Poetry Reading at Rye, New York

Pete's been chain-smoking
and drinking coffee almost
every half hour,
and he really blew up these days,
telling me he weighs about 300 pounds,
coughing this horrible cough
in his sleep, making me wonder
if he's going to live much longer.

He showed me his paintings--
mostly monochromatic nudes
and some flowers
on mostly blank backgrounds--
his art teacher told him
that he should try to be bolder
with the color,
and Pete asked me what I think.

I said it's pretty good but it
needs some color and definition,
as Pete told me about Soho
and Chelsea and all the other
places in the City, where
the local artists exhibit their work,
and I got a headache from all
the cigarette smoke--
god, I got to stop drinking
myself or I, too, will get that belly
and gain all that weight.

Pete gave up drinking a while ago
only to replace it with other addictions.

It's funny how art thrives
on madness and excess--
excessive drinking, excessive
smoking and eating, excessive
fucking and masturbating...
Jake once told me that if
he weren't painting, he would be
masturbating all day long--
yes, all that excess libido
has to go somewhere--
if it's not fucking, then
it's writing or stroking
a canvas with a brush instead of
your penis--all that pent-up
energy has to go somewhere--
and I was never big into sports...

Wednesday night we went to read
poetry at the local Starbucks
in Rye, New York, where Pete is
going to art school.

Some 15-20 people showed up--
no mike allowed (city ordinance)--
so we had to project our voice.
Mario--a gay guy who works
at Starbucks--started off
by having everyone taste his
house blend--some concoction that
went well with two beers I had earlier.
Then he read. About waiting for
someone. And he kept repeating the time.
Then about Starbucks and those
annoying customers.

Some spoken word artist read afterwards.
Pete said he was a poetry slam champ.
Then this woman Wendy read. Something
about her first time. Peter said she is a lesbian.

Then I read some of my lyrical stuff.
Pete warned me about anything controversial.
But I did finish with a poem that contained
words like "fuck" and "blowjob".

Then Pete read some of his dreamy verse.
Another girl read some rhyming verse.
Followed by the final poet. Another Pete.
His first poem was about two seconds of bliss,
as he imagined making love to some girl that
was passing by.
Then he read something about beauty,
addressing his father, mother and lover.
I've seen such beauty, he said, that would be sinful
in your eyes.

He dug my poems.
 

                                                June 6, 2003
                                             --Alexander Shaumyan