A Night With Mic
The scent of musty, truly ancient fine books,
Waifs seductively behind the impossible doors,
As they swing wide, out into L.A.’s balmy air,
I enter, a shiver, over what lies therefore.
There they are, the true Hollywood stars,
Scaling the walls as only starlets can do,
Boasting of their love affairs, their ambitious climbs,
Some a lifetime collection or stolen moments, a few.
The mood is deep, heady, a bit complex,
Rhythm bounces off walls and then covers the floor,
Anticipation stampedes down my spine in a rush,
I can sense before I can think of what lies in store.
Here I shall strip naked and bear it all,
To a crowd critiquing every, last curve,
Here I shall haughtily shove at them my soul,
But only if I maintain my wobbling nerve.
The bookshelves rise in grand gesture and pomp,
As the guests gather in twos, threes or more,
Casually they sip their uppers and downers,
As I make my surreal walk up the precarious floor.
Standing as a lone clown who’s lost his way,
The mic beckons I give him my voice,
I question this egotistical longing of mine,
As I realize I now have no choice.
Shaking, my voice cracks and tumbles affront,
As my eyes attempt some semblance of force,
I pray to a god I know does not exist,
Allowing the earth’s spin to direct my course.
Shimmying, skipping and jumping rope,
My utterances, feisty pebbles, tumble on out,
I dare not glance at the awaiting faces,
I have no desire to see what they’re about.
The scent of caffeine and a mixture of clean man,
Intellectuals, well groomed, they expect top tier,
Reaches me as I wrestle with my circumstance,
Choking back the tangy taste of my fear.
But then I am knocked down by the familiar wave,
Of my vision, deep, and admittedly askew,
I present my audience with my most empowered of choices,
Those bold words that trail blaze my point of view.
The way the love for my cherub babes,
Can catch me and snatch me straight off of my feet,
Leaving me spinning away from this globe,
As they playfully direct my thundering heart’s beat.
Or the limerick of a certain adored demigod,
Whom I found and bedded one New Year’s night,
Then wrapped my heart around, emblazoned beyond reason,
As I held on with my life to love’s wildest flight.
My words danced and spun, out they came,
Purple, soft and edgy, some blood red,
The familiar, little fairies that are usually only found,
Jitterbugging to their fancy music inside my head.
The moment seemed to stretch from here to the moon,
Yet somehow sped by as if late for a dance,
As I concluded, tears rolled straight off my chin,
As if they were an invited circumstance.
The room hushed quiet like a mother near a crib,
And I dared so slowly up my gaze,
Then alas! Hands wildly clapped and one loud whistle,
Formed a collective, most endearing paraphrase.
Their expressions stated clearly that my job here was done,
My utterances had evoked the desired end,
For my dancing fairies had flitted down on their hearts,
Delivering to them cherished delights once again.
A warmth crept up from my groin to my chest,
My mouth, dry, cracked a crooked smile,
As one thought only entered my head,
I must repeat this indulgence in a very short while!
Copyright © Elisa Christensen | Year Posted 2016
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