Monthly Archives: December 2008

Kid Lucifer

You gave me a hell of a choice —
take a dive before the little one
you’d just dreamed up
or take the bigger plunge
out of the ring for good. 
I took the second option,
figuring pride would give me better wings,
and I’ve always been one
for the grand gesture. 

In the long years since
I’ve had no regrets.
I watch the little man
and my feathers
just won’t stay still. 

If I had agreed
to bow to him,
I’d have forgotten
myself by now.  This way,
I am still a contender.
You rat bastard —  don’t forget:
I was the favorite
once,
and I have learned 
how to wait. 


Setting Points

If I ever change the world I will do it through memory,

recalling that once I could set points and change the dwell
on a distributor; could change a manual typewriter ribbon;
could go all day without a phone call — indeed, I could miss phone calls
and never know they had happened unless someone
called back to say they had called earlier and that they were glad
to catch me at home;

recalling that friends who moved away were lost to me
unless I called at great expense or took great pains to write them
regularly, keeping their letters close at hand
to ensure that I never lost an address or a zip code; recalling that
I knew how to look up their numbers in a phone book and could send them
clippings of items from the local paper to keep them up to date
on what they were missing;

recalling that every kid in my neighborhood could fire a rifle,
spent Saturday nights shooting rats at the town dump, never thinking twice
about the danger of guns because we trusted our guns the way
we trusted each other;

recalling that stores were closed on Sunday, that we waited till Monday
if we needed something, that if we needed something on Sunday
it was not important unless we were dying for lack of it, and that need
rarely was anything more than want amplified.

This is not nostalgia.  Nostalgia is for those
who believe nothing is retrievable from what we remember.
I can believe that everything once possible — the things I recall
of how we made it through before — is still possible.

I can recall the sound of a simple car falling into a purr
under my own hands,
ready to drive because I made it so.  I can recall
being ready to go, being unconcerned about who might miss me.
I can recall how it was to be in control of so much, of so many simple things.

If I am to change the world,
it will be because
I can recall how it was
to live 
with my hands always dirty,
and proud of the same.


Article done.

Gonna let it sit for a bit, revise it once I’ve got some distance on it; waiting for some feedback from a couple of folks on one section…up soon.

Ended up as a bit more than 6k words at the moment; likely to grow a bit more but that’s close to the final, I’m sure.

For comparison: the average Zero Point Zero column is about 1000-1500 words.

Whew.


Random ramblings

The article continueth; i’m upwards of 2500 words in by now and may end up making it a two-parter since I suspect I’m only about a third of the way in.  But deciding where to break it?  That may be tough; it may just end up being a marathon read for the inordinately interested, of whom there may be ten or fifteen potential readers.  I’m hoping to have it up by Christmas; outside, Jan 1. 

Suffice it to say that it will end up being about a lot more than just an IWPS report.  To the point: received an email from Buddy Ray MacNiece this morning that ended with a quote that kinda sums up some of what’s in there:

"Truly fine poetry must be read aloud. A good poem does not allow itself to be read in a low voice or silently. If we can read it silently, it is not a valid poem: a poem demands pronunciation. Poetry remembers that it was an oral art before it was a written art. It remembers first that it was a song."  — Borges

And, I would add, that at the very least in the case of slam poetry, that there’s a ritual aspect to it, and a communal purpose.  (More on that in the article; stay tuned.)

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It is annoying that when I forget to adjust the shuffle setting on my iTunes, and actually want to listen to a whole album by some artist (rare for me, preferring the serendipity of getting what comes up), I end up going from TV On The Radio to No Doubt. 

Fixed now…but the annoyance lingers.  (God, I love "Dear Science.")

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Today:  writing, cleaning, un-cluttering (still haven’t really put the house back together from the prep and packing for IWPS), and shopping later. 

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And how are y’all doing?


A question related to the still-in-progress article on IWPS

I promise this is related, if only tangentially…

Are you the same person in your poems that you are in person?  I don’t mean the whole "this one is true, this one is fiction…" thing; I mean, are you as an artist on paper or on stage, the person you are when you are not directly involved in your art?

This may seem like a "duh…" question, but I ask dumb questions sometimes to see what they provoke. 

Thanks in advance…


Garage Litany

Just a trifle while I sniffle.

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

send gibson into marshall
send fender into mesa boogie

direct line —
no pedals! screw pedals!

see what can happen
with just knobs and strings

with divebomb upstroke
downstroke pickrake slap

twist it up flame on
wake the damn neighbors

they’ve been asleep
long enough

tell them that the signal path of excess
leads to the roadhouse of wisdom

and god did not damn the guitar
no matter what they are yelling right now


I am sick.

I HATE colds.  I’d rather have a stomach bug than a cold, which makes you feel vaguely guilty for being subpar in daily life. 

"Goddammit, it’s just a cold, Brown…get back to work on that writing!" 
"No, Conscience, I must sniffle.  I am sorry." 


