Just a couple of quick notes:

— I wanted to go see Mike McGee in Providence last night, but I had an errand to do in, of all places, Providence and couldn’t make the feature and do the errand too…poopy. I will be valiantly attempting to see him next Thursday at the Worcester Youth Slam Final at the WAG.

— Was up late doing the column — far later than I should have been; I got back so late from the errand that I couldn’t get the thing completed in time for a reasonable bedtime — plus, I had taken my last meds of the day and then tried to stay up and write. Poopy, again…I’ve got to get far more organized.

— Andre Michael Bolten, a poet from Dusseldorf, just sent me an amazing personally selected and burned 5-CD set of jazz by the great percussionist Kahil El’Zabar with folks from Malachi Favors to Steve McCall. Yummy. (He was going to send me just one but said he couldn’t stop once he got started.)

This is all in return for a set of chapbooks of mine…such a deal.

I love the Internet, which is how we got to know each other — we’ve never met in person.

— And, how are all of you?

Worked on this last night…more to be done; more ambiguities to be built in and I have to shift the male/female dynamic a bit, but a start nonetheless. Comments welcome.

The Activists

Ack.

I just tore up all the work I’ve done so far on the damn thing, with the exception of four lines.

But now, they’re damn good lines.

I just wish I didn’t have to write the fifty or so bad ones to get to them.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

On second thought…no I don’t. This is the process for me, these days; far more discarding than keeping, far more learned in the process than in the result.

I tell people all the time that to be attached to the result of writing is to miss the point of it. I need to recall this as well, from time to time; while completion is a goal, it’s important to not slight the journey either.

So no underwear dance for me tonight…which is good, since I find it tends to chafe and I’m uncomfortable that way when I sleep.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

When I awake, it’ll be my birthday. I’ll be 44; mid-forties; etc. Apply adjectives as you wish.

This year had better be better, is all I’ve got to say.

So…last night, I get home and my dad has left a message for me to stop over.

I get over to the house, and sitting on the kitchen table is a knife — not just any knife, but a WWII standard issue Pal Navy knife, with a 9″ blade and an original sheath in damn near perfect condition, with the exception of having my uncle’s name carved into the sheath.

Seems my dad got it from my uncle, who no longer wanted it, and he decided that I should have it.

For those who don’t know me, you should know that one of my unpleasant little idiosyncrasies is that I’ve had a lifelong love affair with cutlery. I own over a hundred knives, including a few that I probably shouldn’t own…’nuff said about that. I don’t collect seriously, the way I do with guitars, in the sense of going out just to purchase knives; more a case of coming across them now and again at bargain prices, or having them given to me by my dad.

It’s one of the things I inherited from my dad, along with bipolar disorder, a love of Johnny Cash, and an affinity for long hair. Dad still has the knife his grandfather made for him on the rez back in the ’30s, with a leather wrapped wooden handle and a blade made from the back of a two-man crosscut saw.

This new acquisition means that I now own one example of every American issue knife from WWII, plus an original British Sykes-Fairbairn special forces dagger. (I don’t do Nazi. Period.)

As I was leaving, I thanked my dad again and he asked offhand if I also wanted the rifle and bayonet.

I did a double take — he hasn’t had guns in the house for years, mostly because of our shared propensity to suicide.

We headed downstairs to take a look…Yup. An M1 Garand with its original bayonet, also my uncle’s.

I took a pass on the gun. And the bayonet. I knew Anne would NEVER go for it — and I don’t trust myself either. (I don’t think it was still in working order, but you never can tell.)

Before I left, he’d called a collector buddy of his and he came and got it.

Funny…I’m politically lefty for sure, but I’ve still got the atavistic love of weapons that you see sometimes on the right of the political spectrum. I recognize it as an issue, a contradiction if you will; I think it’s at least in part a way of pushing, poking on my death wish a bit; having all those edged weapons around…The Fugue State poems are about this sort of identity dis-integration…I find it less troubling than I used to…

after my first visit to the Asylum in two months — the longest I’ve been away from there in the entire time I’ve been attending, which is probably ten years or so now…I’ve taken breaks before, but never this long.

