devil messenger (oni_express) wrote in bikewriters,
devil messenger
oni_express
bikewriters

"the tongue exaggerates everything"

...a favorite quote from michael brown.

x-posted to bikewriters
deliveries so far: 20
bottles of water: 3

last night's feature was hectic... but a lot of fun.
to start things off right i was going to try to sneak out of work a little early and get my proverbial shit together. tried. naturally my dispatcher and one very incompetent phlebotemist had other plans. was working until shortly after six-thirty, with the promise of %100 pay for the three jobs coming out of this one lab. (my usual cut is %65. high by courier standards.) wouldn't have been so bad if the phlebotemist wasn't being a cunt, irritatedly asking me all kinds of questions about pick-up times, and routes, and why we don't come at five o'clock... 1) i don't know shit about the routes. i do express ONLY. if i'm called in to help out a driver, i go where i'm sent. 2) see number 1. 3) we don't come at five because the genetics lab closes at five so what you got has to be on time. don't be handing me mis-labeled specimens at fucking six o'clock and telling me you're in a fucking hurry. if you were in a hurry, you should have had it ready earlier. no one else who works in that lab has trouble doing it. in the end, she and i were the last people to leave that clinic and she didn't have a key to lock the door behind her. i could have walked back in fifteen minutes later and looted the entire place. dumb, dumb, dumb.

so i booked it home. scanned through the last six-ish years of poems and printed out about fifteen that i thought were relevant, grabbed a couple chapbooks, and screwed over to wickenden with fallaparthero.
the crowd was thin, and the open hadn't started yet by quarter of eight, but it was a quality open mic, however short. i didn't get to pay that much attention as i was poring over my poems, arranging a set list as quietly as possible.

i guess my room mate described it best (or at least most ammusingly) as a punk/hardcore type set. about fifteen poems in just under twenty minutes. short. fast. hard.
it turned out no poem was longer than one page, although i always try to stagger lengths somewhat. no covers. didn't have time to prep one.
things went over well. i tried to cut off applause after most every poem by starting the next one, or bantering about something or another.
felt more than a little weird being dressed for work, still in spandex shorts under my shants and an 80's castelli jersey.
my room mate also heckled me in true central mass style, breaking my serious mood with giggling and uncontrolable smiles. i love good-natured heckling.

the money was fair. but someone needs to make a concerted effort to work the door and make sure late-comers pay by being at the door all the time, or at LEAST putting a sign on the door that can't be overlooked.

afterward i traded a chapbook for a guiness.
after that, it was swamp-thing vs. robocop at home. there were no winners. only hangovers.

today, for some reason, the roof of my mouth is shredded (like from too much big granola) and there was a giant blister on the upper left side, which tunred to a large flap of skin dangling in my mouth most of today.

i'd like to think it was the scorching poetry...

angels
consciousness study no. 4
log 080805
leg show
3rd party
communique
providence
another providence poem
the girls of wormtown
the absence of blue
silence poem

p.s. - thanks to everyone who drove down from worcester to support.
*hugs*
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