contest entry

We went into the basement to hear the poets auction off their poetry, auctioning their broken nightmares for a small fee at the door. The fee, however, was always totally arbitrary, and was never collected until the audience started bustling their way out into the street (everybody was always free to come inside). The poets would gather together at the bottom of the stairs and pick their patrons out from the crowd, demanding anything from holy acceptance to intimate love.

Dara and I shuffled down the stairs, trembling over to a little table and pouring ourselves into the coffee. We sipped from our paper cups as we picked apart slices of yellow pound cake and waited for the first poet of the evening.

“What is happening today, stranger? And what does the rest of your story have to do with mine?”

The first poet spoke as the innocent listened, swallowing and trying to stop itching inside. His voice as sweet as a long-awaited cigarette, he didn’t listen for the audience’s applause. He didn’t wait for a sign that he was doing it right. He just started ripping out words, taking as his hostage whomever could hear.

I coughed and he wondered whether I had any time.

When the night ended and I made my way to the door, he stumbled in my path, and took my coat away from me, and beckoned me into the corners of his mind.