“NO MORE EPIPHANIES”
Hosted By::
EBG artist market
When:
Friday Jul 28, 2006
at 7:00 PM
Where::
Vagabond Records [downstairs]
11 Railroad Avenue
Beverly, MA 01915
This gig is a celebration at the closing down of a long established and beloved independent bookstore. I’ve never been here, but the devotion the place appears to have inspired makes me think this night will be something special.
| Your EQ is 67 |
 50 or less: Thanks for answering honestly. Now get yourself a shrink, quick! 51-70: When it comes to understanding human emotions, you’d have better luck understanding Chinese. 71-90: You’ve got more emotional intelligence than the average frat boy. Barely. 91-110: You’re average. It’s easy to predict how you’ll react to things. But anyone could have guessed that. 111-130: You usually have it going on emotionally, but roadblocks tend to land you on your butt. 131-150: You are remarkable when it comes to relating with others. Only the biggest losers get under your skin. 150+: Two possibilities – you’ve either out “Dr. Phil-ed” Dr. Phil… or you’re a dirty liar. |
Honestly? I think it’s less an inability to understand emotions than it is a distance from people.
LeBlanc
“TURN THAT
FUCKING JUNGLE MUSIC
OFF,” says Rene LeBlanc
to the two kids who have
punched up Ja Rule on
the new jukebox.
Everyone laughs when Jack
comes out from behind the bar
and pulls the plug.
When they leave
Jack plugs it back in and
Rene goes over and
puts the Stones on
instead.
and it sucks.
achy. feverish. sore all over. can’t get nearly enough sleep, after being up all night.
did i mention this sucks?
i’m tired of holding myself to impossible standards for my work. i can only be me, and let the work reflect that.
everything sounds like a cliche lately. even this. especially this.
i’m writing such small poems — in topic and focus, not in length, i could care less about that — that i can’t stand myself, but that seems to be who i am right now.
Storytellers’ final night was terrific.
The place was blisteringly hot — which turned into an issue for me later, but I’ll get to that.
Wonderful work for the last night: was thrilled to see SPEAK regular Tom Carroll there, reading one of his off-kilter magical pieces. The man’s a forgotten gem of this area, and it ticks me off sometimes that people don’t know his work.
allan_inc did a heartfelt and moving version of his sister thisrabbit‘s “Girlfriend.” I know my own heart stopped and I had to move when I heard it.
I read the little heard “Atlantis,” a longer piece about the breakdown of a marriage.
When the break came, the heat (and the two bourbons I’d had over at Moynihan’s before the show) got to me. I walked up to Village Pizza to get something in my stomach, only to discover that they were closed for vacation. Grr. I then walked down to Store 24 and got a slice of pizza and some vitamin water.
When I got back, the Worcester Slam Team was doing their minifeature. I sat outside and listened from the fire exit. Couldn’t face the heat.
When it was time for dokuritsu‘s feature, I went back up and managed to catch one poem (a wonderful piece about the secret life of zero) before the heat and the drinks and the bad pizza caught up with me and I had to leave or subject all my wonderful friends to the evil that is Tony Hurling.
Sorry, Jon.
Went home, went to bed, got up again because it was too fucking hot even with two fans in the room, talked to wormtown_mensch for a bit, then hit the sack for good.
We’re going to miss this venue around here. It offered something unique to the area, bringing storytelling and narrative work to the locals. May it rise again. Thanks to penny_player and flapper_girl for making it work for so long.
There are a lot of planes dropping bombs all over the world tonight.
This poem was originally published in 2003, in 100 Poets Against the War. Seems tragically fitting to dig it out again tonight.
WHAT YOU CALL IT
What d’you call it
that thing
that thing that came in the night
that hung above our village
and a war fell onto us from its mouth
what d’you call it
what d’you call it
that thing
I couldn’t see it too well in the dark
I think it had grey skin
know it had red eyes
it wasn’t a dragon
it was too hungry to be a dragon
it was too angry
Whatever it was
a thing like that
ought not to be free
ought not to be let loose to do that
ought to be locked up
ought to be somewhere else
What d’you call it
that thing
that roasts your children
that cinders your wife
takes your father in flame
melts your tongue to the roof of your mouth
burns the consonants out of you
until all you can do is scream open throated, only vowels,
nothing to give shape or form to the sound
no words
and what words could you have had before this
to describe — this
what d’you call it?
yes I suppose
you could call it
a helicopter
a vertical takeoff and landing armored air support vehicle
an Apache
a Cobra
and I suppose its anger and hunger could be
a mistake
an unfortunate incident
nothing to deter us from our mission
but
HELLFUCKER – SHITCLOUD – DARKRAPER- CHILDBURNER – SKYEATER
STORMSWAN – DEVILROAR – DEATHBIRD – WIDOWERMAKER
FLAME GOD HAMMER –
all work just as well
just do not call this
“collateral damage”
there are no clean words for some things
bronze-green face of confucius
on the bedroom wall,
pictures of hendrix and lester young,
a gold rabbit frame and a gargoyle figurine,
a bali dragon and an ireland whistle.
this is the desk where i’m supposed to work.
it’s so crowded nothing happens here —
so i go to the porch
because on the porch there’s an ashtray
dumped once every couple of days
and a pair of chairs set up knee to knee
where the laptop can sit, where the notebook can sit
while the work goes on and on.
