Since leaving home
is not the answer
unless the question is,
“Where did home go?” I’ve let

long nights of neon and
scrambled porn substitute for
a full life. I scream
at the window shades, then

I stick a knife into the couch pillows
in the spare room,
hoping one of them will bleed.
Anything to liven things up.

Yes, I’m drunk again. Yes,
I’m thinking again about which celebrities
I would hump, given the chance. Yes,
I am thinking of you again — unremarkable

you, unfamous you, you with the open
life and the minivan fantasies.
I want to spell you on a white page
until you come true again, until you

step into the room and offer me sheetcake,
ruby-faced dolls, the right to turn the
TV off forever. I cut myself and drop the red knife —
it’s nothing serious. Nothing I wouldn’t have lost anyway.

Close and lock the doors. Leave my shoes
by the stairs. Let the cats up from the basement,
watch them mouse about looking for you, poking at the blood,
looking at me for food, shelter, reassurance.

Offically, now, I’m at 200 MG Lamictal daily.

Which makes 750mg Lithium, 10mg Prozac, 25-50mg Seroquel, and 200mg Lamictal every day.

Let the games begin.

With dosages like this, maybe I should be in a group home. Better ask my dentist about that.

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

Skipped Zork at the Asylum tonight. Maybe I should regret it. I don’t think so.

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

I’ll be in DC to feature on Dec. 12, if any of y’all care to drop by.

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

More tomorrow. Poem in progress, and it’s calling.

I went to the dentist today to have a minor crack fixed in a tooth.

Last time I was there, the hygienist took a lot of notes about my current condition, and we talked about some of the ramifications of the meds I take for my mental health on my dental health (dry mouth, etc.). Very helpful, quite appropriate. I really like my hygienist — and my dentist, too, I should mention.

He came into the room today, we shook hands…and he asked me where I was living these days. As I haven’t moved in a while, I was a bit puzzled.

Then he asked me if I was living in a group home.

Ah, the stigmas of mental illness…

I was gentle with him, as he was about to drill into my face.

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

John Powers gets married tomorrow!!!! Off to the wedding early, back late. Might take the camera…

__________________________________________________________________

Finally, here’s a rewrite of the last poem, which I really like; not at all like the recent poems, but I am definitely hearing it in performance right now.

Thanks for the feedback, dead_kitty.

THE LAST WORD

They are now filtering LJ at work.

This bites…but I promise a post every night from now on, to make up for it.

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

Was in a foul mood today. Expect it to continue.

Come to SPEAK anyway tomorrow night.

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

I need to do something to escape myself…break free of thought and ambitions for stability just long enough to sort myself out.

I no longer trust the desire for sanity; I think it’s a red herring for me. I’ll settle for colorful lunacy.

is that she’s one of a few people who seem to have taken what’s become known as the “slam Voice” and gone elsewhere with it than it usually ends up.

Of course, it’s not the only thing she does; but it’s the most remarkable thing. And it may be a harbinger of what really good poets may be able to do even within the bounds of the genre we’ve created.

is that she’s one of a few people who seem to have taken what’s become known as the “slam Voice” and gone elsewhere with it than it usually ends up.

Of course, it’s not the only thing she does; but it’s the most remarkable thing. And it may be a harbinger of what really good poets may be able to do even within the bounds of the genre we’ve created.

is up. I posted it earlier today, but was unable to approve it (weird stuff with the admin function).

Thanks, John…

All about Def Jam

Swiped from buscemi.

http://www.logicalcreativity.com/jon/plush/01.html

Recent comments on here have indicated that there’s a perception that the world of spoken word has shifted dramatically toward reinforcing performance over writing as a poet’s first priority.

I agree.

I also agree that the average open mike has become a scene of public masturbation — plenty of people pleasing themselves in public with very little attention to the idea of what might please another.

Who are we to judge this?

We’re the folks who did this before doing this was just another moderately successful pop-culture trend.

I’m not sure that qualifies us for understanding where this scene has gone.

I’m not sure I belong here anymore.

The problem is, I don’t belong anywhere else just yet.

We are responsible for creating the next place — the place where the masturbators go to please others, or get kicked to the curb.

By the way: none of the masturbators know they are doing that. They think they’re pleasing us.

Just like sex, if we don’t tell them otherwise when it’s happening…

Recently someone here said (I truly don’t recall who) that no one should ever get a 2.7 for a score on a poem.

Bullshit. If I had my way, there would be a lot more 2.7s at slams.

Time for folks to wake up. The average slammer (open miker, academic, beat wanna be, etc., etc., etc…)

SUCKS OUT LOUD.

We need to change that if we dislike it. And part of that means telling folks they suck if they do. (In a loving and constructive way, of course.)

Recent comments on here have indicated that there’s a perception that the world of spoken word has shifted dramatically toward reinforcing performance over writing as a poet’s first priority.

I agree.

