because it appears I have nothing valid to say anymore.
nothing valid, or of interest.
that is most definitely all.
Monthly Archives: October 2006
Head colds
are the worst.
I swear I’d rather have almost any other minor illness — headache, flu, etc. A head cold leaves me feeling useless. A head cold makes me feel like I ought to be able to rise above it and do something, but I can’t. It’s doubly frustrating — I’m sick and ticked off at myself for being sick.
Add in the difficulties it causes me with my sleep apnea (makes it difficult to use the CPAP device at night because my nose is stuffed), and the fact that I have to be extremely careful as to what meds I take because of cross interactions with some cold medicines and my psychiatric drugs, and a head cold becomes just a miserable experience with no real choice except to ride it out.
Today I missed Simone Beaubien’s feature at the Zodiac Cafe, an afternoon practice session with myainsel, and an evening practice session with farosfall. Grrrrr…
I’d better be relatively OK tomorrow, is all I have to say. I’m going to take Ambien now and some cold meds and pass out till the AM.
Again…Grr, I say, Grrrr.
Why do I love iTunes shuffle?
Because it delivers unto me a mix such as the one I’ve been listening to:
U2 into Solas into Mike Doughty into Weezer into Don Omar (reggaeton for those unfamiliar) into Pink Floyd into Charlie Parker into Prince into Kris Delmhorst into Ani DiFranco into Ry Cooder/Manuel Galaban (mambo) into the Audio Bully’s remix of Nancy Sinatra doing “Bang Bang I Shot You Down” into the Stooges’ “Search and Destroy.”
Weird and wonderful in so many twisted ways.
Insomnia
is, as always, the thing that sucks.
It would be different if I was ultra productive, going through a manic phase and writing my heart out. Instead, I’m just awake.
I’ve started to think that I’ve got very few poems left in me. Times like this when I’m blank as blank will do that.
Of course, I’ll keep writing anyway. Of course, I’ll keep striving to be better at what I do.
But times like this…they hurt.
Doodle
Two lines
intertwined
on a page. It’s not
DNA, not the twirl
of smoke
from the end
of the cigarette; rather
it is the illogical branch
of a tree that grows down
in a swoop when all others
grow up; it’s the truck
making graceful, foolish loops
across the road
while trying to reverse itself;
it is grand scheme
crossed with detail. It’s
the way the day shapes itself;
one thing meeting another, lessons
sliding into examples, a man
being accosted by a moment
of woman and woman of man, face
seeing a face and knowing
at once the dearness of recognition
without being able to say
where that face was seen before.
Afternoons watching schoolkids
lead back to the Roman Empire.
One loose pitbull opens a memory
of Thanksgiving and slipping
food under the table to the poodle
who was part of the family
but today was uninvited
guest to be pitied.
Two lines
drawn to intersect on a vellum page —
but if the pen could speak
it would tell nothing helpful.
The pen draws, and
the body understands
how the blood
flowing through its braided capillaries
shows how one thing leads to another,
even if it cannot be explained
at a given moment.
Got poetry? We do!!!!
Come see Scott Woods LIVE tonight at Gotpoetry Live, Reflections Cafe, 8 Governor Street, Providence, RI.
Reading starts around 7:30, with the feature going on before 8:30.
We’ll be changing the format tonight to a split open, with 5 readers before the feature and the remaining poets afterward.
Scott’s terrific. Come down and see why!
why poetry causes pain and is a good thing
sometimes, there is nothing to say —
but we try to say it anyway.
Robert Johnson
When he walked away
from Son House’s knee
into a sticky night, he knew just
where to go.
At the crossroad
he met someone blue.
There was no contract
and no soul for sale.
Robert Johnson
wrestled the angel
and threw him
into the weeds.
He stole his color
and turned back
to the jook joints,
thinking that everything
would be different.
His first clue that he was right
came when he discovered he’d
been gone for months
instead of overnight
as he’d thought.
When he stepped to the stage
everyone shut up,
just like he’d hoped, but
he saw that he was
just out of sync. Notes he thought
were dead on quavered like fear.
People didn’t seem to
hear him right and there was too often
silence when he spoke. When Son House
said “you done good, son,” he felt
nothing. For the rest of his life
he tried to wipe the blue from his hands
onto his guitar and give back
the gift of the angel:
the holy stinging of the strings,
the memory of the night
of struggle, the way the laughter of the old men
turned to awe instead of welcome.
Tenochtitlan
1.
here, men once buried one city
under another city. buried
ancient words in silt. buried gods
in a swamp. buried oracles
who choked on mud.
2.
here, you don’t need prophets
to see ahead, a glimpse
at the bottom of a fresh, stinking trench
says it all:
look at the pissed off gods poking up at progress.
3.
a few hundred miles north of here
at the edge of a dead empire
men are still
planting corn,
still hoping for water.
4.
now then:
if you found a wall
of black plaster in your basement,
would you tear it down? if you thought you knew
what was back there would you
stab a pry-bar’s fork into that wall
and pull? if you expected
something to step out before
you were halfway through
would you stand there waiting for it?
5.
back in the city they announce the discovery
of another earth god under a construction site.
the rain begins to fall,
the cities fills with water,
all building comes to a standstill.
in the north, the corn grows tall.
6.
and you:
how long
are you planning to stand
with that pry-bar in your hand
staring at that black wall
in your basement?
Two things:
1.
I find it incredible that so many smart people disbelieve everything the Bush administration says, and buy everything that anyone opposed to the administration says.
Lord knows I hate the Shrub with a passion I have hitherto reserved for Jim Morrison, but recognizing that both sides will stretch the truth is important to being a responsible citizen.
This isn’t triggered by anything here, but by something I’ve seen on another list I belong to.
2.
I’m thinking of going out for a slam team again just to fuck with the NPS slam conventions, but I’m trying to weigh that against the probable desires of other teammates. iWPS isn’t an option for me; I like iWPS as it is.
Maybe I’ll slam to get on the Providence team…heh, heh, heh…
Gizmo Project/LJ Talk
Anyone added this? I just did…it allows you to IM other folks on your LJ friends list.
I could care less about that, as I detest IMs.
What I like is this: it also allows you to MAKE PHONE CALLS FOR FREE to other LJ friends via your external mike and speakers.
As a person who has no land line and tries to minimize cell usage, I am most interested in this…GO GET IT and let’s talk!
Poetry formats
I’m curious: where do you place your open mike in your show, and what are the pros and cons?
I’m thinking about shifting our format at Gotpoetry from open mike 1st, feature second after a smoke break. We don’t have a slam.
Thoughts? I’d appreciate it. TIA.
So…
Is slam dying off? What will take its place if it is?
I think the answer is yes, but then again, I’ve been saying that for years. As good as Austin and Albuquerque were, I’m not feeling the excitement about the work I once did — and I think the status of National champions has fallen as well, both team and individual.
I’ve attended two of the three iWPS events, and I think the variety of time restraints has been good for the form — I much prefer that event to NPS.
But how is it faring at the local level? Discussions here and elsewhere seem to indicate a real falling off of audiences, and perhaps a “been there, done that” thing is taking hold.
Thoughts?
Dark Matter 