followed right on our tail,
never failing to turn
onto every road we followed.
Lesson 5
Expect Annoying People
The Lemon Pie Guy
followed us all the way
to Tin Can,
and man, was I mad.
“Who do you think you are?”
I called to the pathetic
maggot-gagging
dweeb
crawling out of
his yellow VW.
“I know who you are,
missy,” said
Mister Hissy Fit,
all pissy.
“You’re the poet
who doesn’t know it,
but you have no chance
of winning
this slam.”
“Oh, boy,” I shot
back, cracking up.
Twig and I,
cackling like chickens,
followed his bubble-gum butt
and flubbery gut
into the brick building.
Registration was taking place,
and most poets were patient,
waiting in line and smiling kindly,
but Lemon Pie Guy
didn’t know how to smile.
He just muttered and mumbled,
grumbling, rumbling, fumbling
in his pocket
for a pencil, and then
stumbling on something
nobody else could see.
“How annoying can one person be?”
Twig commented, and a chick
in tinted-pink glasses laughed.
“I’m going to smack his
big ugly head,” I said.
It wasn’t what I meant,
but I said it anyway.
“That’s not nice, Laura,” said Twig.
“I mean, Sister Slam.
That’s not nice, Sister Slam,
to tease the man.”
“It’s not a man,” I said.
“It’s a thing.
If I could sing,
I’d have a song
about how it’s just wrong
to exist in this world
if you’re surly
like him.”
Twig grinned.
“You’re the Queen of Surly,”
she said.
“I know,” I agreed.
“I am edgy.”
“So write a poem,” said Twig.
“Forget about Gloom Pillows
and Huge Boobs.
Write about Lemon Pie Guy.”
Twig is my life raft in
every hurricane,
my Tylenol for every ache
and pain.
She saves
me from going stark-raving-crazy
insane.
“Okay,” I said.
“What rhymes
with Lemon Pie Guy?”
Twig shrugged.
By that time,
Lemon Pie Guy
had disappeared
into his weirdness
somewhere,
and we didn’t care where,
as long as he was out
of our stare
and our air.
Lesson 6
How to Take Lemons and Make Lemonade
Festering with indigestion
in the Sleep Best Inn
on that night in question,
I was desperate
for the white light
of revelation
that would lead
to the creation
of the best
lemon pie poem ever,
but I was suffering
from inspiration constipation.
The slam began
at 8 A.M.
the next morning,
and I was pouring
everything I had
into writing a poem.
Twig wanted to rent
videos, but I said,
“No. Poems are groovier
than movies.
Now be quiet,
so I can think.”
In the pink
stink of the
cigarette-stenched
room,
Twig was digging
the sixty-six
channels on the
television screen,
and I was as green as spinach
with frenzied envy
that her poem was finished.
“This isn’t a pajama party,
Miss Smarty,” I said.
“I need to think!
I’m on the brink
of wearing mink
and riding in a limousine
if I win this slam.
I want to be on the
cover of People magazine!
I need to be the queen
of beat,
the sweetest heat
where words are concerned.
I want to burn
ears and turn
the audience to tears.
It’ll be better than
a big sale at Sears.
I want the cheers!”
Twig was miffed,
and sniffled and sniffed,
and I caught a whiff
of her being pissed
at Sister Slam.
“Twig,” I said,
“we’re here to compete.
I don’t want to be beat.
I don’t even know what the prize is,
but it’s got to be sweet.
Look at all the license plates
from so many states: people
coming from all over the U.S.
for this slam.”
“Okay,” said Twig,
and she lifted her chin.
“Write your poem.
I’ll leave you alone.”
She turned off the television
and made the decision
to mope. I hoped that
she’d be quiet now, but Twig sighed
and sniffed and flipped around.
The bed creaked
and Twig moaned,
sending me into
an irritation zone.
Twig huffed,
and I’d had enough.
I couldn’t cope,
and my insides twisted
like old rope.
“Why,” I cried,
“can’t I have peace and quiet?
Let’s just try it.”
