Feature update!!!!!

Tonight — I’m at the Worcester Youth Slam, at Green Hill Park (if it ain’t rainin’) or the Worcester Artists’ Group (if it is). 7ish.

Next Tuesday — very exciting, a little unnerving.

Peaceful Tomorrows is a group of Sept. 11 family members devoted to non-violent solutions to world issues. As part of a demonstration, they have a 1400 lb. stone block called “the Tomb of the Unknown Civilian” that they had on display at the DNC this week; they will be dragging it by hand on a cart to NYC for the RNC next month. They are stopping over in Uxbridge on Tuesday night for a public event — speakers, songs, and a poet — me. Free. At the Court Street Gallery.

Next Wednesday: Cantab — the return. It’s been a couple of years since my last Cantab gig, so this should be fun. My boss and coworkers are coming — come embarrass me!!! 8 till whenever.

Who says all the poets will be in St. Louis?

Here’s the first draft, with huge kudos to ablueeyedboy for providing the catalyst for this piece.

The story he posted about his friend dealing with racist remarks was a key in helping me think about my own experiences of hearing racist remarks about my own background, and thinking through the whole “what do I do now?” decision tree.

Still a first draft — missing the “monk” reference, which may or may not materialize here. And it’s in my usual first draft style of limited punctuation, which will change in the alter drafts for sure.

Thanks, Liam …couldna done it without you…

Casual

with your vinegar-gleam hair

tucked back
behind your ears
with your careful pose and your
neutrality you’ve gone
far
but now
oh now
your face goes to war
with your faith in your makeover

one small tic
of the lip betrays you
as small talk turns
to easy categories and comforting
lies about

those people

you are
one of those people
but that’s been
hidden from these people –

take a step back and dive away for a moment
from the safety
of being inside —

do you make it public?
do you embarrass your lover?
do you play the combat dog?
do you tear the dream from the mouths of babes?

or do you
take another drink
and bite down

hard?

Memory lapses on important details I should not forget.

Not receiving return e-mails about stuff that you thought was crucial.

The feeling I get when I contemplate the possibilities inherent in the word “incurable”.

Fear of losing my mind.

Fear of losing myself.

Fear of fear: the sense that I am ruled in so many ways by fear.

The fact that I do not dream. That my dreams seem inaccessible to me.

Self-pity, and the vicious circle that creates it and sustains it.

My self-image.

My lack of conviction.

This morning, driving in, listening to the Pogues’ “Hell’s Ditch” for the first time in a long while, I misheard a line in a song I once knew well. I thought it said someone had “vinegar hair.”

Vinegar hair.

What would vinegar hair look like? taste like? Under what circumstances would you describe someone as having vinegar hair? Is it necessary to know that before you do describe someone that way?

It’s going in the poem.

I’m off to doctor’s appointments, hope to c’mon back with a first draft before SPEAK… tonight.

I’d love to read it there. Theme is “flight”, by the way.

T

This shows up in just_jeff‘s comments for his assignment to write an unrhymed sonnet. Try it, if you haven’t!

FISH AND CHIPS

The smell of the place was with me before
I ever set eyes on it. “Ron’s Clam Shack,”
read the blistered sign; cars filled the cracked lot,
the line coiled around the yellow porchfront
and stopped under an old oak. I parked, joined
the crowd waiting for clam strips and bellies.
Then I saw you, with your toddler in tow,
walking back to the minivan as you
laughed and licked a softserve cone. Your husband
got out to kiss you. You never saw me.
You got in, you drove off. I closed my eyes:
they’d betrayed me again. I do better
when I don’t trust them. I followed my nose,
got fish and chips, and cried all the way home.

Random writing engendered by the line.

Drove in from my satellite office in Westboro to the home office, depressed, numb, blasting myself out of the depression with Metallica’s “Garage, Inc.” album; blasting their cover of Queen’s “Stone Cold Crazy;” sitting in the parking lot staring at the rich folks’ cars.

I pull my badge from above the visor, and head in to work.

I don’t suspect much of this will make it through to the poem. The monk may stick around for a draft or two. You always start somewhere.

I tend to be far less autobiographical than some poets, although there’s always a bit of factual truth in there, usually heavily disguised; it would be a mistake to assume that my poems tell you anything about my life beyond my dreams, my enthusiasms, my fears.

Which of course is everything truly important. Just don’t assume I actually listen to Metallica, ok?

Except, of course, when I do.

When your face is at war with your faith

This has been sitting in the brain pan for a couple of days now…and I don’t know where to start talking about it.

Free association has included everything from the Crusades to Nip/Tuck, which I’ve never seen.

A straight interpretation leads me obviously down the path of someone trying to hide something about themselves and failing to do so.

