Blizzard conditions.

18-26 inches.

Fucking cold.

Fucking windy.

Fucking fuck.

On the Junction Street sidewalk
a body is almost ready to be taken away.
Daylight’s not being kind to him.
The flies touch and go in rising numbers.

The stain on the sidewalk looks like an umbrella,
but that won’t keep the rain from washing it off.
Someday, maybe, but not today.

The tense cops wait for the technicians to finish.

Two kids in the watching crowd
push each other around, and their fathers come to blows.
Bloodlust, once freed, is contagious.

On the fringe of the ugly crowd
a shrunken man knows he’s currently unaccused
and likely to remain that way. Tonight
he’s going to sleep well.

Kill or be killed?
The difference is so small sometimes
that you need to wipe the blood away to see it.

The storm’s upon me, I will bow and submit.
I will sit on the rocks by the shore.
I will watch the waves come over me.

I will launch from the rocks,
slide under the waves,
and drown.

In the morning you’ll find a body like mine
with seaweed in his hair and long lines
of green stretched behind him like contrails.

I won’t be there. I’ll be long gone.
Where am I headed?
To places where the body is unwanted.

The world is vast and
open if you travel
unencumbered.

MMMMMmmmm…imperial.

Can you smell what the King is cooking? Smells like meat to me.

THE WRONG POEM

This is not your poem, Eliot, Pound, Shapiro.
This is not your poem, Teasdale, Frost, Ferlinghetti.
This is no poem of yours, dear Walt, dear Emily, dear Maya.

Mostly,

this is not a Kerouac poem
with its eye on the horizon, stumbling drunk
from a ditched Cadillac somewhere just west of convention.
This is not a Ginsberg poem
flush with outrage and happy to shock the mundanes
with news of the most sensible things in the world.
This is not a Snyder poem, clinging to a mountain
wearing a tiny hat. Not a Corso poem, grand thug holler,
a diPrima poem slipping past the boys into the front row,
and it could never be a Kaufman poem, because nothing can be that isn’t already.

This poem smells like a scorecard in a gutter.
This poem slides a video under the teller’s window and withdraws the meager change.
This is not a recording, a television show, a commercial for its own last rites.

This poem eats scraps and makes sense.

This poem doubles back upon itself and tries to become a world
where a drunken mountain can fall on a car
and a cranium licked with fire shines cat’s eyes from within.
This poem wants to be
the psalm that rises when something that has not mattered becomes holy.

I will never be a writer until this poem is done.
I will never be a poet until I do not make another poem
about another poem
for as long as I live.

THE WRONG POEM

This is not your poem, Eliot, Pound, Shapiro.
This is not your poem, Teasdale, Frost, Ferlinghetti.
This is no poem of yours, dear Walt, dear Emily, dear Maya.

Mostly,

this is not a Kerouac poem
with its eye on the horizon, stumbling drunk
from a ditched Cadillac somewhere just west of convention.
This is not a Ginsberg poem
flush with outrage and happy to shock the mundanes
with news of the most sensible things in the world.
This is not a Snyder poem, clinging to a mountain
wearing a tiny hat. Not a Corso poem, grand thug holler,
a diPrima poem slipping past the boys into the front row,
and it could never be a Kaufman poem, because nothing can be that isn’t already.

This poem smells like a scorecard in a gutter.
This poem slides a video under the teller’s window and withdraws the meager change.
This is not a recording, a television show, a commercial for its own last rites.

This poem eats scraps and makes sense.

This poem doubles back upon itself and tries to become a world
where a drunken mountain can fall on a car
and a cranium licked with fire shines cat’s eyes from within.
This poem wants to be
the psalm that rises when something that has not mattered becomes holy.

I will never be a writer until this poem is done.
I will never be a poet until I do not make another poem
about another poem
for as long as I live.

to myainsel,ted_badger,rainbows27,and theryk for coming out to the feature at Jester’s last night.

It was nice to actually have an audience…and seriously, the fact that people who see me all the friggin time would come an hour out of their way for the gig was moving on a day when I needed it.

Thanks. Thanks, especially, to myainsel, a damn fine riding-shotgun kinda companion. Good conversation out and back.

I did a set of almost entirely new stuff with a few ancient pieces thrown in by request, including “Penitent,” “Balboa Harbor”, “Magellan Song”, and closing with “As Slow As Possible.”

New poems included “Pottery,” the cheery family poems “Reptile Son” and “Sing Before Seven,” “Meta” (rapidly becoming a good new opener), “FireBoy,” “Kiss in a Chicago Garage,” and the tsunami poem, which I think goes beyond topical to something more lasting…not sure yet.

Did I do anything else? I don’t recall. They’re mostly ones online here, if you’re interested.

I’m actively trying to transition the set out of “slam mode” where I depend on the old stuff to wow a crowd. Eventually I’ll blend these into the mix — but it was nice last night to just let it hang out and go with this new stuff…because I think I need to.

A lot of it is more personal than I let myself speak of. Me, the guy who prides himself on “it’s all creative writing, don’t look for the literal me in there.”

Well…the literal me may not be, but there’s a lot more of who I am hanging out there than I like to admit to myself.

The sunset through the lake trees like
a breaking mandolin. Bright shards
thrown off at crazy angles. Its snapped music heard
all at once, not in sequence, not
as melody. Light’s
often like that here. There’s no song to it, just
a long day’s decay.

Trying to remember you —
you played the mandolin, or the guitar;
there was some instrument. Something
shapely. We sat on the dock
and pretended to be hovering
above the water on our own. Trees darkened
across the lake and all the swallows
came out to feed. Night time, final songs,
the last note of the strings banged too roughly
into the case.

