i woke up this morning wanting you
the way a kid wakes up hoping for a fever:
hoping it won’t be bad enough to hurt,
hoping it’s just hot enough to excuse
misbehavior.

thinking of a school kid stumbling out of the kitchen
reminds me: i’m supposed to be this hot
when i move. i’m supposed to be
a little delirious. i’m not supposed
to be able to speak well, or to make sense
the way i always do. this is why they call it fever.

you say i’m supposed to be in school? at work?
at home? if i’m sick i should have a flannel tongue and
a small-bore temper, not be smiling like this?
well, hellcakes on a plate: i’m here, i’m flushed and i’m shaking.
feed the cold, starve the fever? that’s the oldest wives’ tale.
this fever is already a starvation,
so let’s talk papaya and banana cream.
let’s talk mango and bathtub and red linen; and
this fever’s got a tongue for tango,
so let’s talk heels.
let’s talk boots.
let’s talk plum crazy and sheer toe.
let’s talk fast and loose,

and then let’s quit talking.

let’s be reasonable:
i’m not ready to go back to school.

Working on a late paper,
I see a new poem so clearly
that I have to stop and reach for it
while my fingers still work.

I recall for the tenth time today that
there’s nothing between inspiration and me
except theory, masturbation,
and my tendency to confuse the two.

Watch the poet
touch himself! Watch him
self-deconstruct!
Watch him not write the poem!

I imagine myself
done at last
with the paper.
I win a coveted position

at a rare college. Damn, it’s peaceful —
sprawled out here, sitting around as comfortable
as a corpse in a casket, just another
smiling, brand-new professor on the make.

There are lots of pages left to fill.
Words float all around me. I seize a handful
and settle in to the wrong chore: first one line, then the next,
and a poem is scrawled across the school night.

See above.

Loser, stand up. Apologize your way past
the girl next to you and stand in the aisle; you’ll be
getting off first. Careful you don’t stumble on the step again
and fall into the street.

Wait for the next bus. Check your pockets
twice for the fare. When the door blows open
get on and drop the transfer. Walk down the aisle and then stop:
she’s there, in the same seat she was in

on the first bus. Sit across from her
and notice that she’s reading
the newspaper you left behind,
with its half done crossword and the coupons ripped out.

At the next stop tumble out the door and
into the street. Your twice skinned knees
will break open again, while the passengers
pretend not to see. Dust yourself off,

loser, because there’s another bus coming
full of serial impersonators
looking for the next big act,
and you’re it. You’re it everyday from now on;

it’ll be this way all the way everyday
you head to the office, the park, or the store:
people will show up everywhere holding on
to the unfinished things you thought you’d lost.

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

PS: thanks to Jon Wolf for the suggestion that brought this home.

Loser, stand up. Apologize your way past
the girl and stand in the aisle; you’ll be
getting off first. Careful you don’t stumble on the step
and fall into the street.

Wait for the next bus. Check your pockets
twice for the fare. When the door blows open
get on and drop the transfer. Walk down the aisle and then stop:
she’s there, in the same seat she was in

on the first bus. You sit across from her
and pretend not to notice
that she’s reading the newspaper you left behind,
with its half done crossword and the coupons ripped out.

It’s this way all the way everyday
to the office, to the park, or to the store:
people everywhere show up holding on
to unfinished things you’ve lost.

I am extra sensitive about lots of things these days, from comments that make assumptions without knowing all the facts to righteous self-importance in general. Voice of authority type things.

(It usually means I’ve been guilty of the same sins lately and am feeling it.)

People — any people, including me — get too sure of themselves and create entire sets of pronouncements regarding life, poetry, politics, critical theory, slam, judging…anything, really.

And you ending sounding like an ass. With or without hat.

Nothing is certain. All facts are in question at all times. And you probably have it wrong most of the time.

So…qualify every single freaking “fact” until you know the score, ok?

Rocked socks.

Best night of slam I’ve seen in years. Period.

