Probably the most important person to have ever applauded a performance by Marc Smith was Ralph Cintron, a professor of anthropology at UIC. He did so at my first premeditated step up onto the stage. Well, it wasn't a stage. It was an open space between the aisles of the Left Bank Book Store in Oak Park, Illinois. After months of scoping out Chicago's spoken word scene (and being bored to death by most of it), I had decided that it was time to break out of the closet and give it a go.

The occasion was an open poetry reading sponsored by the Erie Street Press; a typical affair for those days -- a room full of eager poets over-ready to read their verse to whoever would still be upright when their turn came. It was important to read early.

The list on that night was long. I signed up clandestinely, scribbling my name down somewhere in the middle of the pack. My poems concealed in a newspaper under my arm, I waited to hear my name called, not knowing whether I would have the courage to step forward.

There had been no applause all evening. One by one poets read and left. My heart was pounding. I heard: "Mac? ... Marc? ... Smith?" and responded "Here!" like a grade school twerp answering roll call. "Over here."

"Next up is Marc Smith."

No response. No applause.

No encouragement whatsoever.

The audience was fumbling through their notebooks getting ready for their turns. My head was red. My heart in overdrive. I pulled "The Father..." out from the newspaper and ... BAaBOOM! Every ounce of adrenaline my body had ever produced hit my arteries, popped my veins, sent my arms aflailing into the air as my voice sledgehammered the room.

At "... snake eyes" Ralph Cintron stood up (he was the only one) and applauded furiously. ... Thank God! Thank you God for Ralph Cintron. If it weren't for him I'd still be changing toilets for the merry widows of Berwyn.

a gambling rogation

The Father has faded.

What he waaassssss crapped out.

Now under the alters

The deacons roll the no come line,

Smackin' the cubes against the green cloth rood,

Bettin' that there ain't no salvation.

The Father has faded

And the Player's head has fallen.

The last whispers off his promise-to lips,

The faint vespers in his glory-be eyes,

The could-be points of paradise

As lastly he looked up

Are gone.

The Player's head has fallen.

And the Word is spoken. Knocks on wood.

Let's Evil in through the backdoor

Where Daddy Joe Crow prayin' "Hard four!" "No four!"

Cops the action

In the blue smoke light of a hidden sanctuary.

The Word is spoken,

And while all the neighborhood boys

Are dealin' down their darkness ...

Oblivious to who?

While all the neighborhood boys

Are dealin' down their darkness,

The A Number One Kingpin

Comes hoppin' off a boxcar.

Now, has he come back maybe

Judgement Day

To double-cross the Daddy?

Has he come back snappin'

Like a rooster rappin'

"Find me!

You honey-come-eleven!"

Has he come back blowin'

"Papa knows! Papa knows!

Papa knows

You throw sevens every time!"

Has he come back maybe?

Preacher smiles. Evil grins.

The rack pulls in the dice.

A loaded pair drops.

Now the Kingdom's got to come

On Phoney Bones!

"TOSS THE DICE, DADDY!"

"Father! Father! FATHER!"

You know, we all need somethin'. You know

Half the time we don't know what we're doin'.

You know,

There are a million of us doubtful characters

Drifting in the shadow patched sunlight

of a fragmented sky.

Father! Don't forget us! Don't let us go.

Don't forget ... Joe. "Little Joe.

Little Joe! LITTLE JOE!"

The Word is spoken,

And the Spirit flies.

A long finger comes out of the clouds,

Smoothes an ash into the green felt.

"A miracle!" "The hard way!"

"Double deuce!" cries the Crow

Scratchin' up the dollars,

Stuffin' 'em in his pants.

Then Evil shouts, "Cops at the corner.

Run!"

Fast blades cut the shadows.

Blood pools on the green floor

Lightning! Black alley dust!

Vanishing moon!

Preacher scats in a blues beat rush.

Two, three boxcars roll away in red.

Father hangs in the doorway

and death coughs up his blood.

Quickly, the Preacher grabs a passing ladder

Climbs a few rungs.

Sighs at the engine's tune

hummin'

"Snake eyes snake eyeeeeesssssssss."

The Father has faded