In other news, the “orgasm” quiz suggested that Jim Morrison would give me an orgasm with a vibrator, and that it would be very good.

Considering how much I loathe Jim Morrison, this would seem to be inaccurate, to say the least.

Becky Henderson — AKA newpoetik.

She’s — wait for it — 30 today.

Happy Birthday to you, Ms. Henderson!

Know what song is really, really good?

“Rocky Mountain High,” by John Denver.

EMPTY BED

sometimes the bed
is bigger than I can stand

I’ve spilled a cup of stains
a day over these sheets

I want to ask a question of the empty room
but it talks so loudly I can’t get a word in

so instead I’ve chewed the pillows
until I’m dried spitless and mute

I wake up at all hours with the same thought each time —
dream is one letter away from dread

write it all down, the therapist says
but even then I can’t keep it down

the bed gets bigger every day
its oak bones growing long after death

a dead man’s hair and nails
sleepwalk on beyond him

I scratch my face, tear out my hair
and never awaken at all

EMPTY BED

sometimes the bed
is bigger than I can stand

I’ve spilled a cup of stains
a day over these sheets

I want to ask a question of the empty room
but it talks so loudly I can’t get a word in

so instead I’ve chewed the pillows
until I’m dried spitless and mute

I wake up at all hours with the same thought each time —
dream is one letter away from dread

write it all down, the therapist says
but even then I can’t keep it down

the bed gets bigger every day
its oak bones growing long after death

a dead man’s hair and nails
sleepwalk on beyond him

I scratch my face, tear out my hair
and never awaken at all

sometimes the bed
is bigger than I can stand

I’ve spilled a cup of stains
a day over these sheets

I want to ask a question of the empty room
but it talks so loudly I can’t get a word in

so instead I’ve chewed the pillows
until I’m dried spitless and mute

I wake up at all hours with the same thought each time —
dream is one letter away from dread

write it all down, the therapist says
but even then I can’t keep it down

the bed gets bigger every day as if
oak could still grow after death

when I thought nothing could

Ain’t working tonight…I’m up again, dear lord…

Got the local “hahd rawk station” on for shits and giggles. This popped out.

CLASSIC ROCK POEM

This
Classic rock poem was written in
A suburb
Safely tucked away from the edge
Of the city of the damned

With its grey hair all once sexy still askew
It speaks of wannabe memories of same old
Used to be’s and
Shoulda beens

This classic rock poem
Owns more clothes than I do
Drinks cancer like cold water
And won’t admit to aging anymore than
Complacency

This classic rock poem
Eats a Jaguar for breakfast and wears
A safety pin on its sleeve in a half assed sort of
Exploited way

This classic rock poem
Wants you to take it home and put on
A kettle full of Scotch
Soothe its motel tan with shredded ticket stubs
Listen to every goddamn thing it’s ever said while
Pretending not to notice it’s bogarting your last joint

This classic rock poem is completely
Together
It’s got everything
From gymnofinger ragged ass string twisting runs
To a whole lotta portent
It sees a woman over there and wants to
Call her a girl

This classic rock poem loves you
This classic rock poem needs you
This classic rock poem is sure you’ll sleep with it
Just because you always do

This classic rock poem is such a classic rocker
It doesn’t even bother
To rock

MASSACHUSETTS COYOTE

Ten o’clock. I drag the last of the trash

from the basement, stuff it all into the rolling barrel,
pull everything out to the curb. Walking back
I spot yellow eyes over by the shed. I think it’s a
dog, but instead, it’s a coyote, all alone,

wary but unafraid, staring me down. In the dark
I can just see the smoke-smudged smears
down his flanks.
I turn my back and head inside;

it’s just not that unusual anymore. Thirty years ago,
it would have been unheard of — coyotes
were a Western thing, almost mythic. Twenty years ago
we started to see them, cat-eaters, survivors,

exotic reminders of something we’d forgotten.
Now they’re just part of the fabric,
and the night that goes by without
a single yip is worthy of remark.

The news is on in the living room. Someone’s
dead, someone’s dying,
someone’s angry, afraid,
sick, distressed, starving, poison is everywhere;

it’s all going to hell and there’s nothing
to be done. I sit back in the big chair
and listen hard to the night: hoping the coyote
has something to say. After all,

they came
all this way
from out west
for something.

