Tonight was the first night in a long time where I hosted a reading with a mike and a signup list and got to be a hardass about time and goof around in front of an audience.

It was fun. A lot of fun.

Fun enough that I’m done arguing the Green Mill issue. Poetry counts, not the internal foibles of a subculture’s rules.

Besides, arguing the rules of slam is like trying to learn Klingon — entertaining for some folks, but of limited use in real life.

Gotpoetry Live was a smash tonight.

Full house. Standing room only. Diverse readers. Great energy. Superb feature. Ecstatic management.

We just have to keep it up now.

Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to everyone who was there…

Gotpoetry LIVE goes live tonight at Reflections Cafe, 8 Governor Street Providence, with our feature Sou MacMillan.

Sign up book is ready, goes out at 7, reading starts at 7:30 sharp.

Come down and help us kick this thing off right.

For the nonslammers on my list…this will make little sense. Bear with us.

I think a lot of the folks who are excited by the idea are missing a point: that those allegedly open competitions in the semi-finals and finals are open only to those hand chosen by Marc and his chosen associates at a previous opportunity.

Strikes me as a distinct violation.

I would never have qualified in a competition like this. I am not a fan of group work, and my work doesn’t lend itself well to collaborative adaptation. I would have felt locked out of this type of thing. If other slams in the area are not doing well, as I’ve heard, then it pretty much would have locked me out of NPS contention altogether.

I guess my biggest question is this: why does Marc get this kind of a pass from so many of you? If it were being done somewhere else, people would be all over it.

Kill yr. idols.

T

PS: I don’t suppose Marc has any idea already who he will be choosing, does he?

i am amazed
that the bodies
at last can do
what bodies
are supposed to do.

there are no words to explain this
without embarrassment
and inaccuracy.

i will say only this:

the left leg
holds us together.
the right leg
slides against the thighs.
the hands move
(apparently randomly to the casual observer)
over and under and into and around.

afterward
there is joking. there is more
than the human share of kissing,
as if a deserved blessing offered
more than a deserved share of hope.

then the legs, the hands
again. tongues
become involved once words
no longer suffice.

afterward there is much more
kissing and the bodies amazed
at what they’re done.

in the hours
afterward
i stumble about the house
on feet that refuse to walk
and think about the distance
they’ve come today.

it is not enough
to call this poetry.
call it instead a new way of saying
old, old things.

i touch my legs, my belly,
run a hand down my pants
over my cock, understanding
the feeling of knowing the words
of an ancient language,
and of waiting
to speak them again.

Well, I’m sitting here in Dulles (DC) airport at 6:30 in the AM after getting in from San Diego at 5:00 AM. I took the redeye from CA and got not one moment of sleep. There was a guy next to me, part of a larger group, who kept digging his elbow into me the whole time he slept. I played with this thing, wrote, and played CDs — was able to pick up a pair of CDs I didn’t own for cheap — Public Enemy’s greatest hits and the first Fugees album — so I had some entertainment for the ride, at least.

I had a lot of trouble getting from Escondido, where the meeting was, back to SD for the flight. There was a huge accident on the 15 — a Hummer had crushed a smaller car so badly I couldn’t tell what it was. I am sure whoever was driving was seriously injured or killed. They had obviously used the jaws of life to get the driver out. Scary.

This also meant that I had no time to change my clothes for the trip, so I’m still in the same suit and shirt I was wearing yesterday from 6:00 PST. Coming up on almost 24 hours — I feel grungy as hell.

The meeting, which was an orientation to the contract I’m working on, went well — I’ll be working on a rollout of a new coaching program to a very large accounting firm over the nnext 6 months. I also made a couple of valuable contacts for new work.

Was struck by the number of people in this field who are in the same position I found myself in — ending long corporate careers to strike out on their own and create lifestyles more in line with their values. Of course, I’m one of the few who is also trying to incorporate an artistic slant to the lifestyle, but no matter — I’m in good company, I think.

Some time ago, I developed a workshop that incorporated poetry and the attempt to make a difference through art — myainsel and multimediagrl may recall this. I think it’s time to revamp and re-create this, hoping to use it now that I have some time and energy.

When I get home, it’s time to reconnect with the self-marketing — look for more gigs as well as training opportunities. Time to sit down and figure out my next steps.

Not today, though — today will be about getting home, posting this, and then sleep.

See y’all later.

PS: gotta pull Ken Hunt stuff together, too. Planning to go to Slammasters — hope to get this on the agenda even if only briefly. How do I do that, by the way?

T

If I get searched or stopped one more time while on a flight I’m going to scream.

