Monthly Archives: August 2008

Tonight at the Asylum

I read "Saints Reflect…" and "Total Recall."

Both went over well, but with "Total Recall,"  I was the most nervous I’ve been about reading a poem onstage in a long, long time.  I’m not far enough along in terms of distance from the subject matter to be able to truly perform the piece well. 

A couple of people have suggested that it might be better to keep it as a page only piece.  Maybe eventually, it will be; maybe it will always work better on page.  But I still need to read that out loud for a while, for me, if for no one else.

Of course, this means I’ll be reading it on Wednesday at the Cantab, when I’m there for dkeali_i ‘s feature.  And probably on Sunday in Nantucket as well.  I need to put this into perspective.

In other news, I almost got run over by Foghat today at the Woodstock Fair.  Yes, you read that right.  No, I’m not going to explain it; trust me, the explanation’s much less interesting than the sentence.

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

Quick poem:

the next time
someone asks me
to explain the difference between
what I do and what a real poet does,

I will explain that a real poet
would punch them in the mouth
for asking that question,

like this.


Saints Reflect On Katrina as Gustav Approaches

— headline on a news story, August 29, 2008

Matthew, who covers accountants,
is sharpening pencils, placing each one
into a lead lined box
so they won’t float away this time.

Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael, the messengers,
are rehearsing. Brass is their specialty
and they’re dropping a little swing into their fanfares
because — well, just because.

Anthony of Padua lays out the magnifying glasses,
the dowsing rods, the long poles for probing
deep water, the black bags for the recoveries.
He is the finder.  He will be ready.

Everyone’s busy — Genevieve, disasters; Jude, desperate causes;
Martin de Porres, race relations; Joseph, of course,
overseeing both death and social justice, is working out,
getting in shape, doubling up on his reps.

Me?  I’m Anthony the Abbot.  This is Elizabeth Seton,
and to her right is Jerome Emiliani — in charge of
gravediggers, lost parents, and orphans, respectively.
We’re on standby, coming to you live

from a place somewhere nearby, somewhere hot and sticky
and not exactly forgotten, somewhere not exactly anyone’s idea
of Heaven anymore.  Bernadine, who has responsibility
for public relations, tells us not to mention the name

just in case anyone should draw conclusions about us
and our readiness last time.  I’ll say this much: sometimes,
we do our best and the worst still happens.  When it does,
it’s usually because we counted on help from those

with boots on the ground, no matter how soggy it gets
they’ve still gotta do their part if we’re to be of any service
at all.  That didn’t happen.  We’ll see what goes down this time,
I guess.  Foresight doesn’t fall into our jurisdiction.

Oh, in case you were curious — yes, there are two among us
who bear those names.  They’re old, and we don’t trust them
with anything of consequence anymore; don’t confuse them
with their namesakes, though.  We cause nothing to happen:

we’re all about the aftermath.


More on GPL venue search…

Fear not, as we have a couple of new possibilities in the offing…no details yet.


NPS2009 in Florida

Have fun, folks. Heat plus humidity means no NPS next year for me…I loathe Florida in August, having spent a lot of time there (lots of businesses use the lower rates that time of year to book big conventions and meetings).


Discouraging

theryk and I began the search for a new venue for GotPoetry Live today, visiting three places. No luck.

We’ll keep looking, but these were our three best bets. One’s got a horrible layout, one’s not going to be open at night, and one’s decided to not hold events like open mikes and music without the series renting the space — not a great condition.

As I said, we’ll keep looking.

Stay tuned.


American Autumn

This time of year, when the good weather
is winding down, swans appear on ponds and lakes
everywhere, their glorious, Art Nouveau necks
slipping through the mirrors
into the brown-green muck below.

They don’t want you to remember
that they rose to this
from their birth as sin-ugly ashy cygnets,
that they rode on their parents’ handsome backs
until they were ready to take their places,

so if you get too close
they will attack, breaking your limbs
with angelic weapons, fervently trying
to cut you open with their cruddy,
razored mouths, working every ounce of their weight

to keep you from thinking of the way
their eyes are black, all black,
with no light shining through from inside;
to keep you from thinking of anything except
the arc of their feeding, their classical poise.


Weekend update, and Shows in the offing…

Busy weekend.

Friday night: 

   got free tickets to the Pats/Eagles pre-season game.  This was a disaster:  an accident or something on the Pike led to us eventually taking a grand total of 3.5 hours to get there from Worcester. It’s usually a 50 minute drive, tops.  We caught the third quarter and left about halfway through the fourth, as the Pats were getting their asses handed to them anyway.