It felt good to be back.

I read a strange piece from an online lit journal I found reprinted in Harper’s, and “Song for Shootings”.

Mike McGee did a pretty darn good feature set.

Got home early enough to watch enough of the Oscars to realize I haven’t seen many movies lately. Haven’t seen Lost in Translation, Monster, Master and Commander, Cold Mountain, or any of the Lord of the Rings movies.

In general, I don’t really like movies much. I will go through periods where I watch a bunch of them (like last weekend where I saw White Oleander, Thirteen, American Splendor, and a few others) but I have to confess, I’d rather be doing almost anything else — reading, playing guitar, writing.

I also don’t read very much fiction of any sort…would rather read philosophy, social and political thought, poetry (of course), or magazines like Adbusters, Punk Planet, etc. Don’t read much fantasy or SF, either.

I think I’m kind of unusual in this…certainly among poets, certainly around here…

Ah well…off to bed.

Sleep well, America…the Marines are securing Haiti as we speak.

Still need to post more, but this’ll do for now:

— No news from the hospital on my wife’s tests.

— I am, at last, feeling a bit better. The fog I’ve been in for the last few weeks seems to be lifting a bit, so maybe I’m finally adjusting to these dosages.

— I’m late with the column today and might not get it up on gotpoetry until tomorrow, mainly because I’m so damn buried at work that I haven’t been able to devote lunch hours to it. (Deal.)

— I think there will, at last, be a posting of one of the Fugue State poems soon.

— I will, at last, be returning to the Java Hut on Sunday for Mike McGee’s feature. First time I’ve been there in close to two months.

— It’s my birthday next Wednesday. I think I need a new guitar. Anyone got a great way to rationalize such a purchase when I already own, like, 17 of them?

No news yet, of course, although they took us into the early afternoon.

Nothing dramatic showed up, so I suppose that’s a good thing.

This is a rewrite of an oldie of mine…also inspired by Blackie (see the previous post).

I NEED A GUITAR RIGHT NOW (OR SOMETHING LIKE IT)

I know guitar playing
eats time I should reserve
for writing about world peace
or the nape of your neck. But

when it comes down to it,
I have grown to depend
on the pain in my thumb
I feel after two hours of picking.

I love playing this guitar
the way I love
the trouble you’ve been.
Everyone has their crutch —

some drink,
some vote Libertarian.
Mine is having the blues for you
in Open D.

Guitars are too frequently described
in womanly terms
by horny singers who get to personifying
those curves on lonely nights.

Maybe that’s why I sing of Handsome Molly
instead of kissing
the nape of your neck. It’s easier
to speak of her without choking up.

I can pretend the story is an old Kentucky song,
or something from an obscure rock opera
written by a singer who died tragically
on the Isle of Wight in ’72.

When I’m in love with someone,
I need a guitar to prove it. I slip on
my steady hand and rock between bass line
and melody; it’s just you and me

from here on in, for at least
three minutes and a half, more
if the mood takes us; and then
if nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen,

it won’t be from lack of telling.
Maybe all they can hear is you in the song.
Maybe
I’m finally getting it right.

who checked in. I love you guys, too…was just feeling lonely, I guess, in my temporary seclusion.

Things continue to suck here…Writing has slowed to a crawl as I try to get over this weird thing I’ve got about completing sentences. I felt better later today, I will say that…it may have to do with fatigue added into the mix.

Still, I’m working at it.

