[with apology to the author of the poem satirized herein, a poem that I’m sure is a terrific piece]

Last night was another in what promises to be a long line of memorable nights at the Broken Word. Attendance was down a little from last month’s double digits, probably due to the full moon, and we also lost a lot of people who came on time and couldn’t hang around waiting for the show to start. Who do they think they are? Can’t help but wonder what they have to do that’s more important than poetry.

But this was all to the good because it gave me a chance to hang out and sip wine with and get to know the feature, Carmen Cohen, while we waited for the place to fill up.

This may have been an unfortunate misreading of the situation on my part for a couple of reasons, one being that over the next hour more people left than came, although some of them came and left, which means I might have double-counted. The other reason is that one of the things I learned about Carmen is that he’s kind of an ugly drunk. Eventually, though, I got out of the headlock and started the open mike.

We were happy to see Abraham Lincoln back, on furlough from McLean’s. He didn’t have anything new for us because the CIA had stolen all his new poetry and sealed it up in ballot boxes in Florida, so he opened up his anthology and gave a dramatic reading of Vachel Lindsay’s “The Congo,” which had the unfortunate effect of sending the two African-Americans in the audience heading out the door. They took it pretty well; we could hear them laughing out there till they were half a mile down the street. I think they’ll be back.

Monica was next in the open mike and did her thong poem again, with its memorable refrain, “It’s your thong -- Do whatcha gotta do.” She brought down the house. What was left of it.

Normally Carmen Cohen would have gone on at this point, but now we were graced by the arrival of the dynamic Usuk and his entourage. He claimed that I’d asked him to feature, and maybe I did -- since I lost my book last winter, this has been happening to me a lot. Usuk wanted to go on first and I let him because with his entourage, at least now we had some audience.

But the feature he’d planned involved each one of his people getting up first and doing an introductory poem about him, every one of these poems revolving around the repeated chant, “Usuk, Usuk.”

Granted, it was a little long, but it was totally justified by the reading Usuk gave us. He did his Alphabet Suite, in which certain letters of the alphabet are pronounced over and over again in every possible quantity and every tone of Usuk’s marvelous voice. I found the whispered guttural M particularly effective. Usuk told me he considers it his signature letter.

Then, finally, it was time for the feature. What can I say about our feature? Unfazed by the noisy departure of Usuk and his friends, Carmen Cohen gave us an amazing and spectacular show in spite of the handicap of being so drunk by the time he got up there that he didn’t know whether he was Carmen or Cohen. He took us from the sublime to the ridiculous and just kept on going.

Those of you who know Carmen’s work are familiar with his sperm-donor poem, but I promise you, you’ve never seen it performed the way he performed it last night. The crowd howled for him to do it again, and to his credit he did try for a good twenty minutes before finishing with an equally memorable rendering of his signature poem, “Pissing Contest.”

That was a particularly fortuitous choice, since the walls are hung this month with Monica’s art work, which consists of realistic renderings of great men of history being pissed on by a giant squatting woman using her middle finger to pull aside her thong. I particularly liked the whimsicality of the Gene Kelly piece, but Monica wonders if the umbrella doesn’t undercut the whole motif; she likes her Noah better.

Then it was time for the slam. We only had two slammers this week, Abraham and Monica, and I had to judge, which I know a host should never do, but there was nobody else left, Carmen having passed out right after his set.

In order not to be partial, I just randomly recycled last month’s scores, and Abraham, with “I Freed the Fucking Slaves,” edged out Monica’s “I’m a Slut” for the prize. All I had for a prize this month was a poetry anthology that somebody left in the men’s room. Abraham was really pleased to go home with it, the CIA having stolen his. Monica went home with Carmen. Only the host went home alone and empty-handed, after mopping up.

The Broken Word meets the fifth Thursday of every month that has five Thursdays in the basement of the Breaking Wind Tavern sometime after eight o’clock. Open mike, at least one feature, and slam, $2 at the door (when we get the door fixed). Next month’s feature will be Jack McCarthy, “a Boston-area working guy who, in his declining years, has taken to fancying himself a poet. He isn’t hurting anybody.”

I can’t wait!!!!

Jack McCarthy

Jack McCarthy has been called Boston’s Best Standup Poet by The Boston Phoenix and Best Love Poet in the Boston Poetry Awards. In his declining years he’s been a semi-finalist at the 2000 National Poetry Slam and appeared in the film Slamnation.