how difficult it is for me to not be spending much time at iWPS this year.

I’ll be up on Wednesday after SPEAK, taking Thursday off to play with y’all, MCing a bout on Thursday night, and then I’m gone until Finals night — working Friday, class Friday night, class all day Saturday, and I can’t even play much Saturday night because I have class Sunday AM.

I miss you guys, and I know it’s likely that with school becoming a more intensive part of the next couple years, I won’t tour much or get out around here as much, either.

I’ll be 47 when I get my degree. 3 years from 50. Damn.

Well, we’ll always have LJ.

Think any of us will still be in slam in two years? I know I won’t, though I’ll always be a poet, till the day I die.

But I do wonder where the rough beast is headed. It certainly seems to be slouching these days.

Eight years old. There is
a giant moonlit boot outside my window.
I jump down onto
the instep, climb the laces hand over hand
past the ankle onto the silk stocking, then
discover fine hairs to hang onto as I
move up the leg.

At eight I have no idea
why I’m climbing the giant, or
what I’m climbing toward.

At twelve I get a clue
but it weighs me down so much
I keep slipping back to earth and
I have to begin again.

Tonight another boot sits there tapping.
I want to get past the presumed target.
When I reach the chest, I’ll raise a thumb and lunge
through the skin.

I’ll cling for years under the skin.
I’ll forget how to climb.

When (once again)
she cuts me out and
I fall like blood
splashing onto the toe
of her boot,

I’ll be eight years old
before I climb again.

I’ve run into a person here on LJ who’s looking for info, video clips, etc. on women slammers, rappers, and poets for a paper.

Her LJ name is shockfactor and you can respond in my comments section. I’ll have her friend me and contact you through that.

For the record, I’ve sent her already to bullhorn, livepoets, and gotpoetry.

Thanks!

EDIT: Here’s a followup from the aforementioned researcher:

Good deeds rewarded. Thanks, all.

I skipped the State of the Union address tonight.

I did it deliberately, and I don’t care.

In fact, I have decided that I pretty much don’t care at all, anymore.

I surrender.

I’ve got more important things to do than snicker and froth at the Head Pig.

I know already he’ll piss me off, and that I don’t like him and don’t trust him.

When I say I surrender, I mean just this: the battle has to shift elsewhere. If the things I love are going to ultimately survive, they won’t survive because we elect a Democrat, wrest the Congress from the Republicans, defeat the Christian right, or forge a new relationship with the UN.

So, I surrender that formal battle to others. Enjoy, thrive. Play hard.

I do not intend to speak of “politics” here again. Social observations, certainly. But policy discussions? Personality discussions? No.

I do not intend to speak of activism, or of causes, or specific actions.

No more.

My war is elsewhere, these days; and that’s where my energy will be.

1. i’ve been in a meeting all day. didja miss me?

2. i’m home now working on a paper for school.

3. i’ve got a second poem in the giant series cooking. stay tuned.

4. the CD for iWPS is back on. it had been cancelled but new arrangements have been made. details to follow (when they’re finalized).

over and out till later —

T

The Squared Circle

Ladies and gentlemen,
your attention, please.

In this corner, your giant.
And in this corner, the other giant.

It’s one giant in a mirror.
No, it’s not.

It’s a fake giant and a real one.
Or, no giants but in ourselves.

Here are the rules:

When your giant strikes, cringe and shout praise.
When the other giant falls, dance as if you were on fire.

When the other giant strikes, close your eyes.
When your giant falls, it’s your fault.

If you think there’s just one giant,
speak in tongues until the mirror cracks.

If you think one giant is a fraud,
be sure which one it is before you bet.

If there’s no giant, why are you here?
You must have heard something.

Rounds begin and end when a giant’s boot
stomps a referee into the mat.

Knockouts? Don’t be ridiculous.
A decision’s not official until some of you are killed,

and if during the fight someone next to you says
stop, stop the fight, the giants

are the only ones
who aren’t dying,

you are to smite that person
with a rulebook until nothing more is said.

This is the fight that the rules have made,
let us be glad and rejoice in it;

shake hands, come out swinging,
and quickly forget which giant you are,

or whether you’re a giant or a spectator, and
whether that makes any difference at all.

a random number
of my thoughts
will escape me
tonight and run

off to the
skateboard park where
they’ll beat their
little asses raw

on concrete and
it’ll be the
best thing, really
because I haven’t

kept up enough
with my end
of the bargain
to toughen them

enough to be
warriors as needed
for battle or
love or even

planning strategy with
my neighbors over
stopping the skateboard
park from ruining

our property values.
you’d think I
was their father
or something the

way they expect
to be punished
for being free
enough to play

on their own
in the very
source of my
misery, skating with

the freakish kids
who play there —
cracking jokes at
my expense, probably;

roughneck kids going
where they aren’t
supposed to be;
my thoughts, exactly.

