Monthly Archives: March 2007

God, I hate this intermittent insomnia crap.

But it does give me an opportunity to pass on the fact that my poem “Man At The Pharmacy” is up now in the current issue of the online mag “Breath and Shadow.” I found this site quite by chance and decided to submit a while back and am pleased that they saw fit to take this one; it’s close to my heart.

Read it at http://www.abilitymaine.org/breath/

And while I’m trying to get sleepy — and I can’t take anything to sleep because I’ve got to be up so FUCKING EARLY on top of all this — I am also trying to edit a mix for the Duende CD. Yup, we’re attempting to put together a full length CD for the tour — it’ll include “Jim’s Fall” but add in a few of the other pieces we’ve been working on, including some of the stuff we’ve done with Faro on nylon-string guitar.

Once we get past this CD, we’ll be working on the next batch, including (I hope) some pieces I’m writing for the project — up till now we’ve been setting existing pieces to music; it’s time to try putting new poetry to existing music. I’m finding it challenging but fun.

More later…back to the virtual mixing board…

–T


Another day, another business trip…

I’m in McLean, VA at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.

Tomorrow I run a training program in the morning, then fly home.

Sunday, I run the Sacred Fools workshop for the Ballard Street Poetry Journal.

Next week, I do this again in Charlotte.

The following week, I’m on tour with Faro through Baltimore, Delaware, and Boston.

After that, it’s off to Toronto for three days and then a show in NYC on the 19th.

At some point, I’m going to get some sleep. It’ll be fun, I think.


Protected: Prompted by discussions on another list…

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Mostly for the poets on the friends’ list

but anyone’s welcome to chime in:

What poetry are you reading and/or listening to right now, other than what you get here?


Food Network

Brother,
I gotta tell you, your
poetry stinks so
it sure must be good —
must be the marinade
you’re using.
I’d ask for the recipe
but then I’d want to use it
myself and that’s
out — no
copying what works, that’s
what I was always told.
Make it up yourself,
that’s what I learned coming up
and I try even though
my poetry doesn’t stink half as much
as yours does.

Let me
have another bite of that.
I like how stringy it is.
I like what you’ve done with its
obvious faults. I know I said it
was the marinade but now I’m thinking
it’s gotta be the heat you cook with —
gas, grill, electric? Never mind,
it’s not important, you just do
what you do and I’ll do the same.

You tell those kids to shut up.
Just because your poetry
smells like old people and
holocausts doesn’t mean
it’s not nutritious. I mean,
liver is good for you too and
that tastes like pure doom
even when it’s done perfectly.

Gimme another slice of that
stuff you’re serving, and spoon
some of that black juice it sits in
over the top. Maybe it’s the marinade
or the way you cook it, but something
in the flavor of it
reminds me of a good rancid
spring swamp and I guess
life’s gotta start somewhere.

You’ve got a real feel for this.

Brother, Jesus,
your poem stinks, stinks all nervous
like a whore in church, like
it did something dirty when no one
was looking,
it’s gotta be good for something.


Protected: Hand and Tree

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Protected: heads up

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Here’s a sweet little story for you to chew on:

http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/03/24/sexchange.firing.ap/index.html


Bouquet (for Stefan)

Here you go:

BOUQUET

1.
The brain
knows many things.
Some of them you know,
some you do not.

2.
If the brain
was a flower,
you would be
its scent.

3.
Perhaps
the brain is a
flower, starving
for light, lunging out
through the eyes
for sustenance.

4.
If you plucked
your brain out
and held it to the light,
would you have a mind?

5.
The mind lives
in the brain and
hides in its petals.
The mind is the dark
among the riots of color.

6.
You sleep
and the brain corrals
the mind. They talk all night,
pretending they are
you. In the morning
you are nearly mad
from the echoes of their
conversation.

7.
Put your hands
around your mind
and know it’s not
part of the scheme
that you should understand
everything: there are things
shoring up the partners
that would terrify you
if you knew them.

8.
The brain blooms
long after you close your eyes.
The mind rises from its nooks and folds
to escape, moving past you,
playing in the meadows.

9.
The mind drifts back
in the hot late afternoon. Your head grows heavy
with pollen. You open your mouth
and bees fly in
to take their fill while the mind
avoids being stung
by the danger in the commerce.

10.
When you sleep
the mind and brain bear ideas.
You pretend they are your own fruit.
The brain laughs at you. The mind
strokes you softly, saying,
“There, there…”

11.
You are the scent.
Something plucks your brain
and you die slowly. Maybe
another brain and another mind
recall you for a while, but
you’ll certainly fade.

12.
Anything
fed long enough
on vision, scent, touch,
sound, taste will double back
on its own surety. The brain
makes you sleepy. The mind
makes you frightened. You
make yourself believe
there are reasons for everything.

13.
A night blooming flower
holds its beauty
until first light, collapsing
at the first touch of your hand,
staining your memory
with a scent you never can
describe.


brief check in

— I leave for a couple of days in DC tomorrow — back Friday

— I’m writing a lot, but have decided to not post stuff here for a bit — just shaking up my process.

— Getting excited and ready for the tour!

— Also: I’ll be in Toronto (tentatively) for a few days in mid April for a job, so I might check out the scene a bit.

Minor and mundane — I hate posts like this — but some folks wanted to know if I was OK. I am.


Thank you

to everyone who’s supported Gotpoetry Live over the past year.

We had a great evening last night for the first anniversary — Ducky gave a great feature to a packed house and the open mike had lots of diverse and interesting voices.

Again, thank to everyone.


Gotpoetry

Tonight, at Reflections Cafe, 8 Governor Street, Providence, we’re having the first anniversary of our Gotpoetry Live reading.

Our feature will be reading regular Ducky, in a nod to the folks who’ve grown up with the reading in the last year.

I’m looking forward to this, and I think you should be too. Come out and celebrate the little reading that could — and did.

Who knows — I might even read a new poem.


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one day short of two weeks (kicking)

no song is fast enough. no opinion makes sense. no patience, no censor, no holding. no moment of calm in stomach full, tongue wet, heart even, slow chest rising and sinking.

no time for people beyond the necessary few who stay because they stay. no time to spend love except close by.

no peaceful drift to long sleep at regular hours. no way to disguise the footsteps in the kitchen late at night in search of whatever isn’t visible in the bedroom.

no way to disguise the end of things.

no imagining a gouging job, a telekinetic girlfriend, a Harlem Passion, a tall figure leaning back onto a lowrider.

no desire to abide when time is the only, the all there is. no starting, finishing without need of future.

no. no. no. no.


literary career advice

keep an eye open.
keep both.
let a thing catch one.
see it.
view a thing properly.
view a thing improperly.
do either and follow one with the other.
lean back from a thing once seen.
see it again another way.

find a word that describes a thing.
find two words.
find more than a few more words for describing a thing.
describe a thing.
describe it another way.
describe it as if a thing were another thing.
explain a thing.
get that wrong.
explain it again.
explain a thing again.

see a different thing.
see a first thing in a different thing.

listen to what things you said about a thing.
say those things again.
shift a word to make a music of what you said.
make up new words to make a music for a thing.
make an old word sing a thing anew.
sing old songs to a new thing.
sing for sake of singing.
sing for anything.

see a thing and think it is your own.
write a thing and see it is a different thing.
write about a thing that will not ever be your thing.
write about the same thing.
write about the same thing.
write about the same thing.
fall asleep with your head resting on that same thing.

wake up.

rub your eyes.
see everything that looks the same as the other thing.
see nothing that looks like another thing.

assemble your words into things.
print your things on pieces of paper.
give them names.
sign them.