Monday, June 25, 2007

Tonight I entered the poetry fray...

...I sacked up and read a couple of original numbers at this week's installment of Drunk Poets' Society, an open mic poetry night held every Monday evening at Winston's in Ocean Beach. It went well and I had a blast performing. Even better, I heard some great poetry, including a banging set by the headliner, Jimmy Jazz, who shared about 10 poems, each delivered with enjoyable mania.

One poem I read was one I wrote back in 1999 or 2000, called Sorry About This Morning. My more substantial poem, which I started last night and finished today, was this one:


My Chicken Tragedy

when I was young my dad would take me to do laundry on Newport Ave
those weekly laundry sessions are some of the first memories I have

one time, when I was six or seven, the year was maybe 1984,
while we waited for our clothes to dry, we walked down to the pet store

I went in while my dad stayed outside to smoke a cigarette
a few minutes later, I came back out - there was something in there I wanted to get

I asked my dad if I could have a buck to buy myself a treat
Dad was kind of busy talking to a friend he’d seen out on the street

he wasn’t really listening and he handed me a dollar
I grabbed it and went back inside, so thrilled I wanted to holler

see, the store was selling baby chickens - 80 cents was the price tag
I picked one out and paid for it - they gave me my chick in a small brown bag

we got home and put our clothes away before dad realized what I’d purchasedand when the pet store said there were no returns, and boy, was my dad sure pissed

e
ventually he calmed back down, and we talked about the situation
I made the case for keeping my chicken - I begged and pleaded in desperation

Dad decided we could keep the chick, which was just a little baby,
and when it got older, it could roam our yard, or we’d make a coop for it, maybe

and sure enough, that chicken grew into a feisty little hen
when our cat attacked, she scratched its face, and the cat never bothered her again

the chicken roamed around our yard, and we fed her seeds and bread
I thought she was the perfect pet, but “she shits too much,” my dad said

he said she needed a ranch or farm, where she’d have room to run around
he said chickens were usually happier in the country, not in the town

and I could tell someone was missing when I got home from school one day
the chicken wasn’t in the yard, I realized in a fog of hot dismay

and when I asked my father where my chicken had gone
dad said he gave it to the gardener who mowed our neighbor’s lawn

and of course I missed my chicken, and of course I cried
and of course I kept a lookout for the gardener every time I went outside

and then one day I saw him - he was a Philippino guy
he was raking our neighbor’s leaves when I walked up and, meekly, said hi

his clothes were pretty dirty, and on his belt, a knife was in a sheath
he was the first adult I’d ever met who’d lost his two front teeth

he was actually pretty scary, and my heart began to beat and buzz
I cut right to the chase and asked the gardener how my chicken was

and he spoke in broken English, but believe me, I understood
when he patted on his belly and said “chicken very good!"

Thursday, June 14, 2007