I think I’m gonna avoid reading LJ  as much as I usually do for a day or two, at least through Monday; I’m on election overload. 

Seriously — I know who y’all are voting for, I’m pretty sure who I’m voting for, and I can get all the sane and crazy I need through the news sites and various other sites I track.  

Besides — I’ve got this to think about:

I figure I’ll be talking politics all night there, so a break seems in order.  See  y’all later.

the Phillies have won the World Series.

…

…

Can you say anticlimactic? I like the way you say that!  You said it right!

Another good night at GPL last night, with an open that filled late but filled — seriously, what’s the deal, folks??? Eight o’clock it starts, list out at 7:30…place is only open till 10, fer Chrissakes 😉  — and a good feature by the folks of the Off Nine Crew/Collective/Aggregate/Conglomerate/Hive/Borg….

Next week — due to Blue State Coffee having been a hotbed of organizational work for Obama, we’ve decided to just open the doors for an extended open — no feature, just folks sharing poems and other good words about the democratic process or whatever.  Republicans welcome — and yes, I mean that.  I figure it’s gonna be a crazy night there anyway….

And don’t forget that on Sunday at 10 PM, I’ll be one of the folks reading at the Bowery Poetry Club for the November 3rd Club’s annual reading, to wit:  "Victor D. Infante hosts a night of poetry & politics to celebrate the "November 3rd Club" online literary journal of political writing. 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. Seriously. That’s not a reading. That’s a god-damned revolution. "

(By the way…I might get there early if I were you… the BPC site’s listing a book release party at 6 PM that includes poetry and music by someone named Patti Smith and a guitarist, Lenny Kaye….)

Later, folks…

In the wet market
a poet searches the stalls.
Desiring to cook something
with AIDS,
he looks over a tray of  I have AIDS, sniffs
at a basket of this is the name of my pain,
tries to decide what can be done with
there is a flower that grows in plastique
and blooms in blood…

At another vendor, another poet is thinking
of preparing a message and weighs
the possibilities of Valkyrie against
Knight Rider Barbie, tries to choose, fails,
buys both and moves on.

A third poet
rejects all the proffered produce of love,
the red breath, the silk finger,
the charred emerald eyes. The seller
throws up his hands in disgust…

All testing, humming over select spice, savoring
the differences between the modern diamond
and the heirloom adamantine, deciding whether
the dusk will taste blue or azure, whether to boil the whole
in a stream or a creek, leave it covered and simmering for hours
with sky or heaven or firmament. 

In the wet market
people dream before they buy and go home
to poems grilled or steamed, broiled
to black.  AIDS becomes an easy metaphor
and falls into hot stale grease, a woman’s war on denial
is tossed with field greens and eaten swiftly before
the entree, and love is just a green puree
on a cheap glass plate.

On the edge of the market,
on the way home,
a table holds bowls of fresh water,
herbs, fresh fish
soaked in lime juice. 
A sign on the table reads:

Whoever tastes the fresh water
will want to taste the herbs. 
Whoever tastes the herbs
will want to taste the fish.
Whoever tastes the fish
will turn from the market
and go home simple and satisfied.

Who will stop there?
No one today.
There are too many stands serving
quick meals, too many ways to overfill
basic needs, to answer want with gluttony.

If the sign had only advertised
ceviche,
this might have been
a different story.

This is actually more of a sketch than a draft at this point, as more is coming later on it…the ending especially is more of a placeholder and the final piece will be far less "meta."

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

In the wet market of words,
a poet searches the stalls
desiring to cook something
with a little taste of AIDS —

looks over I have AIDS, sniffs
at this is the name of my pain,
tries to decide what can be done with
there is a flower that grows in plastique
and blooms in blood…

Elsewhere, at another vendor, another poet
is thinking of a feminist message and weighs
the possibilities of Valkyrie against
Knight Rider Barbie, tries to choose, fails,
buys both and moves on.

