Poets Gone Wild

I press play, palms sweating, hand trembling and suck in one last gasp of oxygen as Poets Gone Wild explodes, in full blazing color, on my television screen. The camera pans a drop dead pandemonium of hip, hot, happening wordsmiths, all mobbed, in rows, of book browsing Bedlam, between the shelves of a swinging library. Hell bound Haikuists, Sultry Sonnetters, Tripping Traditionalists, Badass Beats, Down and Dirty Lyricalists, Proseiacs, Tankkears, Nit and Gritters, let it all hang out, with bespeckled bravura, as they recite, declaim and wave lethal chapbooks at the boob tube’s screen.
The camera zooms in on the shows M.C., Randy Rhyme. Rakishly retro in his tweed suit, bow tie, battered loafers, Randy gazes, provocatively, at the leering viewer with a “let’s do it” expression on his professorial face. Beside him, in the close up, is the buxom, bun-haired, brain storming beauty, Avan Tguarde. Avan’s onyx eyes sparkle, behind her coke bottle glasses. Her conjugation grinding teeth glisten with a secretive smile. She is coyly caressing a copy of her latest renegade rhetoric, Totally Blank Verse. Taunting the turned on audience, her ink pen red fingernails precociously play a game of peek-a-boo with the creamy pages, parting them slightly and then squeezing them shut. It is like a tense, tantalizing fan dance from the risqué poetess, wanton, salacious. Will she? Won’t she? At a wink from Randy, Avan folds the vexing volume she’s been fondling and tucks its spine between her voluptuous breasts.
Heart pounding, breath heaving, face flushed, I grip the arms of my living room chair, feeling like the lost mountaineer, who, gasping for air, is miraculously thrust, by a force of nature, into the summit’s aperture, cradled safely in the valley between its majestic peaks. (But knowing the impending storm is treacherously near.)
Suddenly, shockingly, Avan throws back her head and, with an expression of erotic euphoria on her librarian’s face, brazenly yanks open the teasing book and exposes the naked pages of Totally Blank …
“Spread ‘em baby!” Someone shouts.
All hell breaks loose. The poets go wild. They push, shove, pummel their way, from every direction, into the camera’s eye, spreading their pages, exposing their rhymes, brandishing their chapbooks in a brash and bawdy bookworm’s bacchanal.
A fight breaks out. The battling bards commence to bashing one another about the head (giving new meaning to the expression Slam.) spectacles fly, books are flung, pen duels develop (giving new meaning to the term penmanship). All at once, shelves are raided. A food for thought fight erupts, as volumes are hurled. The camera backs away from a free-for-all which rivals the famous scene from Animal House.
I fall back in my chair in a faint.