I hate mingling

You ever been at a party or social gathering

And think to yourself

“Fuck

Now I have to TALK to people?”

I hate mingling.

Hate the word,

Sounds like second hand rabies.


Hate the act of doing it.

Pretending to be interesting to impress people

I’M NEVER GOING TO SEE AGAIN.

Hate the go to questions.

“What do you do for a living?

Answer: I teach people how to be less shitty human beings using poetry.

“How did you hear about the event?”

Answer: The email subject said free food and alcohol

So I’m here now.”

“Are you from Austin?”


Answer: Trick question.

You are either a gentrified unicorn,

Or you moved here because everywhere else isn’t Austin.

“Have you seen Game of Thrones?”

Answer: I think TV peaked at Boy Meets World

So I no longer watch it.

I do however love anime,

Have YOU seen My Hero Academia?

As you may have guessed

I’m not exactly a hit at parties.

Partially because I’m awkward as fuck

But primarily because I’ve spent the last five years

Squeezing the realest pieces of my existing

Into the bleeding ink

I use it to tell stories that would laugh at pleasantries.

That build lasting through vulnerability.

So when you ask me at a party

“how has YOUR week been?”

I want to ask

If you’ve ever tried to dig a hole in stubborn ground?

In dirt that speaks drought fluently.

That’s bared the sun's heat so frequently

It would scoff at a bricks rigidity,

Laugh at a steel beams flexibility.

And even after you’re drenched in sweat

Banging your shovel against this unyielding surface,

Again and again,

You’re still measuring your progress

In millimeters instead of miles.

That’s how my week’s been.

An exercise in the futility of the human condition.

But that shit isn’t cool at parties.

So instead I say “fine.”

I say “okay.”

I say “alright.”

Then quickly deflect the ball back to your side of the court,

So I can stop actually deflecting.

Or

If I think you may be kindred spirit

I say “hard,

But I’ll manage.”

And wait to see if you’ll take the olive branch.

The treaty that both sides

Will stop pretending we weren’t human this week.

And I GET it.

You’re just making conversation.

While I’m making excuses to not be honest.

But I hate this shit.

Because five years ago I performed a poem

On a stage in front of strangers

And after,

One stranger painted a picture

Of how their story and mine were made from the same water colors.

We talked of gray days

And charcoal comments.

Of dark blue despairs

And golden moments

That made us appreciate the palette we’d been given to create with.

We left that conversation two fractured people

Made whole in a learned kinship

That rarely ever happens over

“how’s your day going”

Conversations.

We need connections with other human beings

To feel anything resembling happy.

Hope.

Whole.

And these authentic interconnections never happen

Over scripted exchanges.

So if you see me at a party or social gathering

Do me a solid.

Don’t ask me how my week’s been.

Chances are my depression

Or anxiety

Or fear of inadequacy

Kicked my ass this week.

Instead.

Greet me with a story.

One that speaks of needing to feel seen,

To feel more than bystander.

Than under appreciated wall flower.

Watch as I see you.

The you you lock away behind cubicles

And classrooms

And societal norms.

I hate mingling,

But I love when two strangers recognize their connected existing.

That this jigsaw puzzle we call life

Is rarely pieced together exchanging pleasantries.

So tell me about your shit day,

Or week,

Or 2020,

And I’ll share my weird fascination with Japanese cartoons,

Or whatever childhood scars I discovered in therapy this week.

We can skip the small talk

And just be real.