Open mic poetry reading for 2-26-08: I was eight years old when I came to the conclusion that my mother was apparently a robot. I had always figured that line about "eyes in the back of my head" was not only anatomically horrifying but a cheap deterrent, issued to keep children like me lawful and neurotic, or at least to keep hands barred from our jar of Mallomars when the apron was away. After my discovery, I began to think differently. What I held was not the result I went in search of. This tip-toed before-school voyage was for the surplus of Hustlers with unexplained pages that hugged one another, keepin' me thinking that the women in these pictures found themselves as alluring as my hormones did and couldn't help but grind their neighbors when the magazine closed. But, no, see my stepfather raped feng shui and kept absolutely everything he owned in tornadic organziation; only man I knew who could find zen and immediately lose it again. And so, I could not remember which nightstand belonged to my mother. Behind door number two lay my unwrapped X-mas gift even though it was still June. A robotic heirloom, I assume, because the colors were calculated, neon marrying metal, properly produced to attain attention of my demographic. It was a tuner of some sort, because I pressed the button and it twisted and gyrated right outta my hands, like every baton twirler's first day with the stick. The sound was depressing: no bombs whistling no Star Trek phaser beam zaps no sirens ...
Keywords: MCC, poetry, poem, open, mic, open-mic, robot, vibrator, Mom, mother, deimosazra
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