An Open Letter to WPOM (or something like that)

A Poem by beautifulblade

:)

To the voices coming from my speakers...

I don't know if I should address this to just the three that sit on their asses all night and pretend to work hard, or to the ones who call in and share little pieces of themselves. I guess I'll just start with the first three. I'd address you individually, but after months of calling in, I still can't remember which voice belongs to whom, and I'm too embarrassed to ask. So to the guys...

you suck.

to the poets..

nah, just kidding. Guys. Men. Knights of the Round Table in Poetville. You spend your Friday nights making the world a better place as you throw chicken thighs and baseballs into some random puddle that you somehow dragged in from the street. Or maybe you have a sink of dirty dishes that no one wants to do. Whatever the case, the sound effects mark each caller and each new line of sight, a new perspective never heard and the end of a deliberation. For isn't that all that poetry really is, at times? A deliberation on whatever topic, whatever words and thoughts that stream through some goofball's head and onto a page? We're all idiots, here, and you welcome each one with open arms. One of these days, we will tumble through the phone line and into a bear hug of poets, held together with noodles from alphabet soup.

We share memories, listen to the sizzle sound of bacon as Michael explains that somehow, smutty is the root of the word Smurf. And how J Todd freaks out during Leo's calls because the chat room clicks in the background and he feels like he should reach through the phone and save Leo from whatever horror scene he's in. And then there's the time with a knife wielding slasher and a midnight flasher, an ambulance ride and a pregnant lady... only that came from Phillip so we all know how much truth is in that one.

We walk under bridges, past cardboard signs exclaiming the honesty of some random guy needing a beer, and sit around the table musing about "crampus no pancis" and jet fuel and the color puce.... only no one really knows anything about anything and Michael can't really read latin so who knows what the hell we're saying.

And then we'll talk some more about bacon and Good Morning Snore Solution, and you guys can't get mad because I put it in a poem. We'll try to claim the domain name screwyou.ninja and laugh about how you had people calling in from the lobby to fill the first show (unless that's something I just wrote down for no reason), and raise our eyebrows at the dollar bills on the table because "you don't bite unless we pay you." And then someone will call out "JILLY S**T!" for no reason and then going on about bats and the Adam's family.

To the callers,

you are treasured, each voice unique in its own right. I've got too many memories to list but I never wrote them down and I'm sorry. I wish I could reach through the phone and whisper back each secret that your poetry has shared. We stand united in our words, roaring lions and chocolate godzillas that somehow find the ability to speak softly because some poems have more power when they're quiet.

I will tell you you're beautiful because I truly believe that you are, and yell at anyone who disagrees. (I can be fierce, you know.)

Lydia,

I know that you're asleep as I read this, but don't ever give up on your words. Your youth is something that is precious and your talent has not gone unnoticed. You are one of a kind, my child. Be your own person in every choice you make.

Dennis,

you welcomed me with open arms, invited me into this family via a link on an allpoetry page. Thank you. Your kindness is always appreciated.

Titus,

I wish I had more to say to you. More than a thank you for staying up just to hear me read. But I don't, so my gratitude and my prose will just have to be enough.

Olla,

I haven't heard you read in awhile, but your words never fail to make me smile.

Chris,

I would write you something special, but now there are two of you and I don't know who is who, so to both of you... thank you.

Barbara,

you're not here right now, but you have guided me through dangerous paths and helped me reach conclusions. You have shared inside jokes and inspiration, impacted me more than you could know.

Leo,

ah, Leo. We have roared together, shared monster references over PMS poems and laughed over bacon references like old friends.

And to everyone I didn't name..

your poetry has made its way across the world and into my life. Believe me, I treasure my Friday nights. I would put a name to each poem if I could, but I forget things too quickly and so I will lay down and let your words flow through my ears and bring me comfort with each sound. Thank you for giving me that slice of serenity in an otherwise chaotic life.

I suppose I should find a way to end this, to reach a logical conclusion that tapers off like letters should. So this is me, tapering into a point of no return, filling in my lines with cliches and rhymes because I don't just want to end quite so suddenly.

World Poetry Open Mic,

my Friday nights have brought me peace.

Sincerely,

the Christmas Killer

P.S.

I'm sorry about the length, but I found I just had so much to say.