Saturday: attended Schemitzun, the big pow-wow/rodeo down at the Foxwoods casino.  I needed that, I learned; it had been a long time since I last attended a pow-wow.  Good times.  I got a T-shirt that has a picture of Geronimo, Victorio, and other fun folks on the front with the caption: “Homeland Security: Defending Against Terrorism Since 1492.” Heh.

Sunday:  Flew to Atlanta for work; met up with

   and we went to the Java Monkey for the reading, which was great and a fun time with some really excellent work in the open and a feature by Yolo.  It rained like a sumbitch, and the poetry continued anyway…can’t beat that. 

Monday:  Trained all day; last session of the August marathon.  After flight delays, got home around 1:30 Tuesday AM.

Tuesday:  Billing, invoices, went out and bought a new washing machine to replace the one that quit for good during pre-trip laundry on Sunday AM (grr), writing, cooking, hanging out, TV, sleep.

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

As for the shows:  Where, you say?

September 7: Nantucket, Massachusetts; Duende co-features with Melissa Guillet at the Nantucket Poetry Slam.

September 30: Solo feature at the Newark Arts Alliance, Newark, Delaware.

November 2: One of an amazing list of folks at the Bowery Poetry Club, NYC, to celebrate the continuing success of the online journal of literary political writing, The November 3rd Club.

The list: readers include Patricia Smith, Alicia Ostriker, Marty McConnell, Tara Betts, Kirpal Gordon, Tony Brown, Skip Shea, Madeline Artenberg, Iris Schwartz, Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz, Michael Cirelli and Lea Deschenes…

To quote Victor, the organizer and editor: “Seriously. That’s not a reading. That’s a god-damned revolution.”

November 12: Kafe Kerouac, Columbus, OH…solo show

Details for all of these events at http://www.myspace.com/poetrybytonybrown

And more in the works…stay tuned.


total recall

1. (in an office at work)
“they hate white guys like us.”
“i’m not white.”
“what do you mean?”
“my father’s Mescalero.”
“oh, that doesn’t count.”

2. (in a bar)
“you’re a conquered people
and you’re just going to have
to get used to that.”

3. (at my nonni’s house)
“your father steals from me
every time he’s in my house.”
“no, he didn’t, nonni.”
“he does. he stole a knife. he stole money.
i no understand why
your mother want to be
with those Indian peoples.
it’s good you look like her father.”

4. (my father’s way of saying how bad the pain was)
“i’ve got a headache
that would kill a white man.”

5. (at school)
“your dad brought two colored kids
home for the weekend to stay over?”
“yes.”
“did they smell funny? do Indians
get along with them? i didn’t know that.”

6. (at the office)
“oh, i love Indians! Indians
are so beautiful — i love their feathers
and the way they dance. do you dance?
do you have feathers?”

7. (at school)
“how come your sister
looks like a chink
and you look like a wop?”

8. (driving with my dad)
“i’m never gonna marry
a white girl.”
“son, your mother’s white.
it doesn’t matter sometimes.
marry who you love.”

9. (outside a club)
“don’t you really hate seeing these kids
running around with mohawks
when they’re not even Indian?”

10. (in a coffee shop)
“take your glasses off.
oh, yeah, i can see it now.”

11. (at work)
“now that your hair is long,
i can really see it.”

12. (too many times to choose)
“now that i know, of course,
it’s obvious.”

13. (at school)
“i’m really surprised
that you have to shave.
does your father have to shave?”

14. (during a performance review)
“aren’t you a little old
for this? i mean, aren’t you supposed
to have gotten over this, had a vision quest
or something when you were young?”

15. (too many times, too many bars)
“should you be drinking this much,
i mean, you know, fire water and all that?”

16. (at work)
“when your mother makes lasagna,
does she use buffalo in the sauce?”

17. (third week, introduction to anthropology, freshman year)
“so, you’re Italian and you’re Indian?
god, you must have a temper.”

18. (junior year, private school)
“jesus, put away the knife! what are you — crazy?
it’s just a word, you are a half-breed,right?
that’s what you are, right?
i’m sorry, jesus, i’m sorry, i didn’t know,
how’m i supposed to know that? you’re fucking
crazy!”

19. (being interviewed for someone’s grad thesis)
“so, how do you describe yourself?”
‘i don’t, i guess. not really. not anymore.
i guess ‘poet’ works as well as anything.”

“which side do you get that from?”

20. (first time in Italy)
“my mom’s family’s from around naples.”
“but this isn’t Napoli. why you come here?”
“because i’ve always wanted to see Venice.”
“you should see Napoli. you should see.”
“next time, maybe.”
“yes, next time. something there for you, maybe.
maybe home.”
“yes, maybe.”

