Witch

This is a repost from 2015. … A podcast, read poetry and eventually die, featured a poet named John Mortara. I became interested when the poet was a queer witch, or was it witchy queer. Never mind that the poet writes more about prozac than black magic. Just because poets take prozac, that doesn’t mean that prose writers take poetryzac.
It turns out there was an Atlanta stop on a tour. I drove through Dickhater, past the Donald Trimble Mortuary, until a string of red brick houses appeared. I looked at the mailbox of the first one. The mailbox fell off the pole. That was not the correct house.
I got there twenty minutes early, and drove around the neighborhood until nine pm. In a few minutes, the hostess announced that the event was taking place in the basement. There was a half hour before the event started. Not all poetry events are created equal.
The basement had atmosphere. Literally. At one point, the host announced that cigarette smoking was acceptable inside. Holy 1958. It had been years since people smoked indoors, and here was a crowd of young, young people… one poet read a piece about the one hair on his chest, which he names after either republicans, or democrats, depending on how bad it smells. He read the poem from his phone.
The host and hostess did double duty as the master, and mistress, of ceremonies. They wore bathrobes, that were supposed to be lab coats. They were auditioning people to take on a trip to Mars. There must be a shortage of poets, comedians, and tweeters on the red planet.
For a while they alternated poets and comedians. A lady said she could choose from playing fake blackjack with geriatric queers at the Hideaway, or going to Lithonia to have sex for ten minutes. A man made murder Kroger jokes. I crouched on a wooden shelf thing in the corner of the basement, with an exposed light bulb shining in my face.
After a few performers, there was an intermission. I went back to my vehicle, which was not broken into. I got a baseball cap, to block the light bulb.. At this point the hostess made the glorious announcement that smoking was not allowed in the basement. The air conditioning brought the aroma upstairs. The back yard kudzu approved.
During the intermission, the sound system was tweaked to allow two ladies to perform. The tweaking did not take, and they shouted “stay off my snapchat you piece of shit homie” over the recorded music. For faux microphones, the ladies used a mountain dew bottle, and a comb.
The final performer was John Mortara. (spell check suggestions: Mortal, Mortar) The poet had purple hair, a wool hat, and a sleeveless shirt saying “I am a unicorn.” The first piece was recited from memory, with no need for a microphone. There was a piece about tweets written on prozac … all that twitters is not gold. Soon the show was over. The last line: “Told my dad I’m a fricken witch.” Pictures are from Special Collections and Archives, Georgia State University Library.
UPDATE This comment appeared on facebook. John Mortara “i am frequently misgendered throughout this article and it makes me angry.” An attempt at correcting this has been made. UPDATE TWO Here is the story of what happened later. UPDATE THREE Read Poetry and Eventually Die was hacked by by Mr.dexter.305. This attack from Saudi Arabia. UPDATE 2024 Jamie Mortara, formerly John, is a Data Services Associate at Earthjustice, Oakland CA. The host of the event, Michael Hessel-Mail, is an English Instructor at Southeast Community College, Lincoln NE. On May 6, I was the feature at the Little 5 Poetry Bash.