Fuck writing poems when you’re drunk.

When you’re drunk, you might actually say something truthful. It might be misspelled, it might have bad grammar, but it may say something you’ll look back upon in the morning and be afraid of, wondering who saw it, wondering what was exposed.

If you are brave enough, you’ll let it stand. No friends filter, no deletion, no rewrite.

Evidence:

I love you;

You gave me the best head I ever had;

You knew all along I was a bastard and it was the main source of lust between us;

I am still frightened by your smile, you knew me too well;

I wish it was not a problem between us like a shadow or a line drawn down the front of the Hoover Dam, forever putting us one hour out of joint;

If I had known who I was back then, understood the illness better, I would be with you still;

Killing is too easy;

There are responses to some questions that mean less than the fact that the question was asked at all.

Read The Zero Point Zero Regular Column!

It’s better than poetry!

In which I take a few moments to lay the ground work for future columns by discussing how I write a poem.

Just finished repairing and setting up a printer. We have a communal printer in the apartment, but with some of these consulting jobs, there’s a lot of printing — printed a 98 page document for my assignment in San Diego this Friday — and I figured I better have my own.

Now I’ll be studying and marking up the thing all night.

In addition, I have to finish the new Zero Point Zero today…it’s almost done, just have to spiff it up and haven’t had time.

If you’re in town and feel like it, please come distract me (lightly) tonight. Sit on the futon, see my gargoyle and Balinese dragon, make fun of my bachelor digs. Bring it on, punk.

(PS: there is also Glenfiddich.)

well, hi there!

greetings from the Poetic Vortex.

for those of you not familiar with the Poetic Vortex of Worcester, here in the Poets’ Asylum it was our many-years-ago name for the phenomenon that led to so many poets over the years moving here — usually for a short time, sometimes longer.

the vortex has taken on new meaning lately.

let’s describe the west side of Vernon Hill, a tangled neighborhood of narrow streets and three-deckers.

let’s zero in on one small patch of the hill.

in one apartment:

chryslerpoet*
badgary
wormtown_mensch

two doors down:

myainsel
ocvictor

about a block and half away:

javabill
thisrabbit

and next door to them:

allan_inc

So not only has the vortex reformed, it is smaller and more concentrated than before.

all your poets are belong … eh. even i’m not that cheesy.

*for those not keeping up: i’m separated from my wife. it’s just what is. onward.

for the first time in over twenty years, I have roommates.

i’m. relatively settled, and with the exception of storage space (I need a tall narrow bureau with drawers for clothes), i think i’ll be ok — picked up a decent futon cheap and there’s room in here for a desk and stuff, especially once the futon’s folded up.

needs in order of importance:

aformentioned bureau
container for bedding/storage
decisions re what clothes go in closet, what in drawers
still need good guitar solutions (walls look like a possibility)
SMALL night table near bed?

I think books will be at a premium. will have to think about this.

as well. new chapter.

see you at poetry tonight.

can’t sleep.

last night in the house.

feeling scared and alone.

the cat’s here. i can’t take him with me.

this makes me utterly sad.

i know it’ll pass, but i’m not good tonight.

i’m in the process of moving this weekend, so if i’m not around much, that’s why.

so little time, so much shit to figure out.

i am both excited and sad. 20 years is a long time.

complex emotions wear me out. i’ve got a headache as large as you can imagine, and the stomach is all tied up in knots, too.

still…overall? if i can figure out where to put all these damn guitars, I’m pretty much set. bought a futon & frame this afternoon so i don’t eat up the whole bedroom with bed all the time. moved up a couple of small pieces of furniture and sundry items.

biggest issue is a bureau for clothes — the closet’s pretty small, so i’ve got to get one, and then get creative. and ruthless.

off to Storytellers. see you later.

Right now, KEXP is playing “Doriella DuFontaine.”

For you Hendrix fans out there…you’ve probably never heard this one. Lightning Rod, a member of the Last Poets, rapping about (among other things) a fine woman he steals from another guy, with funky bass and guitar by Jimi and drums by Buddy Miles. Definitely somewhere in the ancestral stream of hip-hop.

Last time I heard this I was probably 18 and at college; Bill Charlton, one of the guys on my floor, was a Hendrix fanatic with access to lots of bootlegs and we spent many, ahem, pharmaceutically enhanced hours in his room with his “quad system” (let’s see who bites for that one).

Damn, I still wish I had that stereo…we were on the 17th floor, and regularly got complaints from the 5th floor on weekends. (I shit you not. We were notorious.)

Excuse me, o digital ones…even if only three people get this, I must lay out the specs, which I can still recall, because I lusted for that system:

A German RekoKut turntable, liberated from a radio station
Marantz Quad Amplifier
Scott Preamp
Scott Tuner
Teac reel-to reel
Nakamichi cassette deck which, pre-auto reverse, used to flip the tape for you
Two giant custom built speakers; don’t recall the exact components — Bill made them himself
Two — oh, God, what were they called? I know — Allisons! These were a pair of speakers each about 4 ft tall which looked like the Transamerica Pyramid building in San Francisco. Super high end at the time, with a directional speaker system that was similar to what Bose does.

Note: no mention of the yet to be commercially available CD player. I think CDs existed in 1978, but no one had figured a way to make them economically viable.

I wonder what happened to that? Bill got older, probably sold his baby to fund some other toy. Maybe he regrets it now. I know I do.

anyone listen to http://www.bzoo.org ?

strange station…mix of odd music and spoken word.

I’ve been listening to an acoustic guitar version of “What Is Love” by Haddaway and it’s now Allen Ginsberg doing his tribute to Frank O’Hara.

They’re looking for spoken word stuff, by the way.