Hey all —
I’ll be back in the Mid Atlantic region for a gig in November.
Saturday, Nov.19, at “The Sounds of Poetry” — Linda DiFeterici’s gig — at the Crescent Moon Coffeehouse, 177 Bridgeton Pike, Mullica Hill, NJ.
Website: http://www.cavalcadeofpoetry.com
From the map, it looks like it’s fairly close to Delaware. Hint, hint. I’d love to see a turnout — it’s a cool gig with musical instruments and such.
She will be looking to spotlight folks who show up, too.
C’mon down…
to be a surrealist.
the blurb to the CNN.com Offbeat News section just now: “A giant tin man, double vision and a baby elephant.”
i hand that one over. somebody gimme a poem that connects those three things.
there are a dozen empty bags in my room,
various sacks in khaki and black
i can’t describe that well because i can’t remember
when i bought them or even last touched them.
i know i bought each one
to put stuff in,
stuff i needed.
i keep filling new bags
with stuff from previous bags, but
i secretly love best the bags
that have been tossed aside
in favor of new ones.
the only way i can fall in love
is when i have moved on.
the only way i can love anything
is if i’ve put it in the past.
the sinus infection seems to be back.
i think i know the source…i think it’s in my CPAP device. seriously.
hoses and mask need a good bleaching, i think. off to do that now.
as much as i love a wide variety of music, i keep coming back to the allure of “three chords tuned to exhaustion.” that’s a quote from my poem “Punk” for those three of you who are unfamiliar with it… 🙂 EDIT: i added a link to both a text version and an MP3 of it for those of you interested. it’s down in the comments.
right now, i’m streaming kexp’s sonic reducer show. just heard nomeansno, go like hell, jesus lizard…gits…
punk broke the first time when i was 16-17. i saw early Ramones, Clash, etc. tours, and had the chance to see all the great Boston punk bands — SS Decontrol, DYS, Willie Alexander, etc.
it’s funny — punk is my nostalgia trip, but i’ve never stopped loving the new stuff as much as the old. granted, there will never be another “Guns on the Roof” but there will always be another great and ultimately disposable hardcore song…
that’s part of the allure of punk for me — the idea that it’s the moment captured; no necessary sense of writing for the ages; anyone with rudimentary guitar knowledge can create a punk song that does exactly the right thing at exactly the right time.
i’m listening right now to the station hosting a live touring band from Texas called the Urgencies (and are any band names as good as punk band names?) and they’re putting their own live spin on the show’s theme, the Dead Boys’ “Sonic Reducer.”
they aren’t particularly great, or original, but they’re perfect.
i may go plug in and bang out a little “Holiday in Cambodia” or even something of my own in a bit, but for now, I’m just gonna listen.
sister can’t rhyme
the way brother does
so mother makes him write
all her poems for school assignments.
one of them gets published
and sister gets attention
brother always wanted.
she decides to publish more:
all the poems he wrote
become sister’s poems.
brother dreads the day
he will be asked to write more.
of course she asks him to write more,
and he does not rebel because
it’s a way in and he prays
that the revealed deception may someday make him famous.
one day sister
writes a poem of her own. liberation
at hand, brother mails off some of his own
under his own name.
he is rejected
as derivative.
she is praised
for her maturing style.
but he does not drink
his way into cliche.
and she does not grow
irony inside.
instead sister keeps writing and
bursts into heat and light.
brother keeps writing, grows more original,
is hailed as a late bloomer.
together they marvel
at the way mother beams.
together they ponder healthy leaves
growing from roots tangled in mold.
I hear he’s in talks to co-star with Jennifer Lopez’ mom in the next “The Surreal Life.”
http://www.cnn.com/2005/POLITICS/10/20/judd.lottery/index.html
if i mention elvis
will you notice this more
if i mention 50 cent
will it matter more
if i mention anyone at all
who isn’t you or me
will it lend me certain gravity
if i point a finger at the mirror
and let you see it
am i missing the point or are you
if i turn off the radio
stop downloading
drop the tv from a bridge onto an suv
go to baghdad for eid
new orleans for mardi gras
and milan for the spring shows
will you care an ounce more about all this
if i put a beat behind it
score it record it bang it like a tin pan
will you think it any better
will you want to hear it again
if i bleed for you
will you agree to sop it up
if i cry for you
will you agree to laugh it up
if i come for you
will you let me come inside
because i swear to you
i’ve got a million in me
just like this one
that will never see a page or stage
because i’m better than that
or so they say
there are days when i wish
i was a kid again
back when i couldn’t tell the difference
between good and meaningful
maybe if you write enough poetry
you eventually reach the point
when you’ve written too much
to get that anymore
the long way around, that’s what i live for;
the road that does not go directly home,
which passes things i would not see if i were in a hurry,
which leads into silver midnight woods and fields,
which moves through neighborhoods of silent homes
that here and there shine yellow even at two AM,
which reveal the deer and the skunk in transit,
which make me dream of journeys that will not end;
the long way around that is nonetheless terminal,
the road that eventually loses me,
which does in fact come to a stop at the front door,
which does in fact make me pause before i get out of the car,
which makes me wonder if i should have kept driving
even though i know there was no place left to see,
which makes me wonder if there was ever a different way at all,
which makes me close the door and sit for a while longer
before i go in to sleep,
before i start upon the road again.
my favorite is the former Providence Civic Center, which is now:
the Dunkin’ Donuts Center.
I’ll let you think about that one for a bit.
y’know, between handling the bipolar disorder and the sleep apnea, you would think i’d have a good handle on what it means to take care of yourself when you don’t feel well.
ha.
i’ve been sleeping round the clock, tis true; i suppose that counts. but i’m way dehydrated and a tad hungry too.
i did just eat a banana.
i hate that i’m behind on a bunch of personal/poetic stuff, and this isn’t helping.
so stress about being sick piles on to sickness.
i wonder if i’d feel better if i didn’t have this laptop and had to get up to use the PC? give me convenience or give me death, right? that was the choice?
shit: it’s a sinus infection, not a death sentence.
i’m such a wuss, eh?
the way i speak when i feel like this = sinus inflection.
i’ll be sleeping now. sorry to have bothered you.
wednesday morning
wake up
on a wednesday morning and put on
some rough shoes, because this is the day
you’re going. don’t wait for the weekend,
don’t wait for next week; pick up in the middle and go
because only an abrupt break is going to hurt enough
to make you feel how good it’s going to be
when you get where you’re going.
wake up.
don’t say goodbye. all your family, found or born,
wants you to be happy their way
right here, so you pay attention
to the way your boots look by the bedside in the morning,
because they are the best brothers you’ll ever have
and they will carry you where you need to go.
wake up,
turn away from the loves of your life,
give up their ghosts. give up your voice
that used to crack at midnight when you called out a name
you couldn’t remember the next day.
pick a new voice from the rack.
slip it on like a clog you can kick off at will. try on any pair
that suits you, and get to walking. get to running. get to flying.
wake up,
burst off from the earth,
and go orbit upon orbit around the sun.
then, turn on your heel and come back down.
founder or triumph, slink or strut.
no one’s going to believe you did it for love
and not fame or spite,
so you might as well do it anyway.
once you’re all in hell,
there will be time enough then
to hear them mumble about you.
Dark Matter 