A third poet
rejects all the proffered produce of love,
the red breath, the silk finger,
the charred emerald eyes, and the seller
throws up his hands in disgust…

"Are you here for the flavor,"
he asks,
"or are you just looking to fill
bellies with ballast?
Food is not just for eating!
Memories come alive in the stomach,
the heart needs more than starch, so
come and get
more than full here — "

On the edge of the market,
on the way home,
a table holds bowls of fresh water,
herbs, fresh fish
soaked in lime juice. 
A sign on the table reads:

Whoever tastes the water
will want to taste the herbs. 
Whoever tastes the herbs
will want to taste the fish.
Whoever tastes the fish
will turn from the market
and go home
satisfied.

Who will stop there? No one today.
There are too many stands serving
easy meals.  Too many things
anyone can chew, swallow, excrete,
and still be left wanting.

I really, really hate it when artists take on that self-satisfied tone about how much more important the work they do is than the work of the people who choose not to be full-time creatives.  How any lack of attention paid to them is a mark of society’s skewed perspectives, and how those poor, mindless drones are in desperate need of their work to bring meaning to their pitiful lives.

I wrote this years ago, after hearing one too many incredulous poets question my choice not to be a full-time poet.  As if there was something inferior or crazy about that choice…

Sorry to inflict it on those of you who know it, but I need to say this tonight.

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

has been mostly due to the fact that Missy came home.

🙂

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

Don’t forget GotPoetry Live tomorrow night:

The Off-9 Collective of McKendry Fils-Aime, Sam Teitel, Cassandra de Alba, and Kate Richardson will be our feature.

GotPoetry Live
@ Blue State Coffee
300 Thayer Street
Providence, RI

7:30 sign up
8:00-10:00 open room/feature performer

Hope to see you there!

Your result for What Your Taste in Art Says About You Test…

Extroverted, Progressive, and Intelligent

Take What Your Taste in Art Says About You Test at HelloQuizzy

Although I don’t think of myself as extroverted. No comment on the rest, but I knew I’d end up with a skew toward Cubism and Abstract work.

theryk got an email and the owners like us…

From his LJ:

I just got the noticification that Blue State Coffee wants us to continue our poetry series. Good crowds, good words and a growing community. Thank you Adam Stone and Stephen Dobyns (as well as all the open mic readers) for showing the venue what we had in mind.

They like us and they want us to stay!

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

And thank you to everyone who’s been coming out over the last two weeks — you made it work.  We’re back in business.

Bear cub shot dead, covered with Obama signs.

"Inappropriate." 

Personally, I reserve that word for things like farting in church, but I suppose it means different things to different people.  Killing an animal and then draping it in the campaign signs of a Presidential candidate could be considered inappropriate in some quarters, I guess.  But  since John McCain has reprimanded John Lewis for his inappropriate suggestion that the current atmosphere is reminiscent of the days of lynchings and such, I may be out of line, as well, in suggesting that the wanton killing of an animal and using its carcass as a threat to his opponent might be anything more than inappropriate behavior.

I sure hope we don’t get to see anything stronger than such inappropriate behavior before the election, don’t you?

Dobyns has written what is absolutely the best poem ever about lighting your farts.  No, I’m not kidding.  He referenced Lorca in the introduction to it, fer Chrissakes…

Excellent feature, great open mike, and all around good stuff.  Thanks to all who came out.

Next week: the Off-9 Collective (Kate Richardson, Sam Teitel, McKendry Fils-Aime, and Cassandra de Alba) will be the collective feature.  Come down and get crazy with the Cheez-Whiz.  Or something like that.

My recent poem, "carve," seems to be getting a decent reception from folks…so I took another step with it:  there’s a recording of it up on my Myspace page.

Amazing how easy this recording thing is nowadays…I used to fiddle with analog stuff back in the day, but digital makes it all so much easier.  Hope you enjoy.

Best laid plans and all that:  meeting got canceled when I was in transit.  Then, other plans went up in the air for good reason.

So, I hit B&N and picked up, after much browsing, the newest Li-Young Lee book.  I’m such a creature of habit.  But it’s a good habit.

Dinner tonight at Lea and Victor’s, then.