Felt well enough tonight after a long day working on various projects to hit the Asylum. I was in Providence at the Post Office at 6:05 and was in the Hut by 6:40….not bad, eh?

(By the way, local folks: if you weren’t aware of it, the Providence PO is open 7AM-9PM weekdays, 10AM to 6PM Saturdays and Sundays. Handy for last minute mailings.)

Jon Wolf’s doing an excellent job keeping the joint moving — 24 open mikers without rushing too much in an hour and a half. He’s really coming into his own as a host.

We’re getting some EXCELLENT quality stuff in the open. And only a minority portion of it is “slam stuff” — by which I mean the — well, you know. I don’t even need to describe it.

I think one of the things I love about Worcester is that we’re SO not dependent on the slam around here to keep things moving. We slam only once a month, bring in slam and non-slam features, and still have a packed house, usually SRO, almost every week.

I read “the abandoned orchard” (which I have revised and I think I’ll repost it — it’s the one that references testicular cancer) and “Radioactive Artist”. I do love that poem, no matter how old it is. Sometimes you’ve got to go back to them and learn how to make them breathe again. That way, they don’t grow stale.

After, it was feature time — mskittieface and edzeppelin came in and did a very tight tradeoff set of good work. I’m having a brainfart at the moment or I’d go into more detail on more of their pieces; will say I enjoyed Kat’s pro-choice piece and Eirean’s closer about the power of a given poem.

We then sat and gossiped with thisrabbit about the unsavory habits of certain touring poets (tonight’s features not among the list). I name no names, and you can’t drag it out of me. Take comfort — if you’re reading this (and it’s a public post), you’re probably not on the list.

And so to bed. I’ve got a longish day tomorrow and much to do — still working on the paper and such.

Have fun, or whatever you kids do nowadays.

I have to say, the value and pleasure of clear breathing is often overlooked.

I have a newfound respect for it now.

Felt more active — repaired plumbing today, worked on a paper for school, hung out, went out for Thai food and brought it home, then dozed off in front of Forensic Files.

I’m still snuffly, but ought to be ok by tomorrow. Need to make it to the Asylum for the feature by Kat Sanford and Ed Zeppelin — got a debt of sorts to repay.

Sleepy time; of course, still have to finish restringing the archtop. Some things you just can’t leave undone.

Now that I’m home today, I am SO going back to bed.

Sick Still Sucks.

I am SO not going to work tomorrow.

Sick sucks.

By now, a lot of you will have heard about the controversy surrounding the Hot 97 crew on NY morning radio, who have been suspended indefinitely after playing an atrociously offensive “We Are The World” parody related to the tsunami tragedy.

Here’s a link to an article I picked up from Google News regarding the situation.

http://www.thuglifearmy.com/news/articles/50775/

Read through the thing and tell me if the conclusion is as fucked as I think it is.

I am sick.

I have a fever. I’m stuffy, drippy, and pissy.

I’m also awake — because one of the joys of this is that I can’t use my equipment to sleep.

In addition to the Bipolar stuff, I also have severe obstructive sleep apnea. I stop breathing 1-2 times per minute while I sleep.

Anyone who’s had the joy of sleeping in a room with me while on tour or at Nats knows something about this — I have (or had) the Snore of Great Power and Terror as I choke, over and over again, in my sleep. I’d toss myself up against the worst of ’em, including Danny Solis.

That is, up until 2001, when I was put on a CPAP (constant positive air pressure) machine. The condition was starting to affect my heart — it can be fatal if not treated. So this thing blows 14 lbs. psi of air thru my nose and down my throat all night, every night. Keeps the passage open.

Every night I hook myself up to a mask that makes me look like an elephant man and I drift off to lovely slumber. Really did change my life.

The only time I can’t use this is when — you guessed it — I have a cold.

OTC cold meds are no help, because they interact weirdly with my OTHER meds.

So — a cold for me causes all sorts of extra misery. And this one’s shaping up to be a doozy.

No one showed up for SPEAK tonight, as I expected, so I sat and sniffled and snorted and read some poems by Mark Jarman for 45 minutes or so, then went home.

The poems were good. The slipping, sliding, and freezing while driving were not.

I was in bed, I think, by 10, and now I’m up.

Love this season.