Crap, pt. 2

I want to go to the Vernon tonight to see Sam Teitel and Steve Subrizi but in the last six hours or so, the small sniffles I’ve been experiencing all day turned into a body-ache and severe runniness.  Grr.


Sandwich

Roast beef,
cheese,
mayo on untoasted whole grain white.

I don’t always want
flavor.  Sometimes,
sustenance is enough —

fill the hole,
move on,
enjoy something else.


Crap.

Warren to deliver inaugural invocation.

Y’know…if he’d taken a less vocal stand against Prop 8, or not justified it by using the free speech argument to say that pastors would have been unable to preach against gay marriage if it passed, I’d have no problem with Warren, or with Obama choosing a conservative pastor for the invocation. 

I’m all for balance and competing views.  This isn’t balance; this is appeasement.


Y’know, the Declaration of Independence

posits that we have a right to the "pursuit of happiness."  Not its achievement.

I tend to believe that the misunderstanding of this clause is a major problem with most Americans. 

There is no right to "be" happy.  You don’t "deserve" happiness; you deserve the opportunity to pursue it as you wish.  If you don’t get it, you don’t get it; pursue it some other way or give up the pursuit as you wish.  That’s your right.

Happiness is a result.  You have a right to try for it.  It is not owed to you.


Oh, yeah — an observation on the willing suspension of disbelief:

My favorite IWPS moment had nothing to do with poetry:  watching an orchestra and choir of robotic bears in Founders’ Hall playing pre-recorded Christmas carols for an assembled audience. 

At the close of each song, the audience applauded. 


Good night at GPL

…newbies in the open, a full list, good poetry, and silliness and fun from our singer-songwriter feature, Jacob Haller of local favorites the Killdevils.

Come down next week for our holiday open mike…which might include anything from anti Christmas poems to traditional fare. 


Late Notice, I know, but come on down to GPL tonight!!!

At Reflections, we did a monthly poetry and music night with Faro available to back up poets on the mike; there were also various singer songwriters who showed up.  One of our favorites was the hysterical Jacob Haller of the Killdevils…his wedding song to his daughter on the occasion of her marriage to Satan was one of my personal high points of the series.

Jacob’s our feature tonight in a break from our tradition of featuring poets.   Come down and laugh your ass off!

GotPoetry Live!
@ Blue State Coffee, 300 Thayer St, Providence, RI
sign up @ 7:30 // reading from 8-10
pass the hat /$2 suggested donation — 1 food or drink item minimum


More random thoughts before the article:

— "Three chords and the truth" is a standard phrase used to describe country music, punk rock — and, I think, the best slam poems.

— As much as I love jazz and other complex forms of music, "three chords and the truth" have moved me more in my life than anything else I’ve experienced.

— When we talk about "slam" we mean, in any given conversation, one of three different things — an activity, a movement/subculture, a genre of poetry.   

— Slam as an activity is neutral in its effect on a larger category of art called "poetry." 

— Slam as a movement is having a major effect on that same category; that effect cannot be categorized as positive or negative — it’s simply an effect.

— Slam as a genre may in fact be coming into its first true prime, as people master the use of the formulas and forms that have evolved over time.  This genre may or may not be changing the larger game of poetry, but within itself, it has great power.

— As with all formulas and forms, there are those who master them and those who are enslaved to them.

— Slam as a movement is currently rent with discord over the existence and quality of slam poetry as a genre, down to a complete denial by some in the movement that a genre called "slam" exists at all, or should exist.  Much of that discord centers on a disconnect as to what the intended impact of slam poems is and should be. 

— The discord is largely — perhaps even mostly — caused by a clash of cultures within the movement that is directly connected to larger cultural wars.  It is related to the old "raw vs. cooked" divide, but is far more personal and powerful, because it goes directly to individuals’ beliefs and desires for their work.  It is a matter of life and death, survival and liberation, a belief in art as a tool for global salvation versus art as expression of personal experience. 

— For some, the idea of "the personal is political" is not an observation, but a battle cry. 

— Racism, sexism, classism, homophobia, and similar prejudices drive at least some current critique of slam as a genre, if not always in obvious ways.  Class, in particular, seems at play in much of the critique.

— Personal epiphany:  I am not, for the most part, a writer of slam poetry.  I never truly was one, and my long-term dilemma of feeling out of place in a world that has largely embraced me and my work feels resolved now.  I am committed to seeing where it will go, and following its progress, because paradoxically, the movement is my natural home in a way no otherplace has ever been.  Part of that has to do with finding those within the movement who share my beliefs as to the potentially transformative nature of art.  Part of it has to do with finding that many slammers are more eager for diversity in what they hear than ever before, and that there is a place for me and my work in the movement, if not in the activity or the genre itself.

— Extension of above: How to remain more than just "an elder" in the movement when competition is no longer of interest to me is unresolved, but I am committed to doing that. 

— Yet undeveloped thought that feels right but needs more exploration and validation:  What happens, internally and externally,  when an individual judges a slam, or applauds or jeers at a slam, is the most important factor in the spread of the movement — not the poetry itself.