The razor sits on the sink. A few strokes
might open up something hidden
since I was a teenager; then again,
nothing might be there anymore.

There’s a redwood
in California that manages to stay alive
with no foliage, even though it’s hollow
from its top down for over a hundred feet.

I don’t know how much of me
has vanished inside,
but the evidence seems to suggest
that being hollow might be the least of my worries:

see, that naked tree
is three thousand years old,
and it’s alive,
but it’s done growing.

I turn on the water anyway,
splash my face and lather up.
It might be hopeless, but if not,
nothing ever thrives without a little light.

The Lebanese government is resigning.

Boy…these protesters must have been spitting the kind of hardcore, muthafucking shit that Monte Smith was talking about.

I was listening to BBC this AM as they interviewed a Lebanese protester.

She was talking about the uprising against the government and said something like, “…the opposition is in the streets and our objective is to topple the government.”

And then, she said:

“They will learn that the revolution will not be televised…”

And I got goosebumps, again, for the first time in years.

Things I’ve done you probably haven’t.

1. Met and talked for about a half hour with Frank Sinatra.
2. Smoked a joint with Jerry Garcia.
3. Been chased out of a frat party at Brown U for cold cocking JFK Jr. (I didn’t actually do it — my friend Hollis did. But I would have, if I’d been closer.)
4. Discussed euthanizing my grandmother with a nurse. She died on her own before we made a decision.
5. Was born in an Army hospital the same day Elvis Presley was undergoing a discharge physical on the same floor…which means that I was entering the building while Elvis was leaving the building. (Beat THAT.)
6. Performed with Suzanne Vega. (Actually, I suspect that’s not that uncommon in this crew.)
7. Sang with Fugazi at a show. (Well, was handed the mic and screamed into it what I suspect were not the real words…also, see above.)
8. Drank enough Absolut vodka to put me in an alcohol poisoning coma for a week. I almost died. (Moral: never, ever run out of orange juice.)
9. Quit a three pack a day habit cold turkey twenty two years ago and haven’t had a cigarette since. A cigar or two or three, yes; not a cigarette.
10. Was in a cult for three years in the early 80s. No, there will not be more details.

Things I’ve done you probably haven’t.

1. Met and talked for about a half hour with Frank Sinatra.
2. Smoked a joint with Jerry Garcia.
3. Been chased out of a frat party at Brown U for cold cocking JFK Jr. (I didn’t actually do it — my friend Hollis did. But I would have, if I’d been closer.)
4. Discussed euthanizing my grandmother with a nurse. She died on her own before we made a decision.
5. Was born in an Army hospital the same day Elvis Presley was undergoing a discharge physical on the same floor…which means that I was entering the building while Elvis was leaving the building. (Beat THAT.)
6. Performed with Suzanne Vega. (Actually, I suspect that’s not that uncommon in this crew.)
7. Sang with Fugazi at a show. (Well, was handed the mic and screamed into it what I suspect were not the real words…also, see above.)
8. Drank enough Absolut vodka to put me in an alcohol poisoning coma for a week. I almost died. (Moral: never, ever run out of orange juice.)
9. Quit a three pack a day habit cold turkey twenty two years ago and haven’t had a cigarette since. A cigar or two or three, yes; not a cigarette.
10. Was in a cult for three years in the early 80s. No, there will not be more details.

Taste, for me, is a word I use to describe differing levels of appeal.

Dizzy Gillespie and Miles Davis are incredibly talented trumpeters of great import in the history of American music. Undisputed fact, to my eyes.

Miles’s work appeals to my taste. Dizzy’s does not.

When I say that my judgment of a person is not a matter of taste to me, it has absolutely no relevance to anyone else’s sense of taste for that person’s work, and no disrespect is intended.

For those of you following this: I made a comment regarding a young poet in our scene that I wasn’t fond of his work, and that my discomfort is not a matter of taste to me. I should have been clearer, so I will be now.

I can see his potential, and I can see his talent. In fact, I may someday develop a taste for his work. But I can’t tell yet, because what I cannot see is that his level of development at using those things is equal to the task at his hand, and a disservice is done to him when he is treated as though it was.

