My Internet connection seems a tad wonky today, and my phone is doing stupid shit left and right, so if you need to get in touch with me today, it’ll likely be a tough job.
Reminder: less than a week to go before I feature in lovely Newark, Delaware on Sept. 30. Newark Arts Alliance, as always. Locals, c’mon down — I plan to do some new stuff and not a lot of the old stuff unless you beg for it, in which case I might relent for one or two poems.
but…um, yeah…um. Yeah, sometimes, there’s just no need to try and enhance the humor of a story with additional stuff.
PETA to Ben and Jerry’s: Replace cow’s milk with human milk, please!
I gathered my thoughts this morning for an emergency meeting. Times being what they are, I had decided to let some of them go.
First on the chopping block was my most elegant thread: the one that included the image I’d seen long ago in a Time-Life book, the one illustrated by a series of apes gradually learning to stand upright and walk heel to toe while carrying weapons and perfectly feathered haircuts. Along with them went the music to “Also Sprach Zarathustra” and a whole set of preconceived notions about propriety among the nations based in mutual ancestry and a desire to keep walking forward, haircuts ever changing as necessary. I knew this would mean a savings on stylists, with only a modicum of increased health costs to cover a greater number of scraped knuckles. I felt a little twinge as I took in their beloved faces as they heard the news, a Neanderthal hooting softly in the background, “Not again.” (I did think, for a moment, about the diversity angle and the potential for litigation, but then I realized that even the lemurs here were destined to be white men according to the picture, and I let that particular fear go.)
Next to go were a small division that I’d always cherished but had to admit hadn’t performed well in recent years: the Wealth Fantasies. The ideas of the house in the country, the good if not flashy car, the ability to travel at will and whim…all had to go. I knew they’d land on their feet somewhere else, so I felt that the discomfort in this particular discussion was most likely stronger on my end than on theirs.
When it came down to core functions like memory and morality, lessons learned and such, I decided that I wouldn’t make wholesale cuts. Too hard to remove the interlinking of them all with each other, I decided. Instead, I offered a buyout/early retirement plan to them, allowing them to leave on their own in the natural order of time. Based on current rates of attrition, I could save big over the next few years by simply not making new memories, by reducing my exposure to new things. Big savings.
I came to the hardest part now: all the small, complex contradictions I’d held about life had to go. In a downsizing, you have to really focus on your core strengths, and while I’m capable of all sorts of esoterica in a given day, over time I’m likely to find them a burden more than anything else. So I released them: the surrealist images, the facts others called “trivia” that I called “general knowledge,” the ease in recalling facts such as how to spell “Ouagadougou” and the British pronunciation of “lieutenant.” I let go the idea that social justice and fair economic policies were somehow linked, and the conviction that everything was possible was fired unceremoniously when it reacted strongly to my saying that it had been chosen for downsizing at all. There is no place for changes of heart or second guessing these days — and I let them go too.
Chosen to remain were faith in the eventual triumph of true love, buckling down, and focusing on the big picture. The belief in God stayed because it was so ingrained in the charter that I couldn’t conceive of moving forward without it, but I decided it would be reassigned in the near future, perhaps given a strictly honorary post in an outlying locality.
After the announcements, all the thoughts sat there for a minute longer than was necessary (buckling down found this annoying) before shuffling off through the far door toward the exit.
That afternoon, I sat on the porch with a glass of lemonade. I had no desire to weep, but I had a heaviness in me that I knew would pass but there was no sense of when that might be. Still, I could not imagine a better time to be alive than now, in the immediate present, a fat man short of breath, staring at the autumn sky, while the thoughts I’d just dismissed picketed on the crumbling sidewalk in front of the rundown building.
Tomorrow, I told myself; I’ll have to do something about this tomorrow if they’re still out there.
There are such good words
out there, things written and spoken
in ways that pierce armor and break walls,
things written by alleged heroes,
that it is hard to believe
that they grew in the same manure
that gives rise to fungi, mold,
and wild cancerous weeds that sting
and lift heinous welts on the skin
of the unwary and those innocent
of the scent that has lingered
for too long unnoticed or unremarked
by those in thrall to the words.
There was a time before we grew up enough
to understand that evil is inherent
in everyone, to understand how much shit
there is under the lovely flowers,
and we would let a friend go in a snap
when the scent reached us in a cloud that rose
from a treacherous mouth. After all,
there were always more friends out there —
a simple shift was easy in grade school, in
high school. One week, we had these friends;
the next week, we had others.
