize what it means when I say that I have to leave. I'm not playing games. I have a curfew for only a few days longer. Would it not be the height of stupidity to come in late now? The girls promised us a little financial enhancement at the end of the show. That's fine, but for me, the show is ending at 8:00PM whether I get anything or not. I had to get back to the Box from the Bronx. Not an easy feat. One delayed train and I'm fucked in the teeth.

I let OBSIDIAN know that it was time for me to leave, and he implores me to stay. But the truth of the matter is that he could stay for as long as it took. He had no curfew. He could stay all night if he wanted to But I had to go. He was suddenly a man on the horns of a dilemma. Soon, after a great deal of pain, he realized that I was right, and waited for the show to end, while I left with Oz and James for the subway.

We hopped the five from 149th street Grand Concourse and headed downtown. I jumped off at 14th Street and caught the Six over two stops to Bleecker. The entire jaunt took less than twenty minutes. I was walking upstairs into the Box before 9:30. Speed is of the essence. Time is something that you don't want to fuck around with. Not now. Not ever.

I get my meds and sit on the edge of my bed, looking over the stuff that I have to move in two days. I have a long way to go to finish The Plan. Tomorrow will be one of the rubber games of the match. Its when the proverbial tire hits the road. I'd have to have some serious traction to make Tuesday happen.

Wish me the best come Monday.

The hit list: 1) Get the Budget letter, 2) get the second bag, 3) get to work, 4) get paid, 5) get packed and 6) get to fucking bed. On the next day I have to get the Hell up and take out to the place with all of my paperwork intact.

I'll get it done.
I've come too far not to.

HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2008/11/performance-art.html
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