21. ( first time on the rez)
“i’m looking for records, anything.
my father was born here, was sent to a residential school
and joined the army after,
he lost touch with every one, never came back.”

“there are no records, though. everything
was lost in a fire back in ’67. i’m sorry. you’ll have to do
some work to prove it, if you’re interested in being on the rolls –“
“no, that’s not it. i just wanted — something.
anything.”

“well…
welcome home.”

 

 


Starting tomorrow, I’m staying away from LJ for a few days. I’m way, way too angry, evidently more than I should be, and it’s a little scary.

Went to a pow wow today. It helped.


Hey nerak_g or any other Atlanta folks

Is the poetry scene at the Apache Cafe on Sunday night worth checking out? I’ll be in Atlanta Sunday night and it’s around the corner from my hotel.

ETA: So based on this, looks like I’ll be visiting Java Monkey on Sunday night in Atlanta. Hope to see y’all in the neighborhood there!


It’s Biden

and I’m voting Green again.

A pretty decent take on a lot of my feelings is here.

Put simply, Biden rubs me all kinds of raw and has for years. The choice is just offensive. The “I have a long way to go, and look how I’ve learned to adapt” argument described in the article doesn’t wash for me, and the choice stinks of caving to conventional wisdom.

If someone had said something like that about me, he’d never have been on the list to be considered.

The illusion was nice while it lasted.


Hey everybody!

I’d like to introduce you to something I hope you’ll find interesting:

apoemintheether

I recommend you read it a couple of times as is before you explore it in depth.

Really, really interested in seeing what you think. Let me know, and feel free to friend “him” if you want.

This is just a starting point, and I can’t wait to see what develops.


OK…the “secret post”…

Many of you have contacted me about my post of a couple of days ago that looked like a private post. The one that said, more or less:

If you can read this,
you’re the only one
who can read this.

As you may have guessed, that was a post to my entire friends’ list. Anyone on my friends’ list could read it.

A little sneaky, but I did it as a sort of opening shot on a project I’m thinking about.

Specifically, I’m thinking of creating a poem or series of poems that take advantage of the unique structure of LJ — that would contain links, LJ cut text, filtered links leading to sections of the poem locked to some folks and not to others, sections of the poem in comments fields, etc. I’m not sure yet exactly how to do it, how to begin, or anything more than that broad concept, really; I’m just thinking at this point about using the functionality of the site to create an unusual art project that stretches and challenges how we think about blogging, the tension between public and private thought, the use of hyperlinking, whatever. I figure it will evolve with time, and I may not start it for a week or two simply because I’ve got limited time to work on it till then and I want to “storyboard” the initial sections, so to speak, before I begin.

If you were fooled by this and are offended, I’m sorry; call it a little experiment that went a little astray in the execution. But I’m definitely moving forward with this — maybe even to the point of creating a new username to put it under.

Any thoughts? Who would be interested in being a party to this if I move forward with it?


Hypocrite (was: Spoiled Priest)

It doesn’t matter
what you’re thinking.

You’re too small to think.
You’re too small to bother with.

One bad experience doesn’t make up
for a lifetime of ease.

You don’t get to say otherwise.
You don’t have a right to feel persecuted.

Still — you wanna be haunted? Looking for
an exorcism, but want it done by a spoiled priest

to make it feel slightly dirty
but still a bit legit,

strong enough for to claim absolution
but not strong enough to require penance?

You aren’t worth a ghost’s bother —
certainly, you’re not worth mine.

Keep looking.
And cross the street

if you see me coming —
I’m not your kind of confessor.


Breathing

The natural order
is this:

first, we breathe,
then, we cry.

Nursing, sleeping, dreaming,
eating, drinking, elimination

all follow,
but the breathing is constant,

will be often unnoticed,
will be sweet and foul equally,

continues through smiling, laughing,
writhing, crawling, walking,

reading, writing, eventually
sex and its attendant foibles,

compounded from everything already mentioned,
working — grieving and recovery,

losing, winning, parenting
and more of all the above, and still

the breathing continues, up until
it stops, forgotten at once upon cessation

along with everything else.
We create so much along the rails of breath,

marking the events
left trackside as being our truest expression

when the miracle
is measured in breath upon breath

taken in spite
of all the rest,

and in our continual recovery
from the first sharp cry we gave

after drawing the ripe tang of the world
into our lungs —

why do we focus on the crying and laughter,
desiring one over the other

when the breathing is what remains constant?
We are not made to be happy or sad forever:

we were meant only to breathe,
and to count the rest of it as mere consequence,

just the fruit
of the natural order,

just the rumble of a train
going home.