Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip Read online

  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,

  with Ruffles chips crushed

  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