Here’s the schedule for me:

In VERY LATE Monday night

Tuesday: Recover from flight; handle Ken Hunt Prize stuff

Wednesday: The usual opening ceremonies / Worcester bout that night

Thursday: Read in Legends showcase that afternoon (cough cough): hope to read in Indigenous reading / Worcester bout that night

Friday: Ken Hunt Prize stuff during the morning; Co-host Grief and Remembrance reading; Worcester in Semis (cough cough)

Saturday: Slam Family. party, Finals; present KHP

Of course, add associated late night partying and poetry tag into the mix as necessary. 😉

Anyone know fer sure? Trying to decide about what to pack.

The new tattoo is in place.

Mmmmmmmmm…inky.

this is the obligatory i can’t sleep post that says nothing but links me, however tenuously, to all of you even as i feel so utterly alone w/o contact.

i can’t sleep.

if ya got my number, call if you’re bored. i’m up.

“NO MORE EPIPHANIES”

Hosted By::
EBG artist market

When:
Friday Jul 28, 2006
at 7:00 PM

Where::
Vagabond Records [downstairs]
11 Railroad Avenue
Beverly, MA 01915

This gig is a celebration at the closing down of a long established and beloved independent bookstore. I’ve never been here, but the devotion the place appears to have inspired makes me think this night will be something special.

Your EQ is 67

50 or less: Thanks for answering honestly. Now get yourself a shrink, quick! 51-70: When it comes to understanding human emotions, you’d have better luck understanding Chinese. 71-90: You’ve got more emotional intelligence than the average frat boy. Barely. 91-110: You’re average. It’s easy to predict how you’ll react to things. But anyone could have guessed that. 111-130: You usually have it going on emotionally, but roadblocks tend to land you on your butt. 131-150: You are remarkable when it comes to relating with others. Only the biggest losers get under your skin. 150+: Two possibilities – you’ve either out “Dr. Phil-ed” Dr. Phil… or you’re a dirty liar.

Honestly? I think it’s less an inability to understand emotions than it is a distance from people.

and it sucks.

achy. feverish. sore all over. can’t get nearly enough sleep, after being up all night.

did i mention this sucks?

i’m tired of holding myself to impossible standards for my work. i can only be me, and let the work reflect that.

everything sounds like a cliche lately. even this. especially this.

i’m writing such small poems — in topic and focus, not in length, i could care less about that — that i can’t stand myself, but that seems to be who i am right now.

Storytellers’ final night was terrific.

The place was blisteringly hot — which turned into an issue for me later, but I’ll get to that.

Wonderful work for the last night: was thrilled to see SPEAK regular Tom Carroll there, reading one of his off-kilter magical pieces. The man’s a forgotten gem of this area, and it ticks me off sometimes that people don’t know his work.

allan_inc did a heartfelt and moving version of his sister thisrabbit‘s “Girlfriend.” I know my own heart stopped and I had to move when I heard it.

I read the little heard “Atlantis,” a longer piece about the breakdown of a marriage.

When the break came, the heat (and the two bourbons I’d had over at Moynihan’s before the show) got to me. I walked up to Village Pizza to get something in my stomach, only to discover that they were closed for vacation. Grr. I then walked down to Store 24 and got a slice of pizza and some vitamin water.

When I got back, the Worcester Slam Team was doing their minifeature. I sat outside and listened from the fire exit. Couldn’t face the heat.

When it was time for dokuritsu‘s feature, I went back up and managed to catch one poem (a wonderful piece about the secret life of zero) before the heat and the drinks and the bad pizza caught up with me and I had to leave or subject all my wonderful friends to the evil that is Tony Hurling.

Sorry, Jon.

Went home, went to bed, got up again because it was too fucking hot even with two fans in the room, talked to wormtown_mensch for a bit, then hit the sack for good.

We’re going to miss this venue around here. It offered something unique to the area, bringing storytelling and narrative work to the locals. May it rise again. Thanks to penny_player and flapper_girl for making it work for so long.

There are a lot of planes dropping bombs all over the world tonight.

This poem was originally published in 2003, in 100 Poets Against the War. Seems tragically fitting to dig it out again tonight.

WHAT YOU CALL IT

What d’you call it
that thing
that thing that came in the night
that hung above our village
and a war fell onto us from its mouth
what d’you call it

what d’you call it
that thing
I couldn’t see it too well in the dark
I think it had grey skin
know it had red eyes
it wasn’t a dragon
it was too hungry to be a dragon
it was too angry

Whatever it was
a thing like that
ought not to be free
ought not to be let loose to do that
ought to be locked up
ought to be somewhere else

What d’you call it
that thing
that roasts your children
that cinders your wife
takes your father in flame
melts your tongue to the roof of your mouth
burns the consonants out of you
until all you can do is scream open throated, only vowels,
nothing to give shape or form to the sound
no words
and what words could you have had before this
to describe — this

what d’you call it?

yes I suppose
you could call it
a helicopter
a vertical takeoff and landing armored air support vehicle
an Apache
a Cobra
and I suppose its anger and hunger could be
a mistake
an unfortunate incident
nothing to deter us from our mission

but
HELLFUCKER – SHITCLOUD – DARKRAPER- CHILDBURNER – SKYEATER
STORMSWAN – DEVILROAR – DEATHBIRD – WIDOWERMAKER
FLAME GOD HAMMER –
all work just as well

just do not call this
“collateral damage”

there are no clean words for some things

I’m not feeling very charitable today toward anyone.

For that exact reason, I’m looking forward to poetry tonight.