Many eons ago, there was a Cape Cod Slam. It was based in a cafe in Hyannis, MA, called The Prodigal Son.

The Prodigal Son closed. Now, the business has reopened as The Black Spot Cafe. Serves excellent coffee and sandwiches, the owner is a wine connoisseur and the wine, beer, and mixed drink selection reflects that. WiFi, cool art, and an overall thoughtfully but not pretentiously progressive sensibility make the place one I shall revisit.

Last night, Duende had a gig there. Tiny audience for this new reading — 6 people, including the host (Jose Gouveia) and not including our entourage. It was only their second night and there was some sort of baseball game on (I brought my laptop so we could keep track of the score for the, um, audience — yeah, that’s right, the audience) so there were two BIG factors for the low attendance…and I don’t feel too bad, as we equalled Regie Gibson’s turnout for last month.

We played a good set; Faro did some unexpected improvising on a couple of pieces which was FUN, and it was a good night. Some good connections came out of it; we were asked back to play as a featured MUSICAL act, which I consider a big triumph since we want to take this outside of the poetry scene.

And…a full payday as promised, even considering the low turnout. Gotta respect that.

Highly recommended. Good Time.

NEXT DUENDE GIG: November 11. Cambridge, MA. The Lizard Lounge. Expect some jammin’ with the Jeff Robinson Trio…we got a little taste of that in April when we performed with Marc Smith and Regie and Iyeoka and Adam and all; this time, the mere thought of having two basses on stage along with Jerome and Jeff has us salivatin’. Be there!

might want to head down to the Black Spot Cafe in Hyannis, MA tonight.

Duende’s headlining a gig at the recently revitalized Cape Cod Slam. They’re planning a Poetry + Music night, encouraging folks to perform with music. There’s also a spotlight feature by Isis, from Denver.

Fun starts around 7. I’d offer rides to folks, but I’m not leaving from Worcester and think I’ll have a full car.

Hope to see you!!!

Someone at Gotpoetry tonight read a poem about how they saw fascism in the eyes of militant vegans, and dedicated it to the folks at AS220.

Seems a little extreme, but I did understand it.

And Laura Moran? Wonderful as always…one of my favorites.

Listening to Laura makes me think there are three tiers within the performance scene — the poets who read their page work off page, those who have learned to perform works originally written for the page, and those for whom the stage is the medium. No critique there because there are great poets in each tier…but I have to say I find the most kindred spirits in the second tier.

http://www.deathclock.com/

Of course, this has been around for a while and many of us have done it, but I looked at it again tonight and got a shock: according to this, I died eight years ago.

Somehow
it is comforting
that when I see
a big cat (tiger lion
leopard or the like)
on the television, I can still imagine
how the teeth would feel
piercing my forearm, crushing through
into the bone; I can picture the beast
pulling my arm off of me thoughtfully,
chewing on it with a break now and then
to yawn, leaving me to thrash and then succumb
to pain and blood loss just off screen
while my arm is immortalized on film,
while horrified cameramen are unable
to tear themselves away from the scene
even as the host of the show intones
warnings of the power and majesty
of these creatures, even as I died the cat
would be uninterested in that death, having enough
to hold his interest in the way the tendons
pass among his teeth, I am satisfied that this moment
would still have felt correct,
as though I had made of myself a sacrifice to prehistory
that would feel better than the quiet death of cholesterol
and old age, as if I had somehow tied myself back into
something more than what I deserve, as if the cat that killed me
allowed me a gift of understanding what the tendons in my arm
were meant to do.

I’m asking for them again…for tomorrow AM. Say, between 10 and 1.

All will be revealed shortly, I promise.

I honestly don’t think Boston can beat the Rockies, but nothing makes me gladder than the departure of fucking Chief Wahoo.

because if I have to look at Chief Wahoo during the series, I’m gonna puke.

Lucky Dube is dead:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/7052050.stm

1.
Why is so much erotic poetry read in the slam scene these days so bad? Give the amount of bad poetry I hear at open mikes, I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me….but God, it seems like the addition of sex to the formula makes for an astronomically higher degree of suck.

2.
And why is it that men in particular have such bad imaginations about sex??? If I read or hear one more awful male authored dick wetting, pussy soaking, cum drizzling, nut-busting, nipple-licking piece of not at all sexy shit, I’m gonna become a monk.

Just a note — if you bought a book from me online, they’re going out tomorrow. I’ve been busy as hell the last week or so what with being on the road and such. But I’m committed to getting them out. Sorry for the delay.