A Few Words From Jack
'La Bohemia' is my anti-drug.
Okay, okay, so I joined an online RPG (based off of RENT, if you must know... and yes, I realize just how dorky that makes me), and in one thread my character, Jack, gets up at an Open Mic Night and reads a bit of poetry/prose that he's written. Well I actually had to make up a piece for him to perform, and it turned out pretty great, I think. So I decided to post it here, for your literary enjoyment:
Unfolding the piece of looseleaf paper that had been creased and recreased, he looked at the words before him. They'd been smudged, erased, scribbled out, and smeared. But they were his words, and it was his turn. He smiled at Mindy, who wrapped her arms around him in a hug. "You finally stepping up to share the limelight?" she asked.
"I guess I am," he replied, mustering that confidence from somewhere unknown. "So you gonna introduce me or what?"
Without hesitation, Mindy whirled around, toying with the microphone cord in one hand. "Alright guys and gals, we've got a special treat for you. Here with a reading of some of his literary stylings is the Lennox Pub's very own upstairs neighbor, Jack Austin!"
The noise of the bar patrons settled down to a dull roar as Jack stepped up blinking beneath the hot stage lights. Looking over his shoulder he nodded to the house band, who began playing a slow jazzy number softly in the background. He squinted out to the crowd, raising a stray eyebrow of acknowledgement to Amélie, still seated at their table in the back. He cleared his throat, loosened up, and began to read.
"I sat one night and I heard the drum
Of traffic on the streets and the rattle and hum
Buildings stretched so high I could barely see
The blanket of stars so far above me
Light years away, no where to be found
City lights unaware of the things they've drowned.
I pressed my back square against the groaning frame of my windowsill, dangling one leg out and letting it swing freely. The sounds of the night enveloped me as the a rush of cool air brushed my cheek. It flutters the pages of my notebook as I write, thinking about high rises, bagel prices, giving up my vices. I inhale, drawing fresh air into my cigarette, the glowing ember on the tip burning that same red-orange of the campfire in my soul.
A part of me is still out there, far away from the concrete jungle. I can actually see the stars. Fuck I miss those stars. I'm in the woods with my brothers, Adam with a beat-up guitar in his hands practicing Bob Dylan songs til his fingers bleed, and Chris singing all the wrong lyrics to 'Like a Rolling Stone.' All three of us sit on the tailgate of the pickup, our legs dangling, swinging free.
The city is alive with a new kind of fire -- the spark of inspiration, the heat of passion, a kind of burning possibility. Indiana boy's gotta find himself something new to break the routine, get out of the rut. But when the stars are gone, what connects me to the world?
Moonshadows on my wall through the open window
The cacophonic symphony follows wherever I go
Winter wanes, yet I refrain from sealing up, keeping heat
The smell of the air, the new nature there, that drumming city beat
I'll freeze my ass before I shut it out
The faceless world is welcomed through my open window, but those with faces I still doubt."
...and that was it. He'd done it. This little bit of prose that he'd worked and reworked in his head was now unleashed and out in the open. It no longer lay buried in a notebook somewhere in his messy studio apartment, but it was alive. As the house band settled down and rounded out their number, he paused and took a short bow.
"Thank you," he said.
Okay, okay, so I joined an online RPG (based off of RENT, if you must know... and yes, I realize just how dorky that makes me), and in one thread my character, Jack, gets up at an Open Mic Night and reads a bit of poetry/prose that he's written. Well I actually had to make up a piece for him to perform, and it turned out pretty great, I think. So I decided to post it here, for your literary enjoyment:
Unfolding the piece of looseleaf paper that had been creased and recreased, he looked at the words before him. They'd been smudged, erased, scribbled out, and smeared. But they were his words, and it was his turn. He smiled at Mindy, who wrapped her arms around him in a hug. "You finally stepping up to share the limelight?" she asked.
"I guess I am," he replied, mustering that confidence from somewhere unknown. "So you gonna introduce me or what?"
Without hesitation, Mindy whirled around, toying with the microphone cord in one hand. "Alright guys and gals, we've got a special treat for you. Here with a reading of some of his literary stylings is the Lennox Pub's very own upstairs neighbor, Jack Austin!"
The noise of the bar patrons settled down to a dull roar as Jack stepped up blinking beneath the hot stage lights. Looking over his shoulder he nodded to the house band, who began playing a slow jazzy number softly in the background. He squinted out to the crowd, raising a stray eyebrow of acknowledgement to Amélie, still seated at their table in the back. He cleared his throat, loosened up, and began to read.
"I sat one night and I heard the drum
Of traffic on the streets and the rattle and hum
Buildings stretched so high I could barely see
The blanket of stars so far above me
Light years away, no where to be found
City lights unaware of the things they've drowned.
I pressed my back square against the groaning frame of my windowsill, dangling one leg out and letting it swing freely. The sounds of the night enveloped me as the a rush of cool air brushed my cheek. It flutters the pages of my notebook as I write, thinking about high rises, bagel prices, giving up my vices. I inhale, drawing fresh air into my cigarette, the glowing ember on the tip burning that same red-orange of the campfire in my soul.
A part of me is still out there, far away from the concrete jungle. I can actually see the stars. Fuck I miss those stars. I'm in the woods with my brothers, Adam with a beat-up guitar in his hands practicing Bob Dylan songs til his fingers bleed, and Chris singing all the wrong lyrics to 'Like a Rolling Stone.' All three of us sit on the tailgate of the pickup, our legs dangling, swinging free.
The city is alive with a new kind of fire -- the spark of inspiration, the heat of passion, a kind of burning possibility. Indiana boy's gotta find himself something new to break the routine, get out of the rut. But when the stars are gone, what connects me to the world?
Moonshadows on my wall through the open window
The cacophonic symphony follows wherever I go
Winter wanes, yet I refrain from sealing up, keeping heat
The smell of the air, the new nature there, that drumming city beat
I'll freeze my ass before I shut it out
The faceless world is welcomed through my open window, but those with faces I still doubt."
...and that was it. He'd done it. This little bit of prose that he'd worked and reworked in his head was now unleashed and out in the open. It no longer lay buried in a notebook somewhere in his messy studio apartment, but it was alive. As the house band settled down and rounded out their number, he paused and took a short bow.
"Thank you," he said.