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Open Mic

 
 
 

 

Intrigued by the film noir flyer
sealed into the corner streetlamp.
Seduced by the scent
of sublime stogies
and murmuring macchiato.

The grizzly, lazy-eyed
sidewalk strummer
fingering linear chords
like a lost virtuoso
looked up to greet me,
as I eased inside past
the local university boys
(sporting the same haircut
displaying different shades of plaid)
to a worn, orange, recliner.

Narrow girls
with lifeless hair
crossed tapered legs
on wicker chairs
waiting for boyfriends
to belt out blasé songs
from their indie bands
with commercial names.

I sat, glad snapping is passé.
Sentiments stemming from my
Latino lineage—

Dad’s machismo explained:
his calloused thumbs,
my propensity for double entendres,
and Mom’s friend who visited
late-night while he was away.

Though I’m a jr.,
I didn’t inherit his ways.

I just wanted to sign the sheet.
Read my meager poems,
hoping one of the narrow girls
would notice and say,

“Damn. That was good…”

* a previous version of the poem appears here
** sorry mom and dad for making up the part about you

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About Daniel Romo

Author of When Kerosene's Involved (Mojave River Press, 2014) and Romancing Gravity (Silver Birch Press, 2013). I'm partial to prose poems. Alliteration. And fragments.

4 responses »

  1. Egad! A new blog format?

    Very nice, I think you’ve neatly summed up the atmosphere of such venues…

    Reply
    • Yeah Joe, I got bored with the old one. Trying this one out for now. And yes, those places are very similar (not always in a good way).

      Reply
  2. Thank you Ari. I like it 🙂

    Reply
  3. sounds good mr. romo

    Reply

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