Poetry Slam

Went to a poetry slam.  I went early because I was friends with some of the people I knew who were putting it on and I wanted to be helpful, but when I got there, I discovered there wasn't much for me to do.  I fooled around with the music that was playing before the slam.  Someone had made a mix CD years ago, but the intern couldn't get it to actually play on the laptop, and neither could I.  We tried to get last.fm to play, and it was playing, but we couldn't get any sound to come out. 
The poet they brought in was really nice.  He walked in with Freddy, who I hadn't seen in a few weeks.  Freddy said hi to me and then wandered off.  I actually didn't realize this was the poet, because he looked so different from his pictures.  He was shorter and his hair was neater.  He was really skinny and totally dressed like a hipster.  And he stuck out his hand and shook mine. 
He had lived in New York City and Portland, and was currently in Austin.  He talked to us about living there, and there was a part of me that was totally jealous. 
I then realized as we were getting seats together that I had no idea if Mark was coming or not and hadn't even thought of him.  Sacre bleu, I found myself thinking.  How could I?
I texted him, asking if he was coming.  A few minutes later he texted back, saying that he was coming, but was going to be two minutes late.  I laughed, but was totally surprised to discover that we have an injoke.
Mark sat with me, but he talked to one of the other inters, who he was in a playwriting class with. 
Stephanie introduced him, mentioning that slam poetry was often political and that was fine and good, but it was nice to have slam poets who saw the beauty in life. 
He's like the Mary Oliver of slam poets, I thought.  Stephanie loves Mary Oliver, for reasons that sometimes escape me.  I think she's an okay poet, but she always writes about the same thing, nature, and I've never read anything of her's that struck me as extraordinary, just fine.  Stephanie always talks about how Oliver is so interested in joy in her poetry.  Maybe I'm a miserable person but her poetry never makes me joyful and it frequently bores me. 
The performance was amazing.  The poet had all this amazing imagery.  I loved his voice, which sounded so ordinary but powerful.  I'm still not sure how he managed to do this, because usually when poets read they have their "serious poet reading serious poetry that is going to change the world" voice, and he just sounded like a storyteller from a mythical place. 
He told stories in between his poems.  He talked about how his Mom use to run a bookshop, which might be the best Mom job ever.  He would go there every day after school (again, so jealous.)  And that he loves to find new independent bookshops because of that.
He talked about how he read one of his poems once, which had a mermaid tattoo coming to life, and was interpreted to be about crack.  Which is really funny but kind of horrifying.  It sounds like the unnecessary freaking out of my own mother. 
He also talked about how much he worked and traveled and performed his poetry.  He said that if he was a musician he wouldn't have a chance in terms of making it, but that people were willing to shell out money for poetry. 
"Poetry," he said, imitating people.  "Yeah okay?" 
This gives me hope that maybe I could make it has a poet one day.  I always worry that there isn't really a market for poetry, because I swear to God that is the number one article I always read concerning poetry.  "No one reads poetry except poets, and not even them" type of headlines.  But maybe it's not all doom and gloom.  Maybe there are people out there who will listen and read. 
I realized as he began his last poem that I had heard of this guy before.  A while back, Austin showed me a video of this poem being performed, and I was totally stunned to hear it. 
I don't remember how, but occasionally Austin and I would hang out and talk poetry.  He showed me videos of slam poets.  He was always into slam poetry more than I am.  I think slam poets are amazing, but I have no talent for doing what they do.  Austin, however, did. 
Austin eventually left school, for reasons I'm still not sure of.  I was sad to hear he left, because he didn't say goodbye.  And it meant he didn't graduate. 
After the last poem, the poet took questions, and the first person asked:
"What do you dream about?"
"Seriously?" I said.  Mark laughed, but he was misinterpreting my words.  As crazy as that question was, it wasn't really that I was having trouble with: it was the voice. 
It was Austin's. 
As the poet answered (which was not terribly impressive.  I think he might have said something about fishermen), I scanned the crowd.  Austin was on the other side of the room.  It was too dark to see clearly, but I thought I could make him out.  He seemed to be wearing the same long black coat that he had always favored in the time I knew him and a knit cap, again, that he had always favored. 
No way, I thought. 
There were other questions, mostly about what the poet read and symbolism.  After he stopped answering questions, he sold and signed books and gave people hugs.  He came over to the side of the room Mark and I were sitting at and we sat there and talked.  Stephanie came over to tell us that she was taking all of us out for a late night snack. 
"Why not drinks?" I asked. 
"Not everyone can drink," she reminded me.  Oh yeah.  I forgot that she had interns to watch over, who were fairly young. 
Mark and I sat there waiting, and eventually I saw Austin.  One of us hailed the other, I don't remember. 
Austin came out saying right away that he was getting along again with a particular professor I knew.  I was sort of surprised because that was so not the first thing I was concerned about.  I mean, not that I don't want Austin to be picking fights or anything, but what I wanted to know was what he had been doing.