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Riffing Off of Other Writers
The Performance Artist
They might’ve been big, once upon a time — or not.
“Nicci, have you been down to the Jail Bar? Seen that ‘beat poet,’ Charles…something or other?” She pronounced it Chaawwwwws, dropping her jaw slowly and drawling out the “awww” like a grandmother who’d bandaged one too many boo-boos and wasn’t having it, anymore.
“No.” I was through with poetry. Greeting cards, that’s all anyone wanted, these days. Dr. Seuss for grown-ups. Smarmy rhymes for serious times. There are 987 words that rhyme with “dead.” We avoid using some of them, like “bread,” on the condolence cards. I lied, these days, when people asked if I’d written anything, lately. “Yes,” I’d tell them. “Cue cards, for Vanna White.” Sometimes it was, “Blurbs on the back of cereal boxes.” It kept the lights on, anyway. “Is he any good?” I didn’t care. I tried to look bored. Supremely bored. The way I draped myself against the kitchen counter, it’s a wonder I didn’t slide down it and stick to the floor like an overcooked noodle.
“Define ‘good.’ He thinks so. He’s got a cadre of co-eds who aren’t trying hard enough to prove him wrong.” She went on to describe his performance in agonizing detail.