And now, all we want
is to be back where it was simple again;
where shit was shit, and words covered nothing,
and all the vision you needed to live a good life
was a sense of smell.
I can smell you from here.
I can’t decide if the flowers
you hold out to me
are worth the way
my gut is churning.
For the first time in my adult life,
I want to be back in high school again —
close my locker, turn my back on you,
pretend I’ll never run into you in English class,
pretend I don’t recognize that smell
from the times I’ve put my hand
before my own mouth
and inhaled before opening it
to speak to the unknowing. I want
a bell to ring, and I want to run
all the way home.
who DOESN’T belong in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?
http://www.eonline.com/uberblog/b30219_metallica_run-dmc_stooges_hoping_roll.html
Seriously, that’s the best list of nominees I’ve ever seen. Wanda Jackson being on the list blows my mind, as does Bobby Womack…but not a bad choice in the bunch.
Awesome Duende show last night on Nantucket. We did a nice, tight 45 minute set to a decent crowd, which included my high school music teacher…the woman who was at least in part responsible for the series that gave me my first ever poetry feature in July of 1978 — over thirty years ago. I felt both old and complete with that, like a circle was being closed.
As a note to drgeorge — her daughter looks EXACTLY like Barbara did back then. WEIRD to see them sitting together…
That felt weird and cool, as did performing on the same stage that Henry David Thoreau, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Frederick Douglass lectured from in their day. A nice bit of continuity on the International Day of Peace.
We’ve been invited back to perform on Dec 7 with Regie Gibson, but I think we’ll have to pass as I’ll be heading out to Charlotte for IWPS early on the next day.
More tomorrow on the weekend and what’s coming up…
Self-righteousness bothers me FAR more when it comes out of the mouths and shows up in the posts of people I agree with than it ever does coming from the other side. I expect it from them. We’re supposed to be better, know better, and act better.
Another whirlwind weekend begins…
Last night, headed down to Coventry to rehearse with Faro for the big Sunday night show on Nantucket at their International Day Of Peace celebration, where we’re headlining. Good rehearsal — no real new stuff planned for the night, although Faro’s got this cool version of “Name” that we’ll be doing that involves the insertion of some flamenco techniques he’s been working on into the current arrangement, and he’ll be trucking along his new tenor tuned electric bass for some improv/solo stuff if the mood takes us. We’re definitely back on track for new work, which we’ve been a little stalled on due to my travel schedule and his work with the funk band.
Tonight, he’s got a private party he’s playing, then he and Capri come up here to crash so we can head out to Nantucket a little early tomorrow to soak up some island time and such before the show (which, if anyone’s going to happen to be on Nantucket, is at 7 PM at the Atheneum).
While he’s doing that, I’ll be attending theryk‘s housewarming party down in Johnston, and then heading back up here to wait and maybe catch a few hours of sleep.
frequegrl is closing tonight and won’t be home until late, so her own weekend is crazier than any of us. We’re still working on settling a final departure time to accommodate her need for sleep (her shcedule’s been insane lately) and she may end up not coming along. 😦 Sadness, if that’s the case. One way or another, we’ll be back on Monday AM.
Next week slows down a bit; the week after is my travel week to Philly for work on Monday and Tuesday, a solo feature in Newark DelaWHERE on Tuesday night at the Arts Alliance, and then two more days of work in Newark itself before driving home Thursday night.
The good kind of crazy…but crazy nonetheless.
Because I’m feeling lighthearted today…
Get your own pirate name from piratequiz.com.
part of the fidius.org network
I actually like this. Might use it as a stage name…um, never mind.
Why all the pirate interest? http://www.talklikeapirate.com/
Now to be honest, I’ve never shared the general fascination with pirates, although I do get it. (I feel the same way about ninjas, and don’t get me started on zombies and vampires.) But hey, a little contradiction is good for you…and there is the long history of the simmering pirate feud between a certain Littlebeard and the Dread Pirate Nick Fox to consider, ending in the epic battle in which Littlebeard bested the scurvy dog in a Pirate Haiku Death Match…
So, me hearties…ARGH to ye all!!!!
1. Hearing that Christopher Lee’s been found.
2. Checks in the mail.
3. A productive day at work.
4. A car ride with mikemcgee.
5. Ferret time!
6. A great night at the Ship with April Ranger’s TERRIFIC feature, hot R & B with the Valves, and all the usual Worcester suspects.
