It was slam poetry night down at Lui’s. The pub was packed with artistic types and people with an abnormally high tolerance for cringe. Under dull orange stage lights, the mic-stand stood like a mythical sword awaiting the would-be king that would wield it. As it turned out, not a king, but a self-styled Prince sauntered out from stage-left and took the mic in her hand. She tapped on it with a finger to make sure it was working.
She cleared her throat. “I am Hiodoshi Ao.” She waited for applause. When there was none, she continued. “This is a poem I wrote. I call it…” She let a few moments crawl by. “’Blue’.”
She snatched the mic from its stand and throttled it as though it were a viper. After her fit was over, she closed her eyes and whispered into the mic, “I’m blue.”
The pub had gone quieter than a silent disco.
Ao cracked open an eyelid and peeked out at the anonymous faces staring up at her, completely enthralled. She had them and she knew it. “Da Ba Dee,” she howled, clenching her fist and lowering it slowly. “Da Ba Die,” she crooned. “I’m blue!” she sang, holding the high note and putting some egregious vibrato on it. A few bottles shattered behind the bar and one of the flood lights exploded. With the scent of spilled liquor in the air and sparks raining down around her, she tilted her head and addressed the audience with a Mona Lisa smirk. “Isn’t that cool?”
Mistaking the collective trauma of the room for silent adulation, Ao bowed and said, “Thank you, everyone. I’ll be available to sign autographs later. Bring your own pen.”
As she was about to stride offstage, someone in the audience shouted, “Blue!? More like, ‘BOOOOO’!”
Ao, stopped, thunderstruck. Her scalp prickled with sweat. She looked down from the stage and saw a young woman with fox ears and short bangs staring up at her. “Exc… Excuse me?”
“Sorry, can’t do it,” said the young woman. “That was inexcusable. Immoral. Possibly illegal.”
“Illegal?” Ao croaked. “It’s poetry! Poetry has no rules. How can it be illegal?”
“I don’t know, but you just made a good case for banishing it from our society altogether with that performance.”
Ao stiffened. “I’d like to see you do better.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah!”
“Fine! Watch this.” The young woman climbed on stage and walked over to the mic. “Hi, my name’s Polka and here’s a poem. It’s called, ‘Your poem’s whack and so are you’.”
The audience cheered. Ao stared in horror. Polka beat-boxed with one side of her mouth and spit bars with the other.
“Iambic pentameter these nuts
You don’t have the guts
To stand with the best of ‘em
No ifs ands or buts
And if I see you up on stage
Better get back in your cage
‘Cause I’m Hamlet, you’re Hamtaro
You’re a rat, I’m the rage
And if you still don’t get it
I’ll spell it out so you don’t forget
Y. P. W. A. S. A. Y.
Say it with me, kinglet
Your Poem’s Whack And So Are You”
Bouquets rained down on the stage. The room roared with rapturous applause. People in the audience were clambering over one another to get closer. At Polka’s feet was a bluish bundle of rags that, on closer inspection, turned out to be Ao in the fetal position. She knelt down next to the fallen prince and rested a hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t take it personally, little one.”
“How did you become such a good poet?” wheezed Ao.
Polka tilted her head. “Poet?” She pursed her lips and thought for a moment. Then she chuckled, ruffled Ao’s hair and stood up. “I’m not a poet.”
Ao looked up at her. “Then what are you?”
Polka stared over the heads of the frothing crowd, as if at something only she could see in the dim light of the pub. She smiled. “I’m a comedian.”