The Tango Vals Poetry of Tete Pedro Rusconi, or, If You Can't Tango, You Can Always IDanceTango.com

Saturday, 5:30 p.m.

Listening for music, I walk across Cheeseman Park to the pavilion.

A Tango Coloradoan has organized an unorganized, unofficial, spur-of-the-moment weekly milonga there.

There is no music today. Lots of people dotting the steps and the patio between pavilion and fountain, but no music.

Instead, there seems to be shouting.

???

Tango Colorado is a contentious bunch on the listserv, but we keep it civil in person.

The sign explains it: Denver Poetry Day. This is a reading. Poets with mikes.

The man who is haranguing the crowd looks familiar. He reads downstairs at the Merc on Friday nights, at the same time the milonga is going on in the ballroom upstairs.

I recognize him because, when I need a break from the milonga, I slip down the stairs and sneak into the poetry reading.

Once, a woman read a beautiful poem about vines. She prefaced it by saying that after a long struggle she had come to terms with aging. She was 26.

Another time, I arrived just in time to hear a blind woman at the podium shout the f-word over and over to much applause. I assume that was her punch line. I sure hope so.

Most Fridays you'll find this guy who is now yelling at the mike. He hates the government, he hates his life. I imagine he hates the bourgeoisie who while away their lives dancing while the world goes down in flames. He would like us to do something while he goes back to his desk and his coffee and scribbles more thoughts to yell at the mike.

I don't mock all lousy poets, just the arrogant ones. As arrogant as they are, I can match it. After all, there is something important at stake here, something as important as the world going down in flames: the degradation of art.

Poetry is about the tension between clarity and ambiguity. The poet can say nothing directly but must imply everything through imagery or indirection. The poet's intent must be clear and yet open to interpretation.

A poem is an invitation. The poet choreographs it, then invites the reader to coax out the meaning. Great poets give the readers plenty of room to play; great poems are unfinished until the reader completes them.

Yes, it is tango.

This guy yelling at the mike mistakes vehemence for meaning. His poetry is akin to a dance I once had with a guy I call Mean Mike II.

But I digress.

The harangue is not nearly over. These poets are not budging. It is nearly 6 p.m. The spur-of-the-moment milonga is off. I saunter back to my apartment.

It is too hot to stay outside, and inside there is nothing to do but look at the big box of folders I have brought home from work. It is too hot to play in the kitchen, too late to take a nap. Disappointment is making me restless. Cranky. I need a touch of tango. There is nothing to do here … nothing to do …

… but check out the video of the day at IDanceTango.com. Tete Pedro Rusconi, poet of the dance floor.

Ahhh.