(O’Hare)

I think I’ve been stopped 90% of the times I’ve flown since 9/11. I know I’m on the watch list (they tell me every time) and I get frisked, questioned, puffed for explosives, etc.

Today was no exception — was checked at the counter and at the gate; they were waiting for me at the counter — when the counter person called in my name, she said, “Oh, you’ve got him too?”

After the usual questions regarding carrying large sums of money, travel in and out of the country, etc., they let me through.

Which political activity of mine do you think triggered this?

— membership in the Greens
— membership in the American Indian Movement
— membership in activities regarding the El Salvador and Nicaraguan conflicts
— organizing and campaigning for Amnesty International (I know for a fact the FBI investigated this one)
— being a poet
— all of the above

I’m in O’Hare writing this offline; will continue in flight and send from San Diego tonight.

(in flight)

I’m watching the kid two rows up and across the aisle trying to pick up the woman sitting beside him.

When she sat down, his buddy in the seat in front of him turned around and the two of them sorta rolled their eyes and practically salivated.

She’s conventionally cute, conventionally nice figure/chest/ass; came on board with rollerblades; and in general looks like the exact type of woman stereotyped frat/jocks would like.

Directly across the aisle is a redheaded punk grrl who is bobbing in her seat to something on her iPod. She’s completely self absorbed and a total doll.

I don’t believe the boys have even noticed her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There has been a plethora of children on each my two flights today, and they’ve both been full to the brim.

There’s a family with seriously bratty kids three rows back. Boy, has that been fun.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(San Diego)

Well, I’m in a nice room — DVD player, sleep number bed (I’m gonna try em all till I know what my number is), and a wet bar I won’t be using because I still have work to do.

I know — not my most interesting post, but ya gotta do something when you’re trapped in a airplane and a hotel room.

Night, all.

Still looking for a couple of features for April for the Gotpoetry Live reading.

I have April 4 and 11th available.

There are also plenty of dates in the future — if you’re touring please get in touch.

A note: I’m trying to balance locals and touring poets, plus I’m reaching out to worlds beyond the performance world (for instance, I have a fantasy/SF/erotica/poetry writer, Teresa Noelle Roberts, coming in on April 18). So hit me up.

And locals…please understand that I am TRYING TO BALANCE the schedule, so if I take your name and say I’ll get back to you, that’s why.

Fuck writing poems when you’re drunk.

When you’re drunk, you might actually say something truthful. It might be misspelled, it might have bad grammar, but it may say something you’ll look back upon in the morning and be afraid of, wondering who saw it, wondering what was exposed.

If you are brave enough, you’ll let it stand. No friends filter, no deletion, no rewrite.

Evidence:

I love you;

You gave me the best head I ever had;

You knew all along I was a bastard and it was the main source of lust between us;

I am still frightened by your smile, you knew me too well;

I wish it was not a problem between us like a shadow or a line drawn down the front of the Hoover Dam, forever putting us one hour out of joint;

If I had known who I was back then, understood the illness better, I would be with you still;

Killing is too easy;

There are responses to some questions that mean less than the fact that the question was asked at all.

Read The Zero Point Zero Regular Column!

It’s better than poetry!

In which I take a few moments to lay the ground work for future columns by discussing how I write a poem.

Just finished repairing and setting up a printer. We have a communal printer in the apartment, but with some of these consulting jobs, there’s a lot of printing — printed a 98 page document for my assignment in San Diego this Friday — and I figured I better have my own.

Now I’ll be studying and marking up the thing all night.

In addition, I have to finish the new Zero Point Zero today…it’s almost done, just have to spiff it up and haven’t had time.

If you’re in town and feel like it, please come distract me (lightly) tonight. Sit on the futon, see my gargoyle and Balinese dragon, make fun of my bachelor digs. Bring it on, punk.

(PS: there is also Glenfiddich.)

well, hi there!

greetings from the Poetic Vortex.

for those of you not familiar with the Poetic Vortex of Worcester, here in the Poets’ Asylum it was our many-years-ago name for the phenomenon that led to so many poets over the years moving here — usually for a short time, sometimes longer.

the vortex has taken on new meaning lately.

let’s describe the west side of Vernon Hill, a tangled neighborhood of narrow streets and three-deckers.

let’s zero in on one small patch of the hill.

in one apartment:

chryslerpoet*
badgary
wormtown_mensch

two doors down:

myainsel
ocvictor

about a block and half away:

javabill
thisrabbit

and next door to them:

allan_inc

So not only has the vortex reformed, it is smaller and more concentrated than before.

all your poets are belong … eh. even i’m not that cheesy.

*for those not keeping up: i’m separated from my wife. it’s just what is. onward.