Back in another life, I was living in the UK, where I was up to my upper lip in spoken word. Mostly I was involved in organizing "Live Lit" nights, though I did regularly read some original prose writing. At one point, I was invited to fill in for performance art legend Ed Barton on an Arts Council-funded tour to Gateshead, Cardiff and London with a bunch of wack-ed out musicians. One singer-songwriter performed clothed only hand-carved wooden underpants; another performed in droog-like white suits and masks, and the singer for headline act, Lord Mongo, wore a four-foot fake horse cock that would spray drinkable yogurt during the set's, errr, climax.

Then there was me, hamming up the whole "American Dave" shtick.

Meow Wolf has offered me the opportunity to read some of my old stuff this Sunday. I'll be warming up the crowd before the Berkeley-based poetics troupe We are the Unreal (pictured). I can't promise I'll impress you. The Brits seemed to like it, but then again, a little contrived American charm goes along way across the pond.

The show starts at 7pm, ends at 10pm and there should be two other local acts. Meow Wolf's asking for a $5 donation at the door, but no one will be turned away for being broke.

P.S. The Meow Wolf site describes the night as slam--I have been assured it is not, thank god.