Weekend update:

playing catch, playing pool, new amp, drinking, smoking, fireworks, poetry, beer, band names, shopping, laying about, playing, visit someone in hospital.

I promise a return to coherence soon.

I just finished reading (in like two days) the new book by Ron Suskind, “The One Percent Doctrine,” which is an inside view of the war on terror and the bizarre policy that drives its conduct: the idea, formulated by Dick Cheney, that a one percent possibility that something might happen should be dealt with and responded to as if it were a certainty.

So if a piece of information gleaned from research and surveillance MIGHT have a one percent bit of credibility to it, the Administration’s policy (known in the inner circles but never voiced in public) is that they will hit it with all resources available.

A tip from an informant in Cairo suggests that a “sleeper cell” might exist in New York, or was it Philadelphia, and they might have a member who might have met bin Laden once and maybe they were in the vicinity of al-Qaeda’s training camps when it happened? Round up the guy and all his relatives.

Add in the bureaucratic infighting, the struggle between the career analysts and the policy makers, and the sheer volume of information being collected, and you have the roots of our current state of perpetual fear out for all to see.

It’s a good read, if not a particularly well written one — Suskind uses a sort of breathless narrative that I think was probably a sincere attempt to not bog readers down in a technically obtuse quagmire of details — and I would recommend it to anyone looking for some clarity on the mess.

I bought the book after listening to Suskind on NPR. During the call in section of the show, a woman called in to say (sarcastically) that she thought the policy was great. She went on to wonder how our responses to things like Katrina and global warming would have been different if the same thinking had prevailed there. Interesting and sobering thought, no?

I kinda think this story is a little…suspicious:

http://www.cnn.com/2006/SHOWBIZ/TV/06/30/people.hasselhoff.ap/index.html

In other, non-David Hasselhoff related news, I have minimal ambition for writing lately. This doesn’t happen to me very often, as I usually find my writing to be such a vital part of my daily routine and spiritual practice.

Usually, this means I need to pick up a guitar more aggressively for a while and switch to that mode of expression. I spent a good deal of time this afternoon with the “new” electric, which was nice; I haven’t explored that palette enough since I got it back.

But of course, I have decided I need a new amp now. I’m thinking Vox AC30.

Never fails: consumption leads to more consumption.

ALSO: Sleater-Kinney is going on indefinite hiatus, with no plans for future recordings or tours. Shoot me now.

These days I am less
a poet
than a song
and dance man.

I know every step
and every word
to every popular
bit of show.

Nighttimes find me
on stages all over the country
parroting others’ psyches
and shaking hands afterward.

Then
I am erased and
I go back to being
a blank tape.

I’m waiting for
the next bit of
another person’s inspiration
I can copy.

I don’t think
I’ll ever write another poem
that wasn’t written first
by some one else.

I try sometimes
but I erase every other word
when I recognize it
from somewhere.

I wanted to be the first poet
to write a poem without
articles or pronouns or nouns
or verbs or any other parts of speech.

Staring at this blank page
makes me realize
that’s an easy goal
to achieve.

All I have to do
is see a magical poem
in my head
and not write it down.

No one will ever know
I’ve written it
but it will be my secret
touchstone.

When I’m up on stage
I can dream of my illegible beauty
and be comforted
by knowing no one can steal it from me.

And the shuffle ball change
and rooty toot toot will keep me in beer
and sandwiches while I think of how jealous
everyone would be if they knew.

I’ve solved the great dilemma
that the difficulty in being original
is not in having others think you are
but in believing it yourself.

We’re all thinking of you and yours tonight, imsonshyne.

I’ll make you watch this over and over.

http://www.collegehumor.com/movies/1696530/

Word to your sensei, g.

Y’all better come down to GotPoetry Live at Reflections Cafe in Providence tonight for the open mike and feature by Ryk McIntyre.

Or else I’ll be forced to come to your house and read you my pig Latin translation of “Howl.”

At 3:14 AM.

With a megaphone.

Naked.

With a jug band backing me up.

And a cropduster pulling a banner reading, “Olochmay! Olochmay!” flying overhead while Mandy Moore and Diamanda Galas do cartwheels on the wing.

from NYC, where I came out of retirement for a single night to slam at Bar 13 as part of the Worcester Slam Team, along with Bobby Gibbs, badgary, and urbanitus. I replaced morthsha who couldn’t make it.

I kept it quiet because I wanted it to be a surprise. It was the first time in 5 years I’d slammed in anything resembling a team slam.

We placed third in a tough contest of four teams: Brooklyn, louderARTS, Worcester, and New Jersey (that was the order of finish).

Went up fourth in the first round, did “Conspiracy” a bit differently than usual, and got a respectable 26.5 after the half-point time penalty.

Star of the night was badgary, proving once again that he is criminally underrated by getting the high score of the bout with a 29.5, and incidentally prompting Rachel McKibbens and Emily Kagan to dance vigorously to a crowd singalong of “Darling Nikki” after he was done proclaiming the patriotic virtues of listening to Prince.

After, Mr. Urban and I went out for Oxycontin and pizza before driving home. (You had to be there.)

It was fun. I’m going back into retirement now. Good night.

Last night was another punk show in Providence. This one was cut short by a crazy artist who lives in the building illegally; he came up during the last band with a FIRE EXTINGUISHER and sprayed the whole hall outside the practice space where the show was to drive everyone out. I looked up at one point and saw nothing but what looked like smoke in the hall, so we bolted out to get out — and I realized it was some sort of chemical which scared me even more.

I did have the presence of mind to grab the beer, though.

Tonight is the annual Poets’ Asylum auction at the Java Hut. I’m putting my old, battered yet serviceable twelve string into the pool of available items. There will be many others. C’mon down.

Tomorrow I’m busy all day, so likely won’t update until tomorrow night late or Tuesday morning.

See ya ’round…

Tonight’s entertainment will consist of steaks on the grill followed by beer and punk rock in a warehouse.

Flight and room are booked for Austin. I’m getting in late Monday night so I’ll be around on Tuesday.

Yay!