these days
it’s all about the nosiness
and the neighbors and the trees
and whiffs of dope from downstairs
and the ghost in the kitchen
that never comes out here
but is audible from every other
place in the apartment.
who was the ghost before
it was a ghost? the ashtray
is full of them, the face on the wall
might be one, the neighbors
don’t stay around long enough
to prove whether or not
they’re ghosts themselves.
this ghost rattles the pans
and runs across the linoleum to tattle
on something that happened a long time ago,
and the doors swing open and shut without any of us
touching them. the neighbors swing open and shut
without anyone touching them, either,
or so it seems from the porch
where the ghost never comes, where the things
that ought to get done never get done, where the smoking
is good and the sitting is easy. i’d let the ghost open and shut
my notebook if that was possible. let the ghost worry about
the clutter in the room. let the ghost make sense
of the miscues and odd placements. let the ghost
take over my life, put it in better hands,
the type of hands
that can pass though walls.
“like a river that don’t know where it’s flowing
I took a wrong turn and I just kept going”
— b springsteen
somewhere in
pennsylvania
there’s a narrow road
that forks and
a sign that explains
where each branch goes:
one arrow pointing
right says “WEST.”
the other pointing
left says “SOUTH.”
i got there the other day
and i went north.
though where i was going
was everywhere i’d been
i couldn’t help going.
the radio
was no help —
same old verses, same
old themes,
same old / young pop stars. there hasn’t been
a moving song on the radio
in how many years?
as many years as i’ve been bored with driving.
i’d always hoped that someday
i’d be able to recall
the time i drove
down a road i’d never seen.
instead
i see
the same curbs
and the same
signs telling me things
I don’t even need to read anymore
to understand
because i am always headed home.
next time
i’m in pennsylvania
i will turn off the radio
before i get to that sign.
i will plow through it.
i will knock it down
and then i’m going east
until there’s no east left.
I’m not feeling very charitable today toward anyone.
For that exact reason, I’m looking forward to poetry tonight.
one more time how much I loathe Jim Morrison, his poetry, and the Doors in general?
In fact, how many rock stars are also good poets? Patti Smith, I guess. I don’t think of Leonard Cohen as a “rock” star, so he doesn’t count. I like Dylan, but I never got into more than a smidgen of his non-musical output.
Who else?
Brickbats awaited. Begin.
ETA, 11:45 AM Sunday:
Boy, whatta lotta comments.
Here’s my thing: I’m talking mostly about people who fancy themselves poets and who also publish books of poetry in addition to their recorded musical work.
I dislike the Doors because I dislike the Doors. I shouldn’t have mixed my indifference toward the Doors’ music into my deep and abiding dislike of Morrison in particular.
I stand by the rest of my opinions. Again, it’s NOT because I like or dislike the work of any of those people mentioned by y’all.
I have figured out my next tattoo, and will get it before Austin depending on the news I get next week.
No, I’m not telling.
Yesterday’s interviews went well. I won’t go into details, other than to say I should know something by the end of next week.
I asked the recruiter about next steps on the way out the door, and she said, “Well, the hiring manager wants to see a couple more people, because you’re the only candidate she’s seen, although I’d really hoped to have this wrapped up today…” I figure that’s a good sign.
I’m going to be bold and ask for a start date of August 21…giving me a week after I come back from Nats. Think it’ll fly? Never hurts to ask.
In other news I’m loving my new amp. It’s just a practice amp — a Vox DA15 — but it’s preloaded with effects that can be customized. i’m having fun, and liking the new guitar more and more.
Saturday night I was at a party where I got to jam acoustically with a bunch of guys who were WAY better than I am. It was fun — we did stuff by X, the Pogues, and a variety of other stuff. (The acoustic “Immigrant Song,” though, I sat out. The less said the better.) I acquitted myself passably and gained a great deal of confidence in the meantime.
I would also like to point out that I’m not typing this at the end of a long night of insomnia, but after a good night’s sleep and an early waking.
More later.
I’ve got job interviews this afternoon and a doctor’s appointment in a couple of hours, so this particular posting binge is coming to an end.
You know what this country’s political discourse needs more of? Cognitive dissonance. Both the right and the left are too comfortable with their preconceptions.
i’m going out and getting a “Support The Troops” ribbon and a peace sign for the car. I’ll get a “Pro-Choice” bumper sticker and paste it on next to one that reads “Clergy.”
Any other ideas? How can we promote cognitive dissonance that can challenge the prepackaging of political belief?
i am on the bed
with each wrist tied to the headboard
and each ankle tied to the footboard
with a blindfold over my eyes
this is the first time
that i am not
the one who ties the knots
not the doer but the one being done
all i have to do now
is be
and i’m terrified that i
will fail at it
how will i know
i’m doing this right
when i can do nothing
except experience it
the prospect of
hours and hours
of being unable
to act
while the window fan
blows hot air over my skin
and things happen
that i can’t see
she draws something soft
across my chest
she rubs something sticky
on my thighs
i can’t breathe
it’s all too pleasant
too much
i might cry
hours and hours
of being unable to act
i may never get
used to this
but for now
let being
supplant doing
there is so much to learn
Dark Matter 