I have come to believe
that this is my one true place:
lying still in the dark, then leaving bed
to seize another few moments
of tapping fingers
and poisonous inhales, digging for
things to say when no one
is listening, hoping
someone will wake up
and respond. If you choose
to call it a pathology or
a yearning for love, I can’t stop you;
call it as you see it as long as you say it
directly to me. That way we can each sit
in our respective shelters, staring at light,
waiting for an answer.
Monthly Archives: December 2006
Networking
I’m too tired to update.
suffice it to say i’m in the grand hyatt in downtown denver, staying in a suite, and about ready to collapse.
i had an interesting conversation regarding race relations in the US with the taxi driver on the way in from the airport, but i’ll have to address it later.
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb…
Done in Dallas
Last session complete. Back in the hotel room for a bit, then off to Denver.
I managed a first class upgrade for that leg of the trip — God, do I need it.
More from Denver later.
I’m up again
and figure I might as well stay up now…
Scanning the headlines, this little item caught my eye:
Seminole Nation of Florida to buy Hard Rock Cafe and Casino Chain
That’s a lot of money. Considering that at one point the whole island of Manhattan went for about 40 dollars worth of blankets and beads, I’d say that the state of Native American business affairs has changed a lot.
(NOTE: add sarcasm to taste.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’m missing a sock. Anyone see it?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’m listening to my local (Boston) NPR affiliate while sitting in Dallas, thanks to the magic of Internet streaming.
In my car, I’ve got XM radio so I can listen to the same national stations wherever I am in the country.
I like my streaming radio, I like my satellite radio — but I do wonder sometimes whether or not there’s a diminishment of the sense of place inherent in all these technological breakthroughs.
It’s just like the sense of time. I used to be able to tell time by what TV show was on, and the idea of “appointment TV” was understood. We don’t have that anymore, what with TiVO, DVR, DVDs of series, etc.
Do you think the rise of reality TV and its live finales is related to the idea of trying to salvage appointment TV? The idea that people will stay home and tune in to see the final result?
XM has a slogan: “Everything, all the time.” I’m not sure what that concept means to us these days, even as it becomes more and more of a reality.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I think I’ll go take a shower and get dressed.
Terrific night at the Dallas Slam
Like the subject line says…
The open mike was excellent. There’s a cat there named Sh-Boom who does some fun wordplay stuff — don’t always love the subject matter, but it’s well done and usually pretty funny.
A guy named Javier did a love poem that had hearts melting all over the audience, including mine.
Corbet Dean was the feature, and his two sets were great. His love poem trilogy was a nice departure. He’s a hell of a performer, of course, and tonight it shone through.
I read one piece in the open mike, doing “The Radioactive Artist” by request. I was struck and amazed, as always, by finding people in the audience who knew the poem before hearing me read it. I’ll never get used to that.
The slam was also quite good, and was won by Colin Gilbert who completely deserved the win. His MS poem is a new favorite of mine.
At the end of the night, I did “Mission Statement” which fulfilled a dream of mine. The Dallas slam has used the poem often in the past and pretty much everyone in the room knew it, so getting to read it in a room that’s made it a staple was a humbling and wonderful experience. It’s nice to know that you’ve touched people with your work, especially people you’ve never met.
Now to bed — got to train in the AM (setting up the room at 6AM!) and then off to Denver in the PM to do it all again. Whee!
God, I miss being home.
New MP3 up
The Myspace page now has a new MP3 on it.
It’s a hotel room recording of “Punk.” I need a good live version of it, but this will hold y’all, I think. Enjoy.
Thus ends my marathon posting day. Beddy bye now…
Walnut
I’ve spent all these years writing
and still haven’t found a good way
to work the word “walnut” into a poem.
Oh, I’ve written poems and had the word in place
but it never makes magic. I still try
but every poem with the word “walnut” in it
feels like the last one I wrote.
When I get on stage, I’m up there
saying “walnut” and it falls out of me
like a Christmas bow on New Year’s Day.
The people in front of me nod sagely
and tell me afterward how much they respect me,
but I still can’t work “walnut” into a poem
that will make me young in their eyes again.
I could say: I walk a walnut mile
every time I step into a poem,
I smell walnut on the butt of the pen,
I see walnut sides on my big guitar,
a walnut tree in the yard beyond my own,
but “walnut” as a conjure word
is beyond me.
Perhaps I should be glad
“walnut” resists my poetry, preferring not to be
a metaphor, preferring to be
a wood, a brain nut, a milk chocolate swirl
bent to an hourglass shape. Perhaps
I was never meant to make “walnut”
a magic word.