One of these days, I’ve gotta get back out on the road for some gigs…I’ve got DC tentatively planned for early fall, and I think the Catskills gig is still on (at least, it was the last time I checked)…but that’s about it. Was thinking about hitting up the Nuyo again; it’s been a bit since I last featured there. And I’m always looking for excuses to get back to NYC. And of course, I HAVE to check out Acentos one of these days…

I think it’s bed time for this camper…shit. I do miss certain aspects of the manic side of this condition, and one of those would be the nights when I just couldn’t stop writing, all the way into the earliest morning hours…

On balance, of course, it carried its own crap — but there were times when it was worth it.

This is the first day I’ve taught a class since shifting to the higher dosages of the medications.

I’ve been having a disconcerting side effect: forgetting words halfway through sentences, I stand like a dope and stumble until I get them back.

And sometimes, I don’t get them back.

I managed to get through this session with minimal disruption because I put together a version of the session that included a lot of small group activities, so I wasn’t talking non-stop.

I made it through ok, I guess…the evaluations look no different than they usually do, at any rate.

But this had better get better soon, or else I don’t know what I’ll do.

Sorry for being among the missing — Annie’s still sick but somewhat better, and we’re dealing with her grandmother dying — funeral’s tomorrow — not a huge deal (she was 98, Alzheimer’s patient for years — we all said goodbye to her years ago), except for the physical stresses on Anne at funeral, etc.

Hope VDay was good for all; especially my Worcester thespian friends…

Hang on, Isaac. Be strong.

More tomorrow, I hope…

I.
I feel sometimes as if the need to update an online journal is a primal urge displaced — a marking of territory, a way of signaling presence or continued well being to the tribe.

The urge to update grows wings and circles the world. The urge to connect eats brain tissue, goes mad with foreign thoughts, opens borders to strange flags and music.

I watch the urge to update my journal slip past my buttons and wrestle itself into a place of primacy, next to my skin. I think if I let it, it will burrow in like some parasite until it is just there, an organ, a need like breathing…

II.
The urge to update was born the night the first spark from a human hearth lit a grassland on fire and torn across the savanna like thunder, the flames like a mob, individual red feathers as thick as spilled salt on a table — you never get them all, they end up everywhere, underfoot…the blogs are like that.

The blogs of my friends are like that.

The blogs of people I’ve never met are like that too, but cooler; they don’t burn me as much, although I think that’s about my fireproofing, and not about their heat.

III.
Sometimes a blogger steps away from the key board, and that world disappears.

IV.
I lost my urge to update to the sexy blog, the angry blog, the smart blog that ran rings around me logically, the cute blog with the dimple, the blog with the knife, the gun, the unformulated rejection letter, the hand
the size
of pain.

V.
This is the update of the moment before I turn to ash. What will that smell like, the burning of this pixilated storybook?

VI.
I am certain heaven has no room for the urge to update…

Wow. You never know where your next profound moment will come from.

That silly post I made about needing a stage name…edzeppelin posted a comment in the thread leading from it that said, well, this:

…in chicago in ’99. you poem you did second night about the artist really changed the way I look at writing.

I have to say something about this, and about that poem and that night.

The first night in ’99, Worcester kicked butt in their first bout. I came out of the night with the 2 (DJ Renegade took the 1), and felt pretty darn good about it.

The next morning, at around 7:30, I received a phone call from home that my oldest friend’s 16 year old daughter (one of a pair of twins) had been killed in a car wreck the night before.

I was shattered, ready to go home — and Skip (my friend) wouldn’t let me; he told me that if Shawna’s death meant anything, it meant that one should seize life while it was in front of you, and not turn aside from destiny. He wanted me to stay and perform.

So I did. I told my teammates that I wasn’t sure how it would be for me that night, but that I wanted to compete. And because they are wonderful people, they agreed.

That night, we faced Green Mill and Champaign-Urbana. We expected to have a tough time, especially with Regie Gibson and Maria McCray and Ken Green and Sheila Donahue on the hometown team. But we thought we might win, and we knew we had the goods to come in second and score highly enough to make semis.

