Improbable Poetry at the Roller Palace

This past Wednesday evening, I read my new poem, "The Fever Dream of the Driving Instructor," at the most recent Improbable Places Poetry Tour stop: The Roller Palace in Beverly, Massachusetts.  The theme for the evening was "moving in circles."  While the theme and the venue inspired me to write a poem of which I am very proud, I cannot say that either did anything for my roller skating skills.

I came to the Roller Palace straight from work, so I was still dressed in my business attire: dress shoes, slacks, button-up shirt, and an argyle sweater.  Not exactly roller skating gear.  I wisely refrained from donning skates during the readings, but was convinced by a very beautiful woman (my wife) to lace up during the free skate afterwards.

I was able, through sheer force of will, to stay upright, avoiding a calamitous, and possibly hilarious, tumble, while dredging up long-forgotten memories of roller skating excursions in middle school.  I even managed to skate several feet forward at a time without hugging the wall.  Eventually, the effort involved defeated me, and I blissfully removed the skates, and invited my beaming bride out of a late dinner.

As for the poetry, it was a very successful evening.  My wife read a poem, which is really good.  It was her first time ever reading her poetry in public.  For those of you who know her, that may come as a surprise.  Several of the other poets were really good.  I have a personal preference to hear poems with a comedic tone, which is may surprise anyone who has read my more serious poems on this blog, as well as poems which have a lot of concrete imagery, since it is easier for me to visualize what the poet intended.

Professional poet & college professor January O'Neil closed the evening with a new work, which you can find in this post in her blog, Poet Mom, along with several pictures and her commentary on the evening.  I encourage you to follow her blog, as it is a favorite of mine.  She is also the director of the Massachusetts Poetry Festival, which will be in Salem, April 20-22.  May be I'll see you there, or at the next stop on the Tour.

The Fever Dream of the Driving Instructor

A long straight trip down a winding, circular

road to where I started from, I move in ever

decreasing circles, smooth right turn after

smooth right turn, an eight hour trip in my

desiccated mind through the thoughtscape of

flashing neon signposts and befeathered and

besequined showgirls kicklining down a

deserted highway, the heat draining the

moisture from my unprotected skin, a

right arm salt flat, arm hairs cracking and

breaking and plummeting out of sight, the

hot stale air rife with limestone flavor

caking my swollen tongue.  Four hours now,

the rattle and shake of an economy car on a

luxury road lulls me into an unsuspecting

stupor while a nervous teenager natters on about

Jesus and how her sister is going to

hell for kissing her boyfriend.  My eyes

stick in their eyesockets as my hair

creaks, plastered to my red shrieking

forehead, so I turn to look at her execute

another right turn, six hours now

driving in circles.  An unfettered

imagining escapes the desert

prison of my dehydrated brain, and

oozes to the surface, daring me to

seize the wheel and aim the exhausted

vehicle over the curb through the glinting

barrier into the dusty rock strewn

expanse the map lies to call a

river.  I could have been by the bay by now, the

faintest hint of grapes drifting south on the

wind from luxurious hills.  I could have been in

Spanish language lands surrounded by prim

gingham prostitutes, shadow wearing pimps, and

revelrous sailors seeking to stain their

white uniforms with glorious adventure.

Eight hours now and I have ended where I

begun, the protesting display wheezing

horrified red photons to report one hundred

sixteen, and not a drop of shade to be drunk.