Open Mic Night

Last night I went to my first open mic night. Ever. Strange for a writer, right? It's really hard to believe that I had never been to one of these before last night. But there I was, pressed between sweating bodies under the dim glow of colored lights, listening to young lesbians singing about heartbreak, English majors reading poetry, prospective students giving anecdotes about their experiences.

The crowd was wildly enthusiastic, cheering with abandon before and after every act, encouraging the nervous ones and feeding the total hams' sense of applauded joy. Holding my scalding cup of mango tea, watching each act and the happiness everyone exuded, I was inspired to read something of my own.

But I had none of my work with me.

So I wrote something on the spot. Something I wanted to perform as the last act, as a conclusion to the wonderful night, as my tribute the loss of my Open Mic Night virginity. It wasn't the best thing I'd ever written, but it was heartfelt. So here it is:

Café Hoop

Fluorescent murals dimly lit
by Halloween lights
violet and vermilion
mingling with plush sofas
inflatable turtles
and a pacman machine
still beeping with rusty determination.

The place where rainbows frolic
and no one is afraid to taste them
tangy and sweet on their tongues
like the mango tea
and Swedish Fish
girls eat at lacquered tables,
mugs resting on worn collages
of long-forgotten memories.

On Open Mic Night it fills
like a heart,
pulsing with love,
for the community it holds.



Unfortunately, the multiple acts ran late, and the Open Mic Night had to finish before I had a chance to step up to the mic. Oh, well. I'll just have to wait till the next time I go to an Open Mic Night there. I wouldn't miss another Open Mic for the world.