Ain: The Pimp.

Out of nowhere, she goes “I don’t pimp my poetry.” First, I try to see if anyone else shares my reaction. I scan around the table and try to figure out what the other three people at my Soul Café poetry Meetup are thinking.

She continues, “You’ll never see me passing out cards with my stage name on it, or trying to sell CDs, or trying to sell books. I don't even tell people about my blog. I just do it because I love to do it.”

At this point, I’m thinking “STFU, please.”

Wait. Backtrack.

She introduced herself at the beginning of the meeting and said that in her “real life” she works as a [insert well-paying career here]. Now it makes sense. I can respect that. Unfortunately, she made trying to make a living off of your craft something ugly and illicit.

I wanted to respond with something profound, which I ultimately didn’t wind up doing. I simply hold up my book again and say, “Yeah, well I’m trying to make a living off of my work. This is my life and I want to get paid.” (Actors do it. Musicians do it. Visual Artists do it.)

Of course, once I get into my car and drive away after the meeting I begin to think of more clever responses, for example, pointing out that “pimping” implies taking advantage of a situation, and when I’m in a position to take my poetry to the highest level, I’m going to be a pimping mothaf*cka.

It was almost as motivating as it was insulting when she kind of frowned up her face as if she were in a different class of poets from those who push their work for profit. She almost made me forget about Jessica Care Moore, Saul Williams, Poetri and a beautiful cat by the name of Versiz who has a hot double album.

At the end of the meeting, she spit a poem and split.

By the way, buy my book.