Carondelet
I always wanted to be a member of the Society of Pornographic Poetry - Invasive, Neurotic and Gastrointestinal - SOPPING for short.
Or so I thought.
My writing name is Bug Lincoln, and I received my first invitation to audition on February 23, 1988.
It was held at the Bon Temps bar at the corner of Decatur and Esplanade. Skeletal Strippers and pink-faced alcoholic Jesuits and drag queens and kings in gold satin named Dixie and Bonneville and Carondelet packed the main room.
I went up to scattered applause at 930 that night. Tourist mobs rampaged through the streets. This was my special time. I was sound-tracked by police sirens. I would be validated.
Then I read my first poem, an Ode to Debbie Does Dallas, and the crowd turned on me. Someone screamed we don’t do love here! The crowd threw drinks and ash trays and scummy napkins at me. They forced me off stage and pushed me out the door.
That night I made a vow to return. I just didn’t think it would take me 23 years…
My second invitation to audition came on April 15, 2011.
I was washing puke off the sidewalk in front of my stoop when a woman on a pedal cart stopped and handed me an envelope. It read, be at the January Bar on Toulouse at midnight and bring your best work. I wanted to hug her, thank her, give her the change in my pocket, but she just pedaled away toward the river.
Funny aside, that same woman was murdered by an Orleans Parish Sheriff’s deputy 5 years later. Something about a dispute over a parking space.
Okay, maybe that’s not funny.
I got to the January at 1045 and waited until I saw Aristotle Boudreaux, the President of SOPPING, strut inside. He looked like Truman Capote on steroids, at his very best. He was published by several small journals in the mid-west 50 years ago and rode that fame to the creation of SOPPING. Every poet who ever mattered was in SOPPING. I followed him and caught up to him at the bar.
"Mister Boudreaux, excuse me? My name is Bug Lincoln, and I just want to thank you-"
“I remember your horrible poem from 23 years ago. I hope you can do better tonight.”
He pointed me to the tiny stage in the middle of the room.
I thanked him again and sat down to listen to the other poets who were auditioning that night. Most of the work was dogshit and swill, but two poems by a young woman stood out for their raw emotion. She called herself Lilly and she was covered with the most beautiful tattoos of dragons and demons. She got a standing ovation and an automatic invitation to join the Society. I tried to remember them word for word, but I might’ve missed some lines, so bear with me.
I don’t remember the titles.
Perhaps you can suggest something?
“Woman remains more nearly normal, than man the murderer, fucking everything to death, because he can’t draw a breath…”
Then she followed up that short sharp gem with another.
“Met a hustler in the Quarter. He told me his story then set his dick on fire. Now he’s a ghost. Now he’s a liar…”
I tried to speak to Lilly after she was done, but the room mobbed her. I couldn’t get close. I called her name and shouted how much I loved her work. She didn’t see me. Then President Boudreaux put his greasy little hand on my arm.
“You’re up next, Mister Lincoln,” he sneered. “But I wouldn’t blame you for running away. She will be a hard act to follow.”
I’ll be honest. I thought about running.
I doubted myself, as I’m sure we all do from time to time. But this was my chance to do something great, be part of something great. I took the stage at midnight, to no applause, and opened with my best work in years.
“He saw him coming, some Sunday morning, stopped preaching and pointed at the Lord. There is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins. He is the one, he is the one, who sees his monstrous shadow in the Devil’s sun… I push through the crowds to where he is standing. I walk, then crawl on my knees. I crawl, then squirm through the mud. Someone is coming to save us, I scream. He promised us a murderer of kings… As I groveled, he pulled a razor, and the deadly arc started next to the sun. As it came down it blacked out the light. I turned my face to the blade and screamed this is right. Every death is a promised one…”
I dropped the paper and waited for the applause. I bowed and raised my hands in triumph. I backed up so every one of my adoring new fans could swarm the stage…
Do I have to say what happened?
Yes, I have to tell the truth. Nothing happened. No applause, no accolades, no cheering mob raising me to new heights. President Boudreaux stood up at his table, wiped his hands on a napkin and told me to step forward.
“Are you stupid? Do you suffer from an anoxic brain injury? Perhaps your mother swung your head against a brick wall when you were a baby?”
He threw a glass of whiskey which nearly hit me in the eye. He wanted to know why I would present some religious garbage when the word pornography was in the title of the greatest society of poets the world has ever seen?
I didn’t have an answer for any of his questions.
I was cursed for being alive. I ran off stage and fought my way past a mob of angry poets spitting in my face…
