Cornel then whipped out two African Peach incense, lit them, and cued his boy to dim the lights before going into the love poem called "Black Queen," a tribute to Baskin Robbins' new flavor due to be released during Black History Month. Cornbread thought, for a minute, that he was in a Dark & Lovely hair commercial when sistas gave Amen-affirmations to Cornel on the mic. Cornbread half-expected a cream-colored, dreadlocked brother to come from backstage--barefoot in Capoeira pants and a linen shirt, handing out roses to women in the crowd.
Cornbread shook his head. "These people want to be entertained instead of enlightened. They don't appreciate the poets sharing their craft with them nor do the poets appreciate the crowd. Instead they do poems for the cheap applause. Back in the day, a poet had to be on their p's and q's because they could be approached afterwards by someone in the crowd and have their work critiqued on the spot. If they misused a word, someone usually pointed that out while talking to the artist." Gone are the days of honest and constructive criticisms, he thought. "And don't even think of approaching people today because then you're 'hating'" He disliked that whole practice of dismissing criticism: "Oh, you hatin'!"
But this wasn't the worst night at Coco Loco's. No sight of Moans da Poet, who usually walked around, ogling strange women with his lazy eye before trying to grope them. Whenever he was there, he would make sure that he signed the list so he could do his sex poems to get the women in the mood. But it was hard for anyone to grasp what he was trying to say in these pieces. One minute he was talking; the next he was making sonar noises that reminded some folks of the PBS special on mating sea mammals.
"Things really were different nine years ago. Rita Dove was the Poet Laureate of the United States then, which led to the discovery of the Poetry on the Metro Project. It was founded by this lady named Laurie Stroblas, who went around teaching writing workshops in D.C.'s public elementary and middle schools. You gotta get 'em while they're young and the appreciation's still there. I used to love to see the kids faces light up when they saw their poems going to and from school on the public transit system.
''Hey Mister,' one of them would tug on my sleeve. Keisha, I think her name was. 'That's my poem! Look!' I told her, 'Keep doing your thing, sweetie. Don't forget about those that came before you. Read all their work and keep it moving.'"
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