I’ll have more — much more– to say later on, maybe not even today.  I have a big letting-off-steam post to get to, and I’ll probably work on it for a day or two before I post it.

So I’ll recap here quickly:

— I sat with my ballot for a long time before filling in the circle for Obama.  I broke a 28 year tradition of working against the two-party system, which I abhor, to vote for a major party Presidential candidate yesterday.  I second guessed myself all day. 

His victory speech made me glad I eventually decided to have faith that the character of the man might, in fact, transcend the evils of polarization and either/or.  (Yes, I wept.) Whatever the next four years bring, I will not regret the choice to honor faith and hope over logic for once in my life.

Good luck, Mr. President-elect.  You’re going to need it.

— In Massachusetts, all the ballot measures I wanted to pass passed.  This pleases me. 

— California:  wtf???  But I’m wondering:  can a state constitutional amendment a) be federally unconstitutional and b) negate established contract law?  If either of those is true, I wonder if the ban will stand, and if b) is challenged successfully, won’t the existing marriages be left intact?  I know that in Massachusetts when we were dealing with the effort to rescind gay marriage, it was made clear that contract law would have preserved the existing marriages regardless of the ban’s passing or not.  I’d look these up, but I’m off to work shortly. 

As I said, more later.

PS:  GotPoetry last night was quiet — 8 reader/listeners; we did a fun and interesting round robin on the porch because our stage had become a screen for election returns.  Back in force next week for Lea Deschenes, so please come back, k?

T

As my friends’ list is already becoming clogged with various iterations of the phrases "I voted" and "Get out and vote,"  I’ll be taking the rest of the day off from here.

See you tonight at GotPoetry Live.  Tell me all about it then.

😉

but I will say this, and am willing to stand behind it:

Regardless of who wins, there will be some violence in our streets over this vote before the week is up.

In recognition of the fact that our new venue, Blue State Coffee, has been an active and enthusiastic center of activity for the Obama campaign, we’ve chosen not to have a feature tomorrow night but instead to simply open the mike to all comers.  Comes speak of your hopes, aspirations, concerns, whatever, as we read poetry and peer anxiously at the election returns. 

All political stripes and solids welcome, of course.  Bring yourselves and be genuine!

Gotpoetry Live
@ Blue State Coffee
300 Thayer Street
Providence, RI
sign up at 7:30 / reading 8-10 sharp

A while ago, theklute posted his answers to the following meme: "Comment here and I will choose 7 interests I am curious about. Respond in your journal."  So I did.

Here’s the 7 he chose for me:

"Mescalero, NASCAR, Free Jazz, Old Punk, Anthony Braxton, Ornette Coleman, Fighting Knives"

Long ass answers for those so inclined…

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.

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