Tom Kim

So one of the things that I’ve neglected posting about is the story slam that my writing group will be -> is -> has -> had hosted tonight at the Standard Tap.

Story Slam: a lot like a poetry slam. Ten contestants sign up to read an original piece. They have to read a five-minute excerpt (half a point deduction for every 15 seconds over the time limit). Five judges are chosen at random to grade out of ten points on content and delivery. Given the season, an extra point and a half for any story that’s scary.

It was great. We had a full house listening in; there were even people standing on the fringes because we ran out of seats. People ate and drank, which was good for our host, the legendary Standard Tap. I highly recommend the Sly Fox Pub Ale.

We only had nine readers, though, which made us a little short on prize money. Each reader donates $5 to the pot, so we could award $25 to first plaze, $15 to second, and $10 to third place = $50 total. So we were short $5. Not a big problem, though.

I won second place! I’d have to say it was probably more for my delivery than for the story itself, though. First place went to a humor piece about zombies, a well deserving Daniel, who has a touch of the Sedaris charm in him.

Actually, first place would have gone to Jeff Bender, another Penn Charter teach, had he not gone two minutes over the time limit. Bender can write, dudes. He’s a funny guy.

So it’s pretty sweet that minus the five we swallowed and the five for the Sly Fox I swallowed, I still came home with five extra singles in my pocket. Home as a hero to my sugar mama, who’s studying organic chemistry so she can be a rich dentist. Nice to proffer a little sump’n sump’n up to my muse.

On Mondays I attend the Liberties Scribblers, an informal creative writing group in Northern Liberties. It’s a great group; they’re all friendly, smart people, and the sessions have always been invigorating and enlightening.

My turn has come up to submit something to be workshopped, and I’ve written my first short story in oh so many years. It’s been weird to write again. I feel that my writing has evolved. I’m not sure if it’s gotten better, necessarily, but it sounds…different. Is it because I’ve gotten older? Is it because I’ve been blogging? Has teaching changed me? Maybe my aspirations have changed? Yo no se.

After I get run through the gauntlet on Monday, I’ll post it up here. I guess you guys (as if you guys exist, oh voiceless ones) can tell me if I suck or not.

When you wake to Christmas morning, wait.
Creep back into your dream and pause there
Before the brace of bells and bustle,
The passion pageants at the mall,
The new hem lines of tradition,
The sinister shine of snow.
From the skim of conspiratorial carols
You already hear and the celebrated season
Of comedy and cheer, dive down below:
The ordinary night of your ordinary self
Alone. Everything else, with thought, precipitates out
To leave you yourself cauterized inside.
It’s in those dark depths beneath the skim of your senses
That might appear a bawl and gasp
Serrated, strange,
Like a single acrid plum-colored wisp;
Then angels: one, more, many more,
Like doppler sirens treading the surrounding hills.
And then you are a trillion people
Receiving each other on this day of days.

Every seven years cicadas emerge
From nowhere, like a nightmare of the boorish dead,
Like tiny tombs that fly, sarcophagi
Perched on three pairs of legs a piece. Droning
And drifting, a crowd of creepy cousins
Loitering at your ever turn. Straight men
Without a joke, the dry ubiquity
Of those unblinking alien eyes
Quickly becomes rude.
We sigh and simmer inside as they fly
Stupidly into our windows.

You beat and bat and crush a few
And they still crowd around,
Like carolers on Christmas eve. As if
To remind us that though we may forget,
They will eventually crawl
From the back of fears to the corporeal. That they
Are real. It’s grace, I suppose, that they are not.

If I just shake your hand and say, “And how
Are you?,” as if I had a practiced face
Of courteous insouciance, I would be
All right. A good supporting actor says
His lines and then he gets the hell out — wag
And wave, exchange the lines and then subside,
And with nirvana’s patience, wait. Who knows?
For being good the continents may drift
Right back to fit — a perfect match, for sure.
Or if the world is ever fair, you’ll swoon
In secret, awed by my tamed power and
My virtues humbly hid away, and we
Would close like drawstrings over Pandora’s Hope.
But let’s face it: the bugger got away
A long, long time ago and now consorts
With his rough brothers. I’ll take my chances
And hew a faster way. So here’s fair warning:
That though I’ll try to keep civil, expect
Burrs, lures, snags and long shots from me; any
Less, then I’m not really trying at all.

[Ech. Proof that I was a putz in college.]

The day is common–
A woolen suffocation
Sunk softly below.

Morning after night.
Like a cotton memory
Egg-like light pours in.

As I run, my heart
Bobs like a ship’s sole anchor
In a floorless sea.

She is not here — no
Not here. I lay still, grasping
Not what is not there.

I prefer the light
Of an explosion across
A clean blue filter.