Open Mic, Tuesday
A narrative poem from the weekly republic of folding chairs, dying phone batteries, and five-minute limits.
WHY IS THIS IN THE FILE?
Nobody took responsibility quickly enough.
the host says
five minutes means five minutes
which is the first fiction
of the evening
a man reads eleven pages
about silence
a woman near the outlet
guards her phone at three percent
like a tiny hospital patient
someone rhymes fire with desire
and survives
outside, the bus kneels
at the curb
inside, we clap
for the person who forgot
the last line
maybe because
we know how it feels
to arrive at the end
with nothing prepared
Ellis Crowe
Poet and field recorder of buses, readings, waiting rooms, bad microphones, and other public situations that outlive their dignity.
STATUS: UNRULY
“Normal” was considered and rejected.
KNOWN ASSOCIATES: readers, loiterers, people who should know better.
PUSH THE WEIRD BUTTON
A clerk has been notified. They are furious.