Open Mic

Open Mic

Every Tuesday night was open mic
At the hippie, veggie, coffee shop
A few short blocks from where I
Lived when I was sixteen, in
Sun-drenched, red-bricked,
Tennessee. When I was sixteen,
In quiet, southern, Chattanooga
Tennessee, I played guitar outside
So many downtown coffee joints. But
This, my first night ever, my friend
Brought his bass guitar and I brought
My Gibson. I knew two songs, four chords.
When they asked me to play, I said,
"Where's the mike?" Every one of those
Lowdown, hairy, friendly, veggie, stinkin'
Hippies laughed at me. I came back every
Week. Summer of my senior year, they
Closed.
I want to see that chalkboard with the
Beany, veggie daily specials again.
I want to play Sex Pistols on an
Acoustic guitar, write free-form
Poetry denouncing Mickey Mouse and
McDonalds and the rest of our
Used-up, dried out, tired consumer culture.
Maybe tomorrow I'll walk down a side street downtown
And hear "Closer to Fine,"
And inside there will be a circle,
A six-string Gibson swinging, hairy,
Veggie, hippies drinking coffee from
Ceramic mugs, in that muggy, starry,
Close and friendly, Chattanooga,
Tennessee of my dreams.