The whole event felt better than almost any NPS I’ve ever attended. Period.

I got to hang with some great people I’ve missed — the whole DelaWHERE crew, Nick Fox, Scott Woods, Roger, Regie; Rich Villar and Fish drove up from NYC just for the night and that was SWEET; and all my buddies from here too numerous to mention.

Particular love goes out to my best friend Bill MacMillan, Becky Henderson, Bob Gill, Dawn Gabriel, and the rest of the wonderful folks who made sure that Worcester did iWPS proud.

It almost made me wanna slam again.

Almost.

But don’t hold your breath.

Last week in class(this month only I’ve got two weekends in a row) we spent some time getting to know each other — we’ll be, at least theoretically, together for two years — and I of course mentioned that I was a poet. Mild interest, some inquiries, that’s all.

My class is 11 women all interested in becoming elementary school teachers (it’s a BA with a complementary EE minor) and one lone male with a deep and abiding interest in getting the BA and then getting the hell out. So I’m already a couple ways odd man out here.

This week…

one woman in the class Googled me in the intervening week, came in and said, “Hey! You’re famous!” which caused a stir. (I quickly explained that “slam poet famous” — and I don’t think I’m even really THAT — is the approximate level of fame accorded to the average employee of the month at a moderate sized accounting firm.)

More seriously, the professor this week ACTUALLY changed the syllabus to include a video about poets for our discussion on lives in historical context. It’s a new guy; he came in knowing I was a poet which means he spoke to the instructor from last week. He said point blank that he changed the video because of me.

I feel a little weird here for even feeling a little weird. Am I ego-obsessing? Is this freakish self centeredness on my part?

And if not: what does this mean for the class going forward?

poetry counts. opinions about poetry don’t count.

people connecting to good poetry? that counts.

people connecting to bad poetry? sorry, folks; that counts too.

whether a particular poem works, scores well, reads well, “is a good poem” — ultimately the decisions of humans who believe all sorts of things. all sorts of contradictory things, often all at once.

there is quality poetry, and that’s an opinion; there’s shitty poetry, and that’s an opinion too.

stand where you stand, and remember that the trappings we put around our passions are as silly to others as their fumblings are to us.

in other words: absolutely no opinion matters absolutely. slam is just another trap for catching fog. its associated mechanics are just the way the trap swings shut.

you might as well argue about a carburetor.

1. It’s a lot of fun seeing everyone again.

2. Nick Fox may be my arch piratical nemesis, but he’s a rockin’ good poet.

3. I entered and won the first slam I’ve been in since 2001: the MC slam against Bob Whoopiecat, Michael Guinn, and Nick Fox. It didn’t feel remotely terrible. At all. Like…maybe I could do it again.

4. MCing three bouts in one day is a bitch.

5. My niece judged a slam tonight! She’d never been to one before; she loved it!!! I’m so psyched!

6. Because of rankings, etc, it wouldn’t be of value to talk of standings just yet. Lots of movement between rounds 1 and 2 in each bout, from what I could see; being ranked 1 in the 4 minute round had absolutely no predictive quality regarding where you’d place in the 1 minute round. So, hard to sort out what it means just yet.

7. Hearing good poetry? Yes. Reductive and unoriginal stuff too? Sure.

8. There’s a poet here named David Morgan from London, England, who will likely not be going to finals…but the dude is a fucking wizard writer of torturous genius. Shit the judges won’t love, but I personally thought was outrageous. Pretty good delivery, too. Older guy; very gentlemanly.

9. I hung out with too many people to name: it was good to see you again.

I’m off to bed, then to work, then to school, then to school again, then to Finals, then to school, then to work…

I wish I was a poet, or something. The work’s dull but the hours are more regular.

I leave you with this:

1. Anyone from iWPS who wants to find a way down to SPEAK tomorrow night, you are welcome. I can’t offer a ride as such as I am going to be coming from another direction, but you are welcome.

