Open Mic
The writer writes in a void.
She does exercises in style, to pin down each aspect of fiction, isolate, and perfect. Each a different approach, each a worthless scrap when not combined into a larger idea. Finger muscle building. Plot arc diagrams. Character sketch. She sits in the coffee shop and writes, and they push her up onto the Open Mic. She politely obliges, reads two pages with arc and narrative.
As she talks she hears the hum of conversation. She knows, as she reads her words, that no one is listening. She stops reading, takes the mic from the stand. She steps onto the chair, and starts yelling.
Attention
Attention Please.
I could tell you a secret,
what mirrors elucidate of the future.
Print is dying.
What, expound?
Print the word, explicate–
No! Knowledge is failing,
and when it’s dripped out,
will you have a story?
Attention.
Attention please.
Print is dead.
Will you die well-read?
I have heard the heartbeat of art,
but you missed it.