I also agree that the average open mike has become a scene of public masturbation — plenty of people pleasing themselves in public with very little attention to the idea of what might please another.

Who are we to judge this?

We’re the folks who did this before doing this was just another moderately successful pop-culture trend.

I’m not sure that qualifies us for understanding where this scene has gone.

I’m not sure I belong here anymore.

The problem is, I don’t belong anywhere else just yet.

We are responsible for creating the next place — the place where the masturbators go to please others, or get kicked to the curb.

By the way: none of the masturbators know they are doing that. They think they’re pleasing us.

Just like sex, if we don’t tell them otherwise when it’s happening…

Recently someone here said (I truly don’t recall who) that no one should ever get a 2.7 for a score on a poem.

Bullshit. If I had my way, there would be a lot more 2.7s at slams.

Time for folks to wake up. The average slammer (open miker, academic, beat wanna be, etc., etc., etc…)

SUCKS OUT LOUD.

We need to change that if we dislike it. And part of that means telling folks they suck if they do. (In a loving and constructive way, of course.)

is how after I write a poem about how much the poetry reading at the Asylum means to me, several people associated with the scene have posted something in the last couple of days about wanting to avoid a poetry reading at all costs.

I don’t think it’s cause and effect. I certainly understand a desire to avoid drama and pain; we all do.

I just can’t live without a dose now and again — more often than not; the recent issues with my health and Annie’s health that have kept me away from Sunday nights have been quite painful to me.

I miss you, regular Asylum nights; miss you all, miss the expensive coffee and the dingy walls, the furniture, the impossibly high ceilings, the weird sightlines, the once-upon-a-time ridiculous sound system that too frequently made going off mike a necessity, not an adaptation (this has changed, but I still miss the intimacy).

I miss what was. I miss what will not be again — the sense of excitement walking in, wondering what new things were in store.

I’m jaded now; been to too many readings in too many towns, read on too many stages to ever feel that excited again.

I’ve become a serious poet at the cost of my excitement at poetry.

Most of all, I miss you; the person who changed me, who made me excited as you changed yourself, who laughed or cried at the right moment.

I never recall your name, but you were there too…that was you, that night; the poet whose words I will forget the minute I die.

I’ll be back soon, I promise.

is how after I write a poem about how much the poetry reading at the Asylum means to me, several people associated with the scene have posted something in the last couple of days about wanting to avoid a poetry reading at all costs.

I don’t think it’s cause and effect. I certainly understand a desire to avoid drama and pain; we all do.

I just can’t live without a dose now and again — more often than not; the recent issues with my health and Annie’s health that have kept me away from Sunday nights have been quite painful to me.

I miss you, regular Asylum nights; miss you all, miss the expensive coffee and the dingy walls, the furniture, the impossibly high ceilings, the weird sightlines, the once-upon-a-time ridiculous sound system that too frequently made going off mike a necessity, not an adaptation (this has changed, but I still miss the intimacy).

I miss what was. I miss what will not be again — the sense of excitement walking in, wondering what new things were in store.

I’m jaded now; been to too many readings in too many towns, read on too many stages to ever feel that excited again.

I’ve become a serious poet at the cost of my excitement at poetry.

Most of all, I miss you; the person who changed me, who made me excited as you changed yourself, who laughed or cried at the right moment.

I never recall your name, but you were there too…that was you, that night; the poet whose words I will forget the minute I die.

I’ll be back soon, I promise.

There is something pressing
I want to say about me,
or to me —
really, more to myself,
but it feels as if I no longer recall
what language
I speak.

Right now in fact
I can’t even think of a word longer than
two — what do you call them? parts?
sounds?
Two of those.

I hope when I do think
of what it is
I was going to say
that it is simple enough
for me to say it.

I could not stand it
if it was so
hard to say
that I might die before
I get it out of my mouth.

If it is worth saying,
let me say it in time
to save myself the trouble
of finding someone
to tell me lies
and convince me that
their lies are truth,
they are my truth,
that there is only one truth
for all of us.

It is said that saying things
doesn’t make them so,
but I have not
spoken yet — so
how can I
be sure?

There is something pressing
I want to say about me,
or to me —
really, more to myself,
but it feels as if I no longer recall
what language
I speak.

Right now in fact
I can’t even think of a word longer than
two — what do you call them? parts?
sounds?
Two of those.

I hope when I do think
of what it is
I was going to say
that it is simple enough
for me to say it.

I could not stand it
if it was so
hard to say
that I might die before
I get it out of my mouth.

If it is worth saying,
let me say it in time
to save myself the trouble
of finding someone
to tell me lies
and convince me that
their lies are truth,
they are my truth,
that there is only one truth
for all of us.

It is said that saying things
doesn’t make them so,
but I have not
spoken yet — so
how can I
be sure?

Zero Point Zero this week is about poetry and identity politics. I was writing the column before our recent debate, played with it a bit as a result. Thank you.

Have at it. It’s right here.