2. I have discovered that there’s a bit of controversy concerning the Worcester Review‘s slam issue, which is just hitting the street now. Someone whose work I admire has spoken fairly harshly of the contents and concept of the issue.

I was a co-editor of that issue. And I think the writer of those comments is entitled to her opinion. Parts of her commentary I agree with, much I do not, and that’s fine. I indeed suspect we’re on the same page more than may be immediately apparent.

I don’t intend to engage the discussion regarding the poems or the essays at all. The debate’s important, and I would like it to continue without clouding it by inserting any hint of personal involvement on my part.

The one thing I would like to say, regarding the questioning of the editors’ sanity, is simply this:

For at least one half of the team, you may have something there.

Are you, after all,
comfortable using a knife?

Is there some great love in you
for how that will feel —

like a pillow resisting
until it suddenly surrenders and breaks?

Are you sure you want
to be forever known this way: a man

with more than a plan?
A man with an act at hand?

Are you comfortable there, sitting
in your car’s front seat, sitting

in your empty garage staring down
at your lap? Are you ready to pick it up?

Are you any clearer
as to what it will mean to see it through?

Are you ever going to stop shaking
long enough to make this happen?

Are you ready?
Are you a man or a missed opportunity?

Are you awake anymore?
Are you already done?

Are you already skinned and
dressed? Or —

are we going to have to go through this
again tomorrow night?

Well, then.
We can do this again —

I will be here tomorrow night.
I will be here until I’m not needed anymore —

waiting and honing
my whisper for you,

my boy with a blade;
all for you and your slippery heart.

-I-

There once was a man from Nantucket,
Who kept several snakes in a bucket.
Said he with a smirk,
“A cage didn’t work.
After several escapes, I said, ‘Fuck it.'”

-II-

There once was a man from Nantucket,
Who reviled football player Jim Plunkett.
The guy said, “That bum
Just sat on his thumbs.
And now these Pats are champs — who’d a thunk it?”

-III-

There once was a man from Nantucket,
Had a pipe that was too clogged to suck it.
Said he with a giggle
Giving the stem a wiggle,
“Dude, there’s so much resin in there…wow…somebody gimme a paper I can wipe it on, this stuff is sweet…no, no, roll one anyway, this’ll take some time…and put on that Phish tape from the Maine shows…”

I still love
every lover I’ve had
I swear

but a fog settles
on my blood
thinking of all of you

at this point you are
mostly mist
to me

I wish I still knew all your names
I wish I still recalled more than a moment
of what we were like together

I claimed to love you all
I claim to love you still
I can’t even see you well

there’s a shadow growing around me
as if a dam that holds back horror
has started to leak

can I truly be a man
if I never remember every one of you?
or I am just playing myself

like an old actor at career’s end
with too many speeches delivered
to recall any one in detail

I pray it’s true that actors are not
responsible
for their characters’ deeds

for if so then
I may be absolved —
and yet, there’s this:

who, exactly, am I then, this hack actor
without portfolio
standing here dreading night?

and who was that who was saying
he loved you? who was that holding you?
who was that man I was pretending to be?

Beat to hell, but happy.

I sat down with my advisor and discovered after going through the transcripts of my previous checkered and too often interrupted college career that if I complete all my courses in the major, I’ll still need to take enough courses to make up…

15 credits.

Two sciences, two arts, and inexplicably a intro psych course…because every psych course I’ve taken has been high level on an instructor’s permission. Those count as electives, but they still want the introductory stuff in place.

I mean, hell: I took a course at Harvard on moral development and the linkage between psych and religion that was taught in part by Joan Erikson, and our last class was at her house with her and Erik Erikson too…but I need an Intro Psych course. (Psych majors, commence drooling.)

Aw, hell, I don’t really mind. I’ll see if I can CLEP test out of it.

I apologize for all the detail…but you know something? I’m really, really happy to be talking about this stuff again. In fact…I might actually just be happy.

And I’m not even gonna qualify it with a self-defeating remark.