I used other young poets as a measuring stick to show that it’s not just a matter of age and experience to my eyes that a person becomes “good.” There’s at least one 19 year old in Worcester I’d stack up against a lot of older poets for the time and energy he’s put into developing his chops. But I would never expect anyone to be “as good” as anyone else, or to be anyone except themselves.

Dos that make sense?

Now then: to the coda.

This is all my opinion; other opinions may vary, and be as well or as ill informed as my own. They are all valid opinions as they are based in the solid observations of solid observers.

I’m making this post in public penance for last night’s debacle. I sat up actively weeping for a while afterward, because I hate being at odds with people I love. There aren’t many of those in the world.

I’ve been told I contribute to my own loneliness. True enough. Shit like this doesn’t help me or anyone else. I know that’s true, too.

I want us to be more tough minded as a community (as a community; that’s not aimed at anyone in particular) about the balance between the praise and the solid, non-personal but effective critique we offer developing poets. I try to do that; but that’s not a reason for me to be an arrogant, self righteous dickhead. (And I use the word “dickhead” advisedly.)

I don’t trust myself to know what I need to do anymore.

So to anyone offended last night; to anyone reading the thread who didn’t comment; to Ansel, if he’s reading this; and most especially to Dawn, who I am crushed about offending: please accept a heartfelt apology, and know that I’m going to do better.

Now, I think I understand why people think I’m arrogant.

And I’m not sure I care that much about it.

I’ll try to be kinder and gentler. Operative word being “try.”

In general, I think I’m a pretty good guy. I’m sorry if, on occasion, I am more direct than tactful.

I spend a lot of my life being tactful. Keeping my mouth shut. Trying to figure out how to say things in ways that make a difference without harming.

I care too much for this art we are in to lie about how I feel. Sometimes, my passion for the art leads me to hurtful talk, more bite than blow.

I am sorry for that; but who will say these things? Who is saying them? Who is saying them that anyone is listening to?

Performance poetry needs, far more than theory or better distribution structures, the courage to look mediocrity in the eye and say that regardless of the scores, mediocrity is mediocrity.

I keep finding ways to shoot myself in the foot on this one. I keep finding ways to blunder through thickets of thorns.

I care too much to be careful.

I am sick unto death with where we are. IWPS was a lovely day of relative health; I don’t see that it matters much in the long run.

I care too much.

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

EDIT: Fuck it. I’m not a coward. You want to comment, comment.

There’s been a lot of talk lately about “hated genres of poetry.”

We include here the “Angry Black Male” poem, and the “Angry Woman” poem.

I would like to add mine, and I am terrified about doing it, because I suspect it will cause many people to hate me. I am terrified that it will be attributed to bitterness and age.

OK, I’m over it.

The genre?

The “White Boy Who Never Met a Three Syllable Word, Exaggerated Simile, and/or Twisted Syntactical Construction He Didn’t Like That Could Be Used To Disguise a Lack Of Things To Say On Some Mundane, Trivial, or Overdone Topic” poem.

Discuss. Or, conversely, just cuss.

EDIT:
My Perception of this as a “white boy” genre may be ill founded, or based in what I see most often; then again, maybe not.

Rock on.

I looked around the room at SPEAK tonight, listening to 15 people read their poetry and the poetry of others — not the poetry of slammers, but of other people from Dickinson to Cavafy to Bukowski (the first Buk poem I ever recall liking, by the way) to Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Themes developed as people read poems about the mortality of their parents and folding clothes (yes, images about clothes folding popped up here and there). There was a dynamite retelling/remix of the tale of Sisyphus, and a strange religious poem about wingless birds. (Those of you who follow the cast of characters of SPEAK can probably guess who read that.)

I heard great poetry. I heard people working through poetry in progress and asking for suggestions. There was laughter and all sorts of mayhem, too. And a lot of silence as people read.

This is what I wanted, what I thought of after we reorganized when the Cafe closed. A quieter, focused place of people sharing their work with no sense of show or artifice. A reading in a town of 12,000 people that aims to allow people from town and beyond a place to do what they love with no pressure.

