how to read poems, or, a girl and her mustache: a love story*

To prepare for a reading, you will need four things:

1. Poems to be read;
2. A half-frosted cupcake smeared with pink Funfetti frosting;
3. A happy robot painting cheering you on;
4. Your mustache.

When you arrive at the bar, your mustache accidentally leads you up two flights of stairs instead of stopping at one. You nearly walk into an ongoing production of Chekhov's "Three Sisters" instead.

Don't blame your mustache. It's just overstimulated.

When you take the podium, the mike is too low and you are wearing tall boots. Never fear, however, as your mustache has excellent acoustics.

You choose not to read the poem about your ova, because the mustache might confuse folks. Also, you are not a big fan of poetry that's about anyone's ova, unless maybe it's her poetry.

Also you have never ever written a poem about your ova.

It's a moot point, because your mustache wants you to read the poem about booze. And then it wants bourbon. You buy it a beer instead.

When the reading is over, after you have made small polite talk with your fellow readers, you head out into the night to find your friends. In a fit of New York violence, someone mugs you and rips off your mustache. OW, you think. THAT FUCKING HURT. SAY WHAT YOU WILL ABOUT SMALL TOWNS LIKE GRR, BUT A GIRL CAN WALK AROUND AT NIGHT BY HERSELF NOT FEARING FOR HER MUSTACHE.

Your mustache cries a single, plaintive wail as you are separated.

Your friends, in a misguided attempt to cheer you up, purchase you a replacement mustache and don a pair themselves. You grin and bear it, but the truth is that you look ridiculous. Van dyke? you find yourself thinking. What exactly are they trying to tell me?

When the evening ends, you quietly pull off your itchy fake replacement mustache and goatee, slide to the edge of the platform, and throw them under the L train. A Russian hooker watches you do this.

You tell her that it's curious that we can't possibly tell what exactly will be considered great and important, and what will seem paltry and ridiculous. She does not blink.

Fear not, dear tourist. The city is so clean these days that Times Square looks like Disneyland. The next afternoon, as you and the AV walk uptown, you spot your mustache passing out handbills for a "really funny" comedy show "tonight only."

Your mustache recognizes you and leaps back to its rightful place on your face. Together, you lean against the storefront and gives Times Square the once-over. Whatever, your mustache whispers, this town is your bitch.


*thanks to the AV for the photos, to Suz for hosting, and to my mustache for keepin' my lip warm. You guys rock