The Critic and the Moth

I went to my first the Moth StorySLAMS tonight at Housing Works bookshop. The place was packed to capacity, and the theme was "Flight." Members of the audience who wanted to tell their 5-minute story on stage put their names on slips of paper in a bag and waited to see if their names were drawn.

Ten names were called over two hours. Of the ten stories, two were pretty tight and polished, two were highly entertaining, and the rest--save one--were okay. The stories told of suburban revenge by model plane in the Boy Scouts; hot air balloon catastrophe; the death of a much-loved cat finally setting its owner free to travel; the elation of getting fired from a hated job; attacks by Corsican birds; and scraping by to catch a flight with some dignity intact.

These storytellers were regular people (albeit trending towards the nerdy, neurotic, goofy, or eccentric), so I was really happy that everyone got genuine applause for, at the very least, their willingness to take such a public risk to hone their storytelling skills.

Here's a poem for them...

The Critic

I cannot possibly think of you 

other than you are: the assassin

of my orchards. You lurk there

in the shadows, meting out

conversation like Eve's first

confusion between penises and

snakes. Oh be droll, be jolly

and be temperate! Do not

frighten me more than you

have to! I must live forever.

--Frank O'Hara