and don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

I just want to hurt someone when I’m in this mood…

Usually, that means me. But not always.

Went to Bill’s feature at the Hut tonight; got there late and left early. It was good, and his new chapbook is very good.

Could barely speak to anyone, feeling quite anti-social in the most strict sociological sense of the word (read: criminal).

People were kind enough, or my friends were, anyway…I think I was giving off that “edge of the cliff” kind of vibe.

There’s one regular at the Hut I always know I’m one wrong word away from blowing up at. He was there, but he steered clear tonight…it’s not his fault, really; he just embodies things I dislike, and I should be more tolerant of those things. Seriously.

January 16th…the new meds manager appointment. Too much to lay on one day, I know, but hope hangs where it can.

Say it with me, people; say it with me. Hope hangs where it can.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I’m looking back at this, and I don’t like what I see.

I’m gonna chill out on the blogging for a bit. Need to refocus on health.

Hit me via e-mail if it’s critical– please, no calls for those who do call me from time to time.

I will be better. I have to be.

— The Eve: good food at mother-in-law’s place as is traditional.

— The Day : early to rise, drive to the nieces to watch the festivities; then to my folks for unwrapping and food; then, Annie went off to see a recently widowed friend while I made the scene at thisrabbit‘s and Bill’s annual open house, along with aurorabell and Taylor (and the lovely Apollo), ocvictor, myainsel, thephotofairy, mstegosaurus, and a host of the locals. Good food, good times. I actually played guitar and sang in public for strangers! (Sou did too, but she’s good at that). Home early, early to bed.

— Today: down with the beginnings of the flu, which I’m trying to shake and drug off.

Amazing how working on a poem or two helps. I swear it’s my version of religion; this is how I talk my way back to God.

Struck by how, um, CHRISTIAN this stuff is of late –“Frontier”, “Suicide Notes” both have strong Biblical motifs.

And I can’t think of too many poets less Xian than me…just working the myths that I know best, I think.

Thanks for comments. Closer to the meaning I wanted now; still working on the music…

SUICIDE NOTES {take two}

SUICIDE NOTES

the Worcester semi final slam tonight. First one I’ve missed in years.

I wasn’t feeling all that well, but mostly I was bored. I’m bored in general by a lot of things right now. I think I hate poetry and poets a lot…

I did get to sit with Morris, which helped me a bit with maintaining a modicum of interest in things for a while; nonetheless, I am missing something…

I read “The Frontier” tonight, and have been working on it since I got home; the last lines aren’t working at all. The immediate solution is to cut them, but I think it’s too easy that way.

But why bother?

I feel like I can’t read poetry any more the way I have always tried to read it — as if it were the last thing I would ever do, and so needed to be invested in it to that level for the sake of excellence and legacy and passion…Know why?

Because I did it tonight, as I always do; said those words to myself before I started…and all I could think of was, “So what? So what if it is the last thing you’lll ever do? Who here will care? Who will recall that? It’s just another stupid poem by just another stupid poet, just another idiot masturbation.”

We’d be better off as ghosts. We’d haunt people longer.

I copied this from Wanda Coleman’s recent article in the LA Weekly concerning the furor over her criticism of Maya Angelou’s most recent book.

I posted this to the slam list as well…I think it’s a good encapsulation of one of the key issues regarding slam/performance poetry today: the apparent unwillingness to honestly critique each other’s work.

Would love your thoughts…

“ALL LITERARY CRITICISM, AT ROOT, IS BIASED because each reviewer
must bring to the act his or her individual world-view and aesthetic
sensibility.

Each must decide if the social values of a text as a political record
are more important than its literary values…

But fostering an illusion of excellence where none exists, regardless
of the writer or subject matter, is to do a democratic readership the
ultimate disservice.

Saying amen to the going cultural directives, minus a true analysis,
is as morally suspect as any bigoted criticism — whether done out of
guilt, fear, or the desire to compensate the author for the social
ills that shaped his or her existence.”

— Wanda Coleman

============================================================

12:00:

And within minutes, I had been told that my posting this “as a white man” was dangerous because I resembled those white Republicans who claimed to understand how Martin Luther King would react because they’ve taken individual comments out of context.

Y’know, I really ought to let my dad know that I’ve been promoted to “white”.

I just posted a comment to the slam list suggesting that Maya Angelou isn’t a great poet.

I am taking bets on how long it will be before I am called a “hater”.

Who’s in?

Starting a poem
at midnight is
a goddamn awful idea –

sitting straight up in bed
just because a spider crossed
your face
and now
you’re awake

what good is
thinking about writing now
get some sleep

anyway
once you dust off a shit idea for a poem
(and don’t they all seem so good until you
actually
think them through?)
you’ll just head off to bed most nights
anyway

I mean
hell
if you’re smart
you’ll opt for more pocket change
or for getting laid
instead of bending over to kiss that spider
hoping it’s the same fairy tale spider
that miss muffet damn near sat herself
upon

(thinking miss m was a wuss
when it came to
arachnids and
it’s a sin
all that poison going to waste
just because ) but

what the hell
any poem worth writing will cost you
and when all you need to do to pay up
is bend to it
rub your eyes
suck that spider in and let it
roll around on your tongue
then
simple enough
poet
you ought to do that
let the pen flow where it may even if
the words escape like eight legs skittering
like pens on glass where the ink wipes clean
as soon as it leaves the nib

fuck miss muffet and sleep alike
there’s work to be done

Thoughts welcome.

The Frontier