The most action this LJ has had lately comes from Dave’s squirrel lust poem.

I’m in the wrong business.

Good slam last night, y’all.

Congrats to all who slammed. You made me regain some of my faith in the poetry of the slam scene.

I’m still shaking my head over “Squirrels”, though.

April — you were terrific. Jen M. was too. I was so thrilled to hear you.

I’m glad I came out.

she is done.

A ten page autobiography. To fit into ten pages, I had to leave out what I usually refer to as the “Prison Years.”

I also had to provide historical context on how my life intersected with the cultural events going on around me.

I was able to do this without mentioning either the Grateful Dead or Disco even once. I think I should get the Nobel Prize, or at least a bong.

ETA: Guys, you do realize that there were no actual “Prison Years,” right?

Writing a 10 page autobiography that includes a discussion of historical context bites rocks.

I need at least 150 pages for this, y’know?

Everything I do on stage is a poem unless I say otherwise. Everything I write is a poem unless I say otherwise.

I’m in the Jack McCarthy camp on this one. Once you have your poetic license, you get to decide whether what you write is poetry or not. No one else.

If I decide that I’m going to write a 350 page work with no line breaks and call it a poem, it’s a poem.

(This is not a poem.)

And now that I’ve said this, I realize what I dislike so much about the slam scene. People aren’t even thinking of themselves, empowering themselves, as poets. I consider that stage my church. That’s where I worship God. For me to do anything less is blasphemy.

I don’t want that to sound superior, arrogant, or angry. Seriously, it probably limits me — it’s hard for me to have fun when I’m seeking transcendence, and I’m always bound to be disappointed. I hold other people to impossible standards. I hold MYSELF to impossible standards. But I always want to do magic when I write, and to re-create the world when I perform. I’m sure that’s not where a lot of people are. I’m not sure where I go with this.

I try not to write anything that won’t simultaneously stand up on stage and on page. I don’t really believe in performance poetry — just good poetry performed well, aiming for authenticity, and capable of living past me to the next readers.

I take it back. I don’t write pieces. I don’t perform pieces.

I write poems, unless I say differently, and I almost never do.

I’m a fucking poet, a poet almost to the exclusion of being a functioning human being. No wonder I’m miserable.

I say this now because I’m finding it very hard to continue to call this paper I’m writing a poem — but I’m still trying.

On a thread on dokuritsu‘s LJ there’s a discussion going on regarding the difference between “poems” and “pieces”.

I have to be honest — I have NEVER made such a distinction in referring to my own work, and certainly never thought it was an actual distinction when people used the word. I use them interchangeably.

What I write, mostly, are “poems.” Any given poem is also a “piece” of my overall work. So when I say, “I’m working on a new piece,” I mean “I’m writing something new.” But a column is a piece too, a blog entry is also a piece, and a poem is a piece.

To me.

I’m curious: how do others feel about this? Gotta admit, I’m a little bemused that it’s a subject of debate…am I just out of it?

Today is the 35th anniversary of the Kent State killings — May 4, 1970.

The one and only time I was ever suspended from school was for wearing a black armband on my suit jacket at prep school (yes, prep school; it’s not just for Taylor anymore)on the 5th anniversary. I was one of four who were suspended.

The first time I was ever teargassed was at a 1978 demonstration at Kent State where we were protesting the college administration’s decision to build a new Gym on the site of the killings. They bussed in kids from all over the country — I was part of the UMass contingent.

The incident should always remind us that the politics of confrontation have costs that must be borne, now and then — or even more often.

Kids were shot and died while protesting. There was a draft back then so the struggle seemed more personal…

like the one we’re in now isn’t.

Yup. Seems about right.

Random Comic Generator v2.0 by Delya
Nickname
Paper or plastic?	PaperPlasticneithernonebubble wrap
panel 1
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Quiz created with MemeGen!

1. I am one of the few people in the world, I think, who enjoys strategic planning.

2. What I dislike is nothing happening as a result of the work we put in.

3. I get away with murder at this company.

4. This is partly because I am their pet freak — a role that suits me well, and which I play for all it is worth.

5. It also has to do with 20 years under my belt here — a certain street credibility attaches itself to you.

6. Everyone believes me when I say a word needs to be changed in a statement for greater clarity or precision — because, hey, poet, you know.

7. I get to say stuff like, “hey, isn’t that what we said last year, and it didn’t work then?”

8. I scare new people.

9. I like scaring new people.

10. All this is true, and I’d still quit this joint tomorrow if I wasn’t finishing school.

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

Unrelated thought:

Sorry, folks. I have no problem with W pronoucing “nuclear” as “nukyular.” So does Jimmy Carter. It’s a regionalism. You know, a difference among people? Something we’re all supposed to tolerate?

There’s a touch of elitism in the constant niggling over this thing. Get over it, and pay more attention to the bastard’s actions.

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

We now return you to your regularly scheduled memes, indie rock*, and slam gossip.

*By the way, this most recent Nick Cave double album is great.

I’ll be in a “strategic planning” meeting for the next three days, so won’t be around much.

If I owe you an e-mail, you’ll get it.

If you owe me one, please send it and I’ll hit you back at night.

Be well. Hope to see locals on Sunday if my paper’s done.

1. I am listening to Jill Scott.

2. These scheduled feature dates that prove I am planning for a future:

a. June 9: Broken Speech Slam, Orlando, FL.

b. July 25: Bar 13, NYC

c. July 29: Buffalo, NY

The man at the pharmacy counter and I are
picking up our prescriptions.

He notices the names on my slips.

He pulls me aside on the way out the door
and says,

“What does a gun barrel
taste like? Are you suicidal if
you can simply imagine
it? Even if you don’t own a gun? if
you know you’d more likely use
a knife or a rope? if you haven’t
so far and you’re in your thirties?”

I tell him
I wouldn’t know anything
about that. He nods
and waits for me to go

to my car. In the rear view mirror
I see him sit down on the curb
and run his fingers through his hair.

I will drive away, I tell myself,
and I do. I stop looking
in the mirror once I’ve pulled out,
stop thinking about it
until I get home and write this poem.

If you lick the end of a pen
it’s almost the same
is what I should have said.

is writing about loneliness today.

and we are all together.

I’m frightened today for
the ivory-billed woodpecker
because he
is a beautiful affirmation
in the face of
degradation and waste
and as such is
a good excuse for
doing nothing

see, they will say
after every binge
there’s still a half-full bottle
somewhere

I’m frightened
for the ivory billed woodpecker
because it’s no coincidence
to some people
that there may be more
in Cuba

the passenger pigeon
and the Carolina parakeet
sit in a Manhattan loft whispering
that the ivory billed woodpecker’s
sold out

the bison hits his cell hourly
and tells him reemergence
isn’t all it’s cracked up
to be

and the scientists
will argue about his feathers
reclassify him
and make him as real
as the posters they’ve fingered
for years

someone
pinch me
I’m dreaming
says the researcher
that can’t be
it is
it can’t be

meanwhile
the bird
pretends he doesn’t know
he’s been extinct
and knocks on a few more trees

hello I’m back
hello it’s me
I call myself
levorantioreloakackackor
what you call me is irrelevant

I am frightened for the
ivory-billed woodpecker
because
he is no longer as historic or tragic
as we prefer our myths to be