And, god, he’s killing it.
He’s on fire, a mile a minute,
     spitting truths, holding nothing back,
screaming into the microphone
his head at one point whipping back and forth so fast the features on his face form blurred lines of varied thicknesses.

This is what it’s about, what it’s all about, this realness, this heat.

Scanning the room, expecting to see Kim Basinger,
     but no,
          there, huddled into a corner,
               trapped between the stage lights and the bar,
                    sipping a Moscow Mule from a copper cup,
                         glasses obscuring laser-twinkle eyes,
                              sits Liz Lemon, nodding and smiling,
                                   watching with wonder this explosion of sight and sound.

What is she doing here?
     Why is she doing here?
          How is she doing here?

Liz Lemon is a fictional character
     and Alec Baldwin is a real man,
          a real actor,
               a real person
                    in this real world.

Though, it’s understood that perhaps

          Alec Baldwin at the open mic
          is nothing but a real dream
          shown inside a real brain
          sometime during the last real night.