Twig sniffed
and hugged the pillow
to her nose,
and I wrote:
Lemon Pie Guy,
with your pee-yellow hair dye,
gut pudged as uncut pork pie:
the judges won’t fudge,
so don’t begrudge my win,
buzzing like a cussing
fruit fly,
Mister fly-by-night,
bow-tied, bone-dry
poet.
This is my war cry,
my psychic black eye,
indivisible, with liberty
and justice for me.
You see,
Mister Lemon Pie Guy,
my money supply
isn’t high enough
to buy this contest,
so I’ll win it honestly,
with supersonic
phonics, Mister Moronic.
Twig snickered.
“It sucks,” she said,
and then she went
to bed.
I didn’t care
what she said.
It was PMS
in the Sleep Best Inn
when Twig acted
like that.
She was a brat
about once a month.
I needed to practice,
even though Twig
was as prickly as cactus.
I also needed some Tums
to calm my stomach,
so I made up my mind
to find a ven
ding machine
and to practice like a fiend
in the wobbly-chaired lobby
of this roach motel.
Proud as a peacock
in my old, holey-toe socks
and funky monkey nightgown,
I made my way down the
dark halls of puke-green walls.
This took balls:
walking alone
in a place
so far from home.
I’d made lemonade
from venomous lemons,
and I was the Queen of Beat,
the feminine
go-get-’em
winner of the slam
tomorrow.
Whispering my poem
as I swished along
the halls, I had a vision
of Pops
and wished
to call him.
Homesick or Pops-sick
was not an option
on the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip.
What was I:
a wimp? a gimp? Then,
limp with missing Pops,
and Mom,
and my toad-colored
bedroom at home,
I slumped on the
cracker-crumbed
floor by a snack
machine, bummed,
and way too alone.
Lesson 7
Never Start a Slam Without a Cup of Coffee
The sunrise
in the morning
hurt my eyes,
and I couldn’t
disguise my disgust.
“Look at the dust
in this light.
And look:
these musty cheap curtains
won’t even bleepin’ close right!
What a bite:
eighty-nine dollars a night
just to sleep
a few hours
and take
a ten-minute shower.”
“Don’t complain,”
Twig moaned
and flopped over.
“We’re going to need jobs,
or more money from Pops,
at this rate. I hate
how quick money runs leakin’
down the freakin’ drain!”
“Don’t be such a pain,” Twig muttered.
I must confess
that I wasn’t in the best
of moods.
“What’s up with you?” Twig said.
“Better get your head
together, whether
you want to or not,
or you don’t have a shot
at this contest.”
I rummaged, grumbling,
through my old suitcase,
manic with panic:
a certified nut case.
“I swear,
I don’t know what to wear.
I shouldn’t care,
because it’s not about clothes,
I know.”
Twig just shook her head.
“Why do I have to be so fat?”
I asked.
“I don’t want to be like that!”
“Laura,” said Twig,
“you’re cool,
just the way you are.”
“I guess it’ll be the ever-popular
polyester vest,” I said,
wrestling a red vest
from a nest of messed-together threads.
“Red is your color,” hollered Twig.
“Like fire. Sister Slam will lift you higher!”
“Liar,” I said. “You’re just saying that
to make me feel good.”
“Look,” said Twig,
“if you don’t lose the mood,
I’m quitting this gig.
I can get a lift
and whiz
right back to Banesville.”
It made me quit bitching,
to think of Twig hitching
a ride and leaving me alone.
“Let’s start over,” I said.
“I’m sorry. I need coffee.
I need eggs. I need ham.
Never start a slam
without grub.”
We went for breakfast
in a grease-messed restaurant
next to the Sleep Best Inn.
The waitress was brooding
and rude, but at least she brought food,
and the coffee
was sweet and steamy
with sugar and cream.
“This seems
like a dream!” I said,
sipping, slurping,
burping, wishing
for the position
of Slammer
Number One
at the Tin Can
Poetry Slam.
I was ablaze
and out of my
haze, unfazed,
and crazed to
begin my win.
