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.