LogFAQs > #945552021

A) Wait for the next poet.

Your mood is a mild one. Mild inebriation, mild horniness, with mild anticipation for the next poet. You haven't had a slam throw you into the wilds of passion in quite some time. The next poet steps to the stage. White tank top, black denim pants, and faint traces of a beard recently shaved away. He's a slender man, but seeds of a beerbelly have rooted themselves in him. You're drawn to his sunglasses. Why? They're on indoors.

"Hallo. I am Lennox and I am originally from Berlin," he introduces himself.
"Oh, Berlin?" you try to sound intrigued, but end up coming off as concerned. Which you are.
"I'm concerned," Candace whispers across the table.
"Yes, me too."
"Berlin? I bet he brought a pilsner or - heaven forbid - a lager."
"I brought with me a saison that I brewed in Greensboro, Vermont," Lennox announces.
Relief washes over the two of you.
"Crisis averted."
Lennox looks nervously out into the audience. "Do you say go or...?"
You snap. Candace snaps. The audience snaps. It's time for art.
Lennox lifts the mic out of the stand.

Liebe Currywurst
How divine is your great Duft
Get into my Bauch

Lennox drops the microphone on the floor and leaves the stage. He darts through the crowd to return to his table for one. Waiting on a plate is a decadent, steaming currywurst. Lennox aggressively shoves a fork into the sausage, brings it to his mouth, and rips a chunk away.
Confused snaps. Half-hearted mutterings of bravery.
"My, my, my," you say under your breath, impressed. "Aren't we full of surprises?... Candace, flag down the waiter."
Candace waves both hands over her head.
"Yes?" the strong jawline returns.
"Is the speakeasy serving food now?" you ask.
"No, ma'am."
"Then how come he has that currywurst?"
"He brought that from home, ma'am."
"He brought it from home?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"He cooked a currywurst at home, brought it to a poetry slam, recited a poem about how he was going to eat it, and is now eating it in front of all of us?"
"It appears so, ma'am."
You run the tips of your fingers along your collarbone. "That'll be all. Thank you."
The waiter turns to leave, but then leans in and asks, "And how is your horniness, ma'am? Has it subsided?"
You sigh and shudder at the same time. "Horribly inappropriate. I appreciate your concern, but that's a terrible thing to ask."
"Very sorry, ma'am."
"Awful."

Another poet strides to the stage and snatches the mic from the ground. He's tall, he's thin, and with his announcement of "I didn't brew anything," he's got your attention.
"This next piece is called Houseplant, but this artist is untitled."
"Untitled?" Candace repeats, followed by a curt sip of saison. "A bit pretentious."
"Oh come now, Candace. I don't think we should be beholden to the names we were given to us by people who didn't know who we were. Just look at Lennox over there. His parents named him Lennox, but eating a pre-prepared sausage alone in a dark club isn't very Lennox of him. He's very clearly a Doug. After over three decades of being you, do you think you're a Candace?"
"You're only making this argument because your last name is Weiner and everyone calls you Miss Weiner."
"Do you not see him Douging out over there?"
"My parents retired to upstate Maine and have an alpaca farm. They used your approach and did not name the alpacas to allow them to choose their own identities."
You snap.
"Stop it," Candace swats your hands. "All of their names are some form of hiss, scream, or bray.
"You fence me in and make me eat hay and my identity will become a hiss too."

When I was ten my parents asked me if I wanted a cat or a dog.
It was okay if I needed time to think about it. No rush.
So I didn't think about it.
When I was eleven they asked me again.
There's no wrong answer. We're happy with whatever you decide.
It doesn't have to be just one.
You can choose both.
It doesn't have to be just one.
...What about like, a houseplant?

"Did you have a cat growing up?" Candace whispers as she keeps her eyes on Untitled.
You nod. "She was very sweet. Her name was Purrrrrrrrrr."
Candace's brow furrows.

Dogs eat whatever they can find. They fill backyards and sidewalks with shit. They roll around in mud and chug swamp water if you'll let them. They'll lick their ass and try to put their swamp ass tongue on your face.
Take your time.
Cats piss in a box and then the piss box just hangs out and now there's just a piss box in your house? They should have led with that. Do you want a box filled with piss? Do you want to watch an angry animal eat its fur and then barf it onto the floor several rooms away from the piss box?
It doesn't have to be just one. It can be both.
But it can't be a plant? None of the mess, but plenty of growth.
They said-

The sound of the Rhyme Gong reverberates throughout the speakeasy. Everyone turns to the bartender who holds up one finger. "Strike one!"
Untitled nods and continues.

They said you just need more time to think.
Fish are slimy.
Birds are just screams with feathers.
Ferrets are mean.
What the fuck am I supposed to do with a turtle?
Rabbits are footballs that shit and bite.
Every single one of them is gross.
Except a plant. All it needs is water.
But a plant is nothing.
It doesn't have to be just one, but it had to be at least one.
But I'm a houseplant.

Untitled's tone is getting harsher. He's angry. You grab an ice cube from your spring water and run it across the back of your neck.

The dam burst and the flow watered us all
And I watched you go from thirst to hydration to dehydration to exhaustion to acceptance
Everyone decided to pick up a plant like it's a hobby and not who I am
You motherfuckers had to binge til you puffed out dust to make me feel like I belonged
You filtered the salt from my tears and offered me a sip
But fuck you I am not thirsty
The flood is here and I'm still swimming
Everyone else was thrashing on the surface
Some drowned but you all crawled back on the shore
You hide from the flood and close your eyes on your yachts
But the flood's still here and I can breathe underwater

Untitled leaves the stage without waiting for the snaps that confirm he did art. The delayed snaps chase him to his seat at the bar. "My, my, my..." you mutter again. "Another brave boy. What a night for Miss Weiner."

What do you do?

A) Buy Lennox a saison.
B) Buy Untitled a saison.
C) Wait for the next poet.
D) Leave the speakeasy with Candace.


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You don't have to put my thighs in the microwave.