But I live in hope that someone’s
going to do it,
and that on that day,
I will die
exalting, a walnut stake
through my heart, my head
on a pillow of nutmeats,
brown leaves for a shroud,
my dry words blowing across the neighbor’s yard.
Boy, deja vu all over again
Some of you may recall that last year, just about this time, I ended up doing a meeting at the most overwhelming hotel/resort/convention center/monument to excess I’d ever been in.
Sumbitch, I’m there again.
http://www.gaylordhotels.com/gaylordtexan/facts/
Click around the site to truly appreciate the, um, grandeur.
the half breed speaks to his dying father
you never told me
how you met mom, why you married,
why you won’t tell me the date
you were married.
(oh, i think i can guess. but i’ll never
know for sure if you don’t say it.
and i don’t care, by the way. the way i see it
once you’re here, you’re here,
and it doesn’t matter much
what others call you because
you’re a bastard sometimes
no matter who you are most of the time.)
i grew up smart, and i was cool, i was everything
except what i wanted to be. i wanted
the stereotype — the feathers, the stern and stolid face.
then i gave up and tried to be you, and all i want now
is to know
at last
who you thought
i was.
what did you call me on the day I was born?
did you whisper
a potent name in my ear
that i never remembered, or that
you never said out loud again? should i be
thanking you or shaking you for the name? will it
kill me or make me feel better than i’ve ever felt?
did my fantasy have a root?
come on, dad. spit it out
if you know what my life
meant to you.
give me my footing before you go.
this week’s schedule
1. Leave for Dallas Tuesday @ noon.
2. Train in Dallas Wednesday and Thursday — replacing trainer whose father died
3. Dallas slam visit Wednesday night
4. Thursday PM fly to Denver — trainer replacement as above
5. Train in Denver Friday AM
6. Fly home Friday PM
Busy, but finally getting paid. 🙂
question
I haven’t done a Zero Point Zero column for a while, and am not sure if I will again — it doesn’t seem to me to add anything else to the Gotpoetry site beyond what Scott Woods, Victor Infante, and Deb Powers are bringing with their columns.
Do you think it’s worth it to bring it back? Be honest — I’m looking for real feedback here, not stroking.
Literary Theory
I think most of the poems I hear at open mics and slams can be summed up in three words: “Where’s the love?”
This goes for political poems, love poems, and pretty much anything else I can think of.
Any other candidates for a good three word literary theory?
Jim and Sondra Share A Moment (fragment)
he slides
down the hospital corridor
in foam rubber slippers
and drawstring pants because
they’ve taken his belt away.
he spies her, lying in the bed
with her mummy-swathed wrists,
and when their eyes touch
it’s meat on a griddle: sizzle
and black marks all over.
___________________________________________
It’s odd to me that the next piece of the Jim and Sondra poems should be the last one in the series as I’ve envisioned it, but perhaps I need to figure out the end before I fill in the middle. After all, the Jim Poems weren’t written in order either.
I’ve also decided to take the unusual step (for me) of sharing this fragment before the poem is substantially completed. Just an experiment. I have no idea if this is the beginning, the end, the middle, or whether or not this will even end up in the completed piece. It belongs here now, I guess.
Admission
I kinda hate Radiohead, with the exception of “Idiotheque.”
The older I get, the more my listening tastes devolve to:
— three chords and great lyrics whether acoustic or electric
— cool beats, preferably not electronic
— outrageous free jazz and other experimental music — again, not typically electronic
There are individual exceptions, of course.
Blanket
Onerous
as it may be to admit it,
I’ve got to allow
that inadequacy
has been my greatest strength.
It feels like everyone in the world
is better than me
at anything at which
I’m halfway good.
I wake up as a slouch
all the time, walk my sidewalk
with a dirty shuffle,
snicker when I should laugh
and sniffle when I should cry.
I think it’s because I’m old
and in the way. Overstayed
my welcome, became just good enough
to bother people without stirring them.
My pockets are lined with love notes
I never sent, full of bad grammar and diffidence.
Despite all that, I’ve got something in me
that likes this. I love biting on tinfoil.
I chew it up and spit it out and figure next time
I’ll swallow. All I’ve ever wanted is to be perfect,
and every failure has made me want it even more.
But here it is: the moment when I know
I’ll never be a star, never be a gadfly,
never be anything besides the old man
with bad hair and a decent vocabulary.
I used to trust my weaknesses to keep me strong
and wanting. I’ve got no reason
for that now. I’m winding my self up
in a torn blanket tonight, burning
the notebooks, falling asleep hoping I won’t
wake up — but I will, I’m sure.
Dark Matter 