Jeanne, one of the locals, told me that she does taxes for a living and she couldn’t wait to get to SPEAK tonight because “it makes her feel human again.”

Yes.

And now…in the next town over, smaller than this one…another reading has started on the alternate Wednesdays from us, once a month…

That’s what I want. Make culture and its energy happen ELSEWHERE, in places other than the big cities and urban areas. I think they need it more, in the long run; these are the places people leave to go get this stuff elsewhere.

When I was a kid, there was no access to the things I wanted to do in town. This is what I wanted to do.

Thanks to all the SPEAKers who were there tonight, and every time we meet; we are the point of what this word business is about.

Changing the world doesn’t always require a loud revolution.

Three nights of 2-3 hours of sleep + this afternoon’s fit of crazed irritability = ?

Oh, I bet some of you can guess.

*sigh*

Putting myself back on Seroquel. Goddamit.

A weird string of coincidences and memories…

Gidget meets Gonzo
in the great beyond.

She pulls on the bourbon
while he ponders the surf.

He reloads and she drops to the blanket
on her belly.

That wave he once spotted breaking out West
is the wave she once rode all the way home.

The countries they lived in
looked the same from some angles.

The countries they lived in
get confused all the time.

Gonzo meets Gidget and the sun goes down.
They’ll be starting a fire after dark.

They will keep warm together under the glorious
American sky, stars, satellites, planets, planes.

He’ll pull on the bourbon. She’ll pull on a sweatshirt.
He’ll tell stories she won’t want to understand, and she will do the same.

A man who will not give up his gun
loves a woman who married the king of idiots.
They have a child, not a choice. They live
and let live. They take it one day at a time,
let go and let God, who is their
co-pilot. They are lost and making
record time.

In the next lane
someone offers a phone number for the public to call
when he drives badly.
If you can’t see his mirrors, he can’t see you.
There are always opportunities for experienced drivers.

Many people support our troops.
A few want to bring them home.
A few more want to kill ’em all and let God sort them out.

Her son is a Marine. Her son is an honor student.
His daughter is a hockey player and she’s awesome.
She has a terrorist hunting permit and a pass for the drive-on beach.
He loves his Airedale, his Harley, his Red Sox.

They are all here today: Dave Matthews, Hatebreed,
Alan Jackson, Dale Earnhardt, Kerry Edwards, Bush Cheney.
All these cars and so few names to remember, praise Jesus,
hail Darwin, raise a glass to them all (but don’t hit a bump
and spill your drink).

The people who can see who we are
are the ones we least want to catch up.

If you’re reading this,
you’re too close.

There was once a man who was swallowed
by a mole on his own chest.
He shrank and was drawn in until
he vanished in the blood delta it had grown
to survive. No one heard a word from him for many months.
When he returned, his friends came and identified him
and he recalled them at once, but found himself
unable to respond to their questions.

Inside, the man knew he was still missing.
Cancer is not a country you come back from easily,
he tried to explain, and they soothed and patted him until
he was nearly sick again.

Spring’s a mistake, he thought.
It’s wasted on the ones
with easy lives. I want the green for myself,
all for myself.

It’s a myth that suffering always makes us noble.
It’s a myth that suffering makes us love more deeply.
There’s only one truth in suffering: that it hurts,
and that we disappear into it and we can’t entirely explain
what it meant to be there, and what it meant to come out.

He dreams of his red jungle most nights, and many days.
Every dark spot on his skin looks like a river’s mouth,
a point of fear to be wary of.
He is wary of them all. He is wary of re-entry.

But there are times he almost wants to go back —
back where he lived by hunting for the exit,
swimming for days awash in panic,
but fierce and alive because he knew then what he wanted:
the green for myself, all for myself,

and now he has to share it, and he doesn’t know how.

I wake up in bed next to you. What would I say?

Post this in your LJ. Be ruthless. And anonymous.

Then, leave a comment on the LJ of a friend you think I should add to my friend’s list.

Should my LJ break up with your LJ? What about my BLT?