7. Taking Marlon Carey over to see “Turtle Boy.”
8. A pizza.
9. Sleep, and no need to set the alarm.
Night all.
It’s everywhere, as it should be:
Reposted from Karen G:
Poetry family,
There’s already been some chatter about this, but Christopher Lee has gone
missing for some days now. Last anyone heard from him, he had gone to Dallas.
Without going too deeply into it, a Missing Persons report has been filed.
If anyone has heard from our boy, or has info / ideas, please respond. Also
please spread the word far and wide to anyone who knows Chris.
The message below is from Chris’ mother, Carol.
Thanks y’all,
Mike Henry
FROM CAROL:
“I am Chris’s mother, Carol. I’m sure you’ve heard that he is missing. This
morning I talked to the Missing Persons Detective at the Dallas Police
Department, Det. T.D. Smith, and he asked that we let all of Chris’s friends
know that he is missing. The direct line to Det. Smith is 214-671-4245, if
anyone has information. Chris will be put on the national missing person list
today.
Thanks,
Carol Spaulding”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I also sent it to the yahoogroups slamlist.
New Zero Point Zero is up — a look at how text relates to performance…
The Zero Point Zero Regular Column!
Very much more than Nothing!
Jesus
never taught me
how to interact
with a rock, didn’t address
the souls of things.
There was that one time
when He talked of rocks
but all He said was that
we shouldn’t be throwing them
at each other, for which (I imagine)
the rocks
were silently grateful
but their feelings
remain unrecorded
in any of the Scriptures.
Later, He called Peter a rock
and said He’d build a church on him.
I don’t imagine real rocks
were amused — a man’s not a rock,
they said to each other, how foolish
to imagine that a church could be built
on men alone?
I do not know
if Jesus listened
to the voice of the earth
when He lay down to sleep
on the hard stone
of the Holy Land.
Did He even
consider that land holy,
or was it just
a convenient place
to start?
Even when He lay
for those three days
under the ground, protected
by the boulder,
sleeping upon stone,
the story that we’re told
is that He wasn’t truly there:
not present
in the place
of His greatest
possibility.
It’s said that
an angel
rolled away that stone
on the Sunday,
but I have always imagined
that the Stone moved out of Jesus’
way on its own, as if to say:
"It’s your time now,
and we’ll let it happen,
but we will be here
long after you’re gone."
This is how the Robe
was passed
to Him: it was an allowance,
a sufferance,
and not a seizure:
for I still see rocks everywhere,
intact, patient,
waiting to be heard,
while Jesus
lives in a house
of broken stone,
split wood,
melted, clarified sand;
while we know what He said
to us, it is impossible to know
what Gospel the rocks heard
as He stood upon them,
preaching what to their ears
was must have been
an impenetrable message
of the End of Days.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
PS: I’m sure this will prompt some upset here and there; sorry in advance. Just talking about my own beliefs…
Tuesday
has yet to click into place.
Birds fall silent after the dawn chorale,
the squirrel’s chattering on his usual rock,
and I can’t decide what to do:
go back to bed for a while,
or start working.
This week hurts more
than I’d planned for.
Money’s tight, I’m alone again,
and while there’s a pretty world
out there to astound me,
it seems I can’t breathe deeply enough
to take it all into me, let it expand me,
open me to something greater than myself.
Perhaps I should be silent too today,
take the birds as mentors —
eh. I am not good with mentors,
with being advised. I’ve given up on
therapy, listening, pills, meditation,
exercise, thoughtful contemplation
of what others have said. All I’ve got left
is a keyboard and a lust
for getting me out there,
instead of letting what’s out there
come in.
Believe me, you must believe me:
there was a time when I could have told you
the names of all the minerals in the rock
that squirrel is using for his soapbox.
There was a time when I knew
what I stood for, and upon;
a time when I knew how
to be awake.
I’m sick as a dog right now — sore throat, body aches. Had to cancel time with Faro; hope to at least get out to see sashash tonight, but not even sure I’ll manage that.
in other news, it’s hard, sometimes, reading everyone’s posts about writers, video games, bands, your use of slang, and other things that remind me how out of place I am here outside of poetry — how little I share with so many of you when it comes to anything except writing and performance.
It’s not about liking or disliking people — it’s about an inability to relate to people or sometimes to even understand the appeal of things that fascinate you. I’m frequently lonely when I hear you speak and read your posts.
There are times when I think it’s not an issue, and times when I think it’s huge. Today, it’s huge. I’m sorry, but there it is.