Sunset these days, everyday, an instrument
of no music. A sound on the wrong edge of lovely.
A blank look on the lake’s face.
One swallow. One cricket. No moon.

A man who should go down to the water to play
but instead sits on shore,
not moving, tone-deaf and dry.

Thanks to all of you for the feedback on whether or not you think I’m arrogant.
(And hey, keep it up If you’ve got more.)

As I said, I don’t believe I am; but that being one of the criteria for arrogance, I figured I’d better check it out.

I got asked, backchannel, whether something specific drove this query.

The short answer is “yes”. The longer answer is “of course”.

Seriously…I guess I don’t feel like I trust myself to know myself. I think I do stuff that’s clearly understandable, at least from my viewpoint; but I don’t think I fully understand my impact on people.

Now, in regard to arrogance — I don’t think I’ll be likely to change much of that behavior; but I ought to know what it may do to people, and understand how that may work against my own self interest at times.

There are other things that I think I need to be more upfront about with folks.

I talk an awful lot about my mental health for instance; at least in part I do this because I am tired of society NOT talking about mental health issues in any sort of a reasonable and productive way. I figure familiarity breeds more comfort.

But now I think I may discuss meds and therapy and depression too often for the effect to be valuable. I think I come off as whiny, or self-serving; too much the victim.

I have been thinking that I may just move into a straight poetry-only mode here on LJ; I think I trust poetry more than I trust my ability to speak of myself.

For someone who’s said all his life that he was a creative writer not limited by his own experiences, not doomed to telling facts and facts alone, I find myself in the awful quandary of feeling that I have no inner life to speak of outside of my poetry.

I am somewhere in there, and I can’t see me. Frankly, I am a little scared by that.

Thus, the feedback request: what am I doing that doesn’t help me be connected to others? That’s all. Just looking for a lifeline. Someplace to stand and throw from.

I’m trying to come to grips with some stuff, and could use your help.

Do I come across as arrogant to you? In person or here?

I’m really asking this to learn about myself.

See, I don’t think I am arrogant, but I know I feel somewhat aloof at times, especially when I’m in crowds; it’s kind of a defense mechanism that I think is getting stronger as I get older. I can see where this might result in behavior that comes across as arrogant.

But I’m unsure of other things I may or may not be doing, and I would like to hear about them. Seriously, and not defensively.

I’m trying to be a better person when it comes to ensuring that my words match my deeds and vice versa. I would appreciate your help.

Thanks. And don’t be shy, ok?

I’ll be gone all day tomorrow on various errands so not much chance I’ll update again till Tuesday.

Please — if you’re in Western MA, come on out to Westfield, and see my feature at Jester’s Cafe on Monday night. I’m planning to do pretty much all the new stuff, and stay away from most of the slam voice things…

and I could use the moral support; although I like Jester’s, it can be an iffy crowd.

Anyway…signing off.

T

You have GOT to be kidding me. Really.

They did say they turned it down, though.

I guess. I mean, who knows?

You know, with “don’t ask, don’t tell” and all.

Read of the idiocy here.

It seems to me that people can talk academic theory till they’re blue in the face…but in the long run, the ones who ignore it and crash ahead on their own do the best work over all.

Please discuss. First use of the word “meme” in its original sense merits careful scrutiny.

i was alright today.

no, but i’m glad you asked.

just a note to everyone: i like to be asked. not here, necessarily, but in general.

some have a tendency to stay away when i’m particularly nutzoid.

i don’t know if it’s fear, stigma, or anxiety about making it worse. or sheer boredom.

some have been traumatized (strong word, that) by my antisocial behavior — i have become more solitary than ever of late.

it doesn’t mean that i don’t want to talk to you. it may take a bit to respond, but…i do.

please don’t call — email is LESS confrontational. i can take it at my pace.

thanks. second comment to follow.

I will admit I had the shakes for a bit.

I spent a good portion of the day cleaning my cellar. I’m full of snot from all the dust but I feel somewhat better than I have been — a combination of accomplishment and physical fatigue will do that for ya everytime.

On my way home from work yesterday I picked up a collection of writing called “Half and Half” about being biracial/bicultural. I’m looking forward to plunging into this.

Also, picked up a thrilling 2 CD set — “Thelonius Monk: Live at the Jazz Workshop.” Complete recordings of 2 nights in 1964. It is sublime.

Periodically I recall what a huge Monk fan, and indeed jazz fan, I am at heart. My punk awakening was paired with my first exposure to Anthony Braxton, Eric Dolphy, and so many others.

Both Max Roach and Archie Shepp were teaching at UMass when I was there, and the lectures they gave (as opposed to their TAs’ lectures) were EVENTS. Everyone tried to get in, because they usually played.

I was fortunate enough to be friends with a music student who was part of a small group of Max’s favored pupils, who occasionally got to drink beers with him at the campus bar, the Blue Wall, after their seminar. I went along once. Couldn’t get the courage up to speak directly with him. I did hand him a pitcher, though.

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

Shameless plug time: features on the way…

Monday, Jan 17: Westfield, Ma, at Jester’s Cafe. 7:00 or so.

February 10-12: I’ll be at as much of iWPS as I can manage with school and all.

March 30: Tentative — Bronx Museum of Art, NYC.

April 28: Where your Mouth Is series, Worcester Artist Group, Worcester. Me, Regie Gibson, and musician Patty Keough.

More to come — stay tuned.