Karaoke Mic
It’s a shitty job being spat on all the time. Every night a different soup sprayed off too-close tongues. Gin this, whisky that, hint of lime or cherry, bitters. I exist to make someone else heard. To fling their solo to the dark rafters echo it off the copper-railed bar. Gripping me tight shrieking in my face “I can sing!” hot breath spittle on my pop filter. But sometimes, too, yearning dreams spun by bluesy souls. Or joy bubbling from supple lips. Or pent-up fury screamed away to a dim thunder. Blurry nights bleed out into languid day and hush. Even for me. Even for tomorrow.
Why does this exist? (a stuffy artist statement)
Because I love to write in karaoke bars while I drink whiskey sours and intermittently sing. Also, I have a bad habit of anthropomorphizing every single thing.
Something that stuck with me this week:
A week or two ago I mentioned that tattoo I saw with the “joy is not a trick” quote by the poem Joy Sullivan. Last week I read her new book, Instructions for Traveling West. It fed my soul, which really needed comfort.
Fun story: I texted a picture of the book to my friend who sent me the tattoo shot. He came out to visit, and when he showed up, he had the book, too! We each did a random page point, traded books, read the poems we had pointed to, and then read them out loud do each other. It was so much fun! I read Eve’s Apology and he read Sea Salp.
Then last weekend I went to my favorite local escape hatch, The Edgefield Hotel, and accidentally dipped half my book in the pool, which is probably what I get for reading it in the pool.
An Irish blessing (just because I like them):
As you slide down the banister of life,
May the splinters never point the wrong way.
I post on Friday mornings
Just so you know what to expect. I may also post at other times, but for sure on Friday mornings (6:00am PST delivery so we can sip coffee together and celebrate another week done). See you then!
About Rachel
Working on a scifi book series about a girl who just wants to heal her father from his terminal illness but inadvertently sparks an intergalactic incident instead.
Also writing poetry, essays, short stories, and whatever else leaks from my pen.
I love this one! It belongs in the hall of fame with Billy Joel's "And the piano, it sounds like a carnival / And the microphone smells like a beer."