In thinking about this subject for the umpteenth time, I’ve decided to issue this official warning to all who read or hear my poetry:

I make some of it up.

I try to use my imagination, my knowledge, and my skill to create believable worlds with strong imagery and good use of sound dynamics.

Sometimes I write directly about my own experience, sometimes I take the voice of someone else in an experience I’ve been involved in, sometimes I change facts to make a better poem, sometimes I make the whole damn thing up.

Regardless of the facts given in the piece, I trust that my underlying intent — to express some human truth or bit of observation, maybe even offer some insight — carries me through.

The difference is this: I admit it when I do this. So if I tell you a poem is a true story, it’s a true story.

If I don’t, assume NOTHING — the voice of the poem is frequently not the voice of the poet.

At least, not in my case.

If your heart moves too fast
for your self to keep up, your self
may be scared and fall farther
behind for a time.

This doesn’t mean
that your heart
was on the wrong path. It may mean
your heart is fleeter, stronger,

than you want to admit.
And look at all the people
cheering you on! There are races
that end, races that don’t,

races you can only win if you
follow the leader,
trusting (as we do) that you’ll catch up
some day.

Now then — cut it out. I think you’re allowed some personal venting. We’ll let it go this time, but if it happens again…

we’ll be right here.

What if, instead of starting our own organization, we built a union within PSI — a voting bloc, a pressure group, call it what you will, that could simultaneously work on improving the quality of the poetry and shifting the emphasis from NPS as an end result to NPS as a process for delivery of the poetry?

I’m not really sure what I am driving at here. I’m not good with details this late at night — or during the day, for that matter. I’m a better big picture guy.

What I am trying to suggest is that those looking for change organize as a group first, then take the necessary steps — if that’s a new organization, fine; if it’s a revamped PSI, fine too.

After all — it’s a hell of a lot more fun to take over an existing organization than build a new one.

and there’s no reason to assume it’s not…

we ought to either trash it, trash PSI, or get serious about reform.

A little revolt by some established venues might help.

Goddamnit, when will people grow a spine and realize not being a certified slam venue is not the end of poetry as we know it?

first day on the new drug —
sucked.

i was agitated all day and i’m completely demoralized.

i know i have to give it time — but the additional side effects i felt today were barely tolerable.

at times it was all i could do to keep from screaming and running away.

it had better get better, and soon.

The new daily medication load is:

750 mg of Lithium
40 mg of Prozac
50 mg of Seroquel
25 mg of Lamictal, going up to 50 mg in two weeks

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Lamictal has some minor side effects — mild headaches, a tendency to produce mild mania — and one rare but potentially fatal side effect: Stevens-Johnson syndrome, in which the first layer of your skin detaches from your body. Kinda like a massive, 100% coverage 3rd degree burn, with similar consequences, i.e., permanent scarring or death, whichever comes first.

It’s really rare, but that’s why you build up to it to ensure it won’t happen.

On the other hand, it’s allegedly a wonder drug, and the first thing they’ve got that does a good job with my bipolar II pattern of being more down than up. Lithium actually isn’t as useful for that, but it’s a decent mood leveler.

The eventual plan: reduced Lithium and whatever the working dose of Lamictal turns out to be for me; no more Prozac or Seroquel.

Unless, of course, I die first.

_____________________________________________________________________

We have HBO on Demand now, which means I finally got to watch Def Poetry Jam for this week.

Go Dawn! You were lovely and sensational. Go Morris! Laughed my ass off, and I knew the piece. Go Bassey, KRS-One, Kelly Tsai!

I think this one was pretty good.

______________________________________________________________________

I am feeling better, if a bit drained right now. I start the new drug in the AM. We’ll see.

I’m such a skeptic. I’m so sure I’m doomed.

I had a bit of a meltdown last night.

Sorry to those of you who read it. It’s been deleted.

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

The news from NPS is ugly. And there’s no joy for me in hearing it.

Maybe it’s time we stopped fucking around and took care of some of this shit.

If it looks like things might be changing, I’ll come back in.

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

Does anybody know anything about dealing with people? Some good, simple rules to make it easier?

I recently seem to have forgotten everything I ever knew.