A more oblique possibility includes folks who don’t appear to be something they actually are — at least, to the uninformed eye; I’m thinking blond haired, blue-eyed Muslims, for instance. Some startling possibilities offer themselves in that case — a poem about racism revealed, or prejudice found in an unexpected place.

If I go that route, the line will likely be catalyst only, then disappear.

I think this is really about how to decide among these possibilities. I’ve never believed in writer’s block, just in periods where the path seems narrower.

And the truth is, talent is not about the craft piece; not really. Craft can be learned to a great extent. Talent, in any art form, is the test of what choices you make as to where you put your technique.

The oblique possibilities are more challenging here than the obvious one. But the true test, of course, is to see if I can make it do double duty; can I bring both threads together in one poem? Hmmmm…

will be a departure from the slam-politics commentary of the last few weeks. Wanna give the folks going to Nats something to think about…poetically, that is.

I’m thinking of actually dissecting the process of how a line leads to a poem, using an actual line I’ve got kicking around right now — talking about how the line may be the first or the last, may be the third or the twenty fifth, may even disappear entirely by the end of the process, but how it poses itself as a starting block from which to leap into the poem.

Rather than dissect an older poem, I’m going to do it with an entirely new one — constructing a meta-poem while the poem is being created; this way, I have no “killing the goose that laid the golden egg” stigma or trauma to deal with, because I will have no real attachment to the poem.

My question is: is this something people will read, or just a giant jerk-off? And: if I go through the motions here on LJ this week, will you jump in and comment, knowing that I may end up bringing your thoughts into the column (with attribution at the end, of course)?

Hm?

Well, do you…PUNK?

Which cult classic badass are you? by rook901
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In other news, the McKibbens juggernaut was EASILY the best thing about Def Poetry tonight.

Tuesday: fly to Cleveland. Eat dinner, prep for class, sleep.

Wednesday: Run training class. Eat dinner, catch up on e-mail, meet old friend for a drink, sleep.

Thursday: Run training class. Get on plane, sit on tarmac for two hours with weather delay, get home, drive home, watch Aqua Teen Hunger Force, sleep.

Friday: Take Anne to hospital for tests, which went fine (still waiting for biopsy results, but not worried as the gastroscopy ruled out anything major — biopsy was just a formality). Ship guitar to Erie, PA.

Saturday: Depressed all day. Went to anselm23‘s birthday party. Read poem. Got hugged. Went home. Will sleep now.

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

I have something really profound to say here about the nature of poetry and its relationship to sound, based on recent reading and thinking; but I can’t recall what it is.

This is the story of my life. When I was about 16, I had a really profound insight into the nature of existence, based on staring at moonlight on ceiling tiles in my room; I fell asleep and lost it forever.

Half of life, I think, is attempted recovery of the forgotten things we once thought profound. The other half is attempted release of bullshit thoughts that aren’t at all profound; somewhere in there is the attempt to sort among the bullshit for the profound thoughts.

Doesn’t leave much time for sex. Or happiness, for that matter.

_____________________________________________________________________

There is no time to say everything that needs saying. There is not enough breath saved for it. Life is a giant scam we’re trying to outwit.

Fold.

______________________________________________________________________

Cleveland was actually ok…

More later — huge headache. Not sure why.

I’m going to take a few days off from here.

As I’ll be in Cleveland for a few days anyway, and will have no computer access, I think I won’t go out of my mind trying to find some.

I need to write, to calm down, and to get my hands around the shit in my head. As “functional” as I appear right now, it’s a sham; the masked normalcy of a sick man.

I’m uncomfortably numb, I guess.

So it’s good bye for now, and I will see you on the other side of the week.

Passed out with a headache and woke to discover it was WAY too late to get to the Hut tonight.

My apologies, sapienza. Hope you kicked ass.

Ditto for Buddy Ray.

I did wake up in time to watch the season premiere of Def Poetry Jam.

Eh.

1. The guitar sold for 338.33. Not bad…

2. javabill has an open letter to the slam family up on his LJ — I think it would behoove slammers to check out. It’s being crossposted everywhere — the slam list, SM list, the various forums, gotpoetry.com, etc. — so if you’ve run across it in one of those places, you can disregard this notice.

Tonight at the Hut: Sarah Sapienza and Ray MacNiece…

I’m coming out to Cleveland next week on a business trip. Will be training for two days (the 21 and 22), but evenings are free-ish (social fun/poetry good, drunken wasted craziness bad — gotta be fresh really early both days) on the 20th and 21st.

I get in around 8 or so on the 20th, will have some stuff to do when I get in, but from 10 on should be ok; the evening of the 21st is a better bet.

Anyone? What’s cooking out there?