Something there is that doesn't love a Fiction Circus,
But it is not you, our loyal audience and fans of good fiction alike
Who came through snow, through rain, through the slush that pools brown on the curbs,
And slicks the subway stairs over, causing luxury purchases to smash to bits, and old men to lose their lives,
To hear us read short stories in Williamsburg last night.
Book Thug Nation is another thing:
A hungry young store, where two can walk abreast,
Located on North Third street between Berry and Wythe,
We let them know beyond the hill that we were going to play a show there that night,
And on a day we met to set up our audiovisual equipment,
And set the laser harp between us once again.
The clerk on duty was very nice but seemed not to have heard of us.
But he stood, and set an old and faded bookmark between the covers of his novel,
And said, "I'm going to be here until nine o'clock anyway,
So fuck it; let's do a show. Let's go.
Let's do a fucking fiction reading."
We moved the shelves and set up the chairs,
And soon the people began to arrive, breathing cold smoke into the hot room,
And said to us "God damn you people, most people cancel events when it is this cold,
Why did we have to come to Brooklyn tonight?"
And we said "Thank you for coming."
Spring is the mischief in us,
But it was not spring, and so our show was as bitter and raw
As the seeds spat from an old apple-core floating in a rain barrel
Made of True New England Experience.
First was kindly Dr. Future, handy with a bonesaw and a joke,
Who read a short story about an art opening in Chinatown, Manhattan,
And choked to death on the words of Antonin Artaud by way of introduction,
Before being revived with a shower of fresh dollar bills,
For the loan of which we thank the good people at Book Thug Nation, again.
Next here's Veronica Liu, fractious editor and old hand at DIY events,
Who, setting down her winter coat and blue hat on an old rocking chair
And rifling through the books on pirate radio and instant noodle recipes cooked long and low on an old copper kettle,
Commenced to read a story about a funeral where they burn cell phones,
Made out of paper, along with other effects of the living.
And here from out of the snow is John Fowora,
Fingers lately cut from his gloves and dreadlocks long since cut from his hair,
Leaving his eyes old and wise and his mouth vigorous with a quip,
Or rather, vigorous with a story about reality television and disgusting couples in a bar,
Which is what he read to everyone.
And in the end, there was God's man in the village,
Kindly Goodman Carter of the laser harp and the laughing gaze,
Who accompanied himself on electronic beams while reading about a group of conceptual artists,
Warming the heart with the story of the ice palace where they held the local bacchanal,
And also warming the heart with the radiation leaking from his instrument.
You laughed, you clapped, you seemed moved, intrigued, offended,
And we thanked you all for coming, and you thanked us for performing,
And then you said: "Good fences make good neighbors."
(Something there is that doesn't love a Fiction Circus,
That wants them to stupidly delete the video footage they shot,
Ensuring that they will maintain a special and useful anonymity mostly.
I could say "Elves" to you, but it's not "Elves" exactly,
It is a cat, black as the wet ash at the bottom of an old farmer's cob,
Clattering the pans in the cupboards--
--she moves in darkness as it seems to me--
And startling us, so that we delete the wrong video clip before saving it.)
I like having thought of this so well
I say again: thank you for coming to our snow-bound show.
We truly enjoyed reading for you, and will soon do it again.
You are what makes it worthwhile: good writers need good readers.
As far as this show goes, I'm sorry the videos of it all got deleted,
But you shouldn't be watching movies on the Internet anyway
Should you.

Posted by future on Fri, 26 Feb 2010 22:03:40 -0500 -- permanent link