Lesson 8
Always Check Out the Judges Before a Slam
It was close to slam time,
and I waited in line, shiny as a dime,
ready to word-whip whiny Lemon Pie Guy
and all the other hopeful poets. Most were
younger than thirty, and some were flirty.
There were girls in low-cut shirts
and hip-hugging jeans, exhibiting cleavage
and thongs.
“That’s just wrong,” I whispered
to Twig. “They think they’re going to win
if the judges are dirty old men.”
Jumpy-grumpy
with an overdose of caffeine,
pumped with adrenaline,
I felt almost lean
and way too close to mean.
“Ssh,” I said
to the socializing people
woozy and schmoozing
in a conference room
reeking of cheap perfume.
I was oozing competition:
a magician wishing
for the best rabbit trick.
I made a stage
in my mind
and practiced the lines
of my Lemon Pie Guy masterpiece.
Nervousness ceased,
and I was a beast:
the Queen of the Slam
about to begin.
Twig and I were
slam virgins, having
never been alone on stage
before. This would
be our first burst
into the world of
performance, which
was enormous.
We went into the slam room,
which was just another
gloomy conference room, with
carpet as stiff as the bristles of
a broom,
air-conditioned cool as a tomb,
into the rug.
The competitors were nervous,
and they bit their lips,
nibbled on fingernails,
and shuffled and whispered
in muffled voices.
Aluminum folding chairs
were lined in close rows, facing
one microphone standing alone
on a stage that looked like
plywood. I hoped it would
hold my weight, as I waited
for my name to be announced.
A lady wearing floral print flounced
to the stage and bounced around,
chirping, “Welcome to the
Tin Can Poetry Slam!
Poets will perform
in alphabetical order,
backward. No merciless
heckling or cursing at
competitors. The prizes
will be surprises. First
contestant: Ed Zedman.”
Ed Zedman was a dead man,
pale and boring.
I was almost snoring.
Then came Sarah Yahn,
who bombed, stuttering,
fluttering the air
with words that
meant nothing.
Next was Twig,
and I was big
enough to wish
her luck.
“Break a leg, Twig,”
I whispered
as she swished in fishnets
to the front of the room.
Twig did
her “Revolution” poem,
and a heckler booed:
pollution in the room.
I clapped and cheered,
snapping my fingers
like those old Beat poets
back in the sixties.
Twig took a bow
and then sat down.
I looked around,
and the man who’d hounded
Twig was picking his nose.
“Gross,” I said. “That’s just
crude, dude.”
Twig put her hand
over my mouth.
“Don’t be so rude.
It ruins the mood.”
Two hours later,
it was finally
my turn to burn, churning words
like milk into butter,
like ice cream
in the freezer.
Some geezer observer
had the nerve
to make a smart remark
about the size of my chest,
and it was a test
of my temper to ignore
the simple pimple-nosed
old fart.
I bebopped up
to the front,
and took a deep breath,
and pushed out my chest.
At the top of my lungs,
I shouted out my poem,
screaming, keeping the beat
of the sentences
with bounces of my chest
and with the rest of me.
My fat was moving, grooving,
all in one direction,
and there was no correction
because I made no
mistakes, baby.
Sweating, forgetting
my flesh, I almost
wet my pants
with the dance
of Sister Slam.
Hoarse by the time
I finished yelling,
my leg flesh turned to Jell-O,
and I noticed a flash of yellow
hair in the judges’ stand.
It wasn’t just any old man:
it was the obnoxious, cocky
Lemon Pie Guy. The other
judges looked just like him:
old as mold, cold-shouldered,
with hearts like boulders.
My face red
as raspberry-cherry
Kool-Aid,
I made my way
back to my seat,
where I knew
that I’d been beat.
“Geez,” I hissed
to Twig,
“Sister Slam missed
this one.
I messed up big!”
“That’s why,” said Twig,
“you should be nice.
Take my advice
with a grain of rice,
but I think that mean words
are like head lice: they ice
the judges so much
that you’d never win
with words like that,
even if they weren’t
about him.”
My eyes brimmed,
and on a whim,
I hugged Twig.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I’ve been a moron.
I’m going to work
harder at being smarter