I went up, and did the poem edzeppelin is talking about, a piece called “The Radioactive Artist”. It’s not a poem I slammed with often; it’s a poem about a sculptor (true story) who builds work from the remains and debris left over from building nuclear weapons; despite the risks inherent in such work, he does it because he feels that someone has to make beauty from such horror. It’s a poem about risking everything to make your life worthwhile.

I dedicated the piece to Shawna, and collapsed in my seat when I was done.

The judges were not kind (although I think I did the best performance I’ve ever done of the piece that night). I recall, I think, outcry from the audience, but hey, that’s slam.

Green Mill won; we missed the semis by 1.5 points.

My recent ruminations about “what if” have included some thoughts about that moment, but not many.

I don’t think I’ll have them ever again.

Thank you, sir…

anselm23 posted this challenge in his LJ:

1. A friend of mine writes roleplaying games for a living, and I earn some extra cash that way myself. What would you write for a living, or what do you write for a living?
2. A friend of mine just pushed me into reading the Count of Monte Cristo by telling me that my education would be complete after I read it. What book do you recommend as the book that will complete anyone’s education?
3. What three books are on the list of things you want to read but haven’t yet, and why do you want to read them?
4. What city, fictional or genuine, do you most want to visit, and why?
5. If you could switch bodies with someone for twenty-four hours, whose body would you want to inhabit?

He also offered bonus points if it was done in the form of a poem.

I may have taken a liberty or two with the strict truth, but here you go:

THE PERFECT WORLD REVISITED

In a perfect world I will live in someday
gold will be handed to me just for
inscribing my three names
in a blank book, illuminating the first letters of each
word with gilt and indigo flourishes, then
setting fire to the pages. As they flame out

I will walk
away from the bookstand
chanting the praises of monasteries. I will pretend
to take the vow of silence
just long enough to get all my crazy relatives
to stop talking to me – and then, I’ll run, baby,

I’ll run – and
I’m gonna go get my education then, you bet:
read the phone book so that I may appreciate
the nine million names of God, from Aaron Aachen
to Zyrtan Zyrrva; plot
takeovers of donut havens and
broth canneries, scheming for the sole control of
America’s comfort food industry (which I will treat as
a sacred trust until something better comes along);
and then, I’ll travel: go to Venice for the water,
Prague for the clarity, Istanbul for the hell of it –
I’ll screw my way through the royal families of Eurasia —
after assuming the secret identities of every hero I’ve ever read about.

In this way will pass the days until,
one day, while reading Pilgrim’s Progress,
or Moby Dick, or Valley of the Dolls –
which in fact are all the same book in my perfect world —

I will look up and see something
in the face of the last lover I tossed aside
and the perfect world will crumble,
like dust or old taffy underfoot:

I would give everything to be myself again,
and to have you with me,

as it was
before I ever dreamed of a perfect world.

was lovely…

The theme of our little shindig was “forged”. What struck me about the poems that were read in connection to the theme was that most contained some kind of religious imagery (Pagan and Christian). Odd. I need to think about it more (especially since I was one of the crew who did that, with “Suicide Notes”).

I got a request to read “Do It Yourself” last night, from Melissa G. I always feel weird doing such signature pieces (it’s the piece I closed with at Urbana, for those of you reading this who were there that night) in front of the hometown crowd, as it were; prefer to do more esoteric stuff, or newer stuff I’m still working out the bugs on. I figure folks are tired of the obvious stuff. But I’m learning that the people who hear me all the time still want to hear that stuff now and again…plus it keeps you thinking about how the work stays alive for you, and how you can keep from dialing it in.

The feature, Marj Hahne, was a real revelation: stunning work, focused imagery, beautifully performed, and a genuinely nice person to boot. She has a CD I really can’t wait to hear. Book her if she comes your way.

She made a comment last night about trying not to speak unless she feels she can improve the silence. I know it’s a quote, but can’t recall who said it…at any rate, it’s a great thought.

Don’t you wish everybody thought that way?