BASIC

Something there is in us that likes to go to war,
but is dishonest, and will not admit
to a love of blood,
yet snickers up its sleeve when we try to justify
this warm pool growing sticky around our feet.

We will search for anything to make it good and right
that we are here again, in love with resolve,
and cordite, and smoldering. We hand over the wheel to stolid, steadfast men,
then crouch near our televisions
for hours until we hear the first news of carpet bombing.

We turn to each other. “Outstanding,” we say.
When our children come
too close,
we shoo them
from the room.

I just got accepted to read at this event. They’re still looking for readers, but you’d better get stuff to them quickly…it was on craigslist not too long ago, was forwarded by a friend.

“The Gallery of Social and Political Art sees itself as part of a broad ongoing struggle against all forms of social injustices. Though we are highly supportive of artists, we do not showcase them or their work: we showcase their concerns about social justice. The non-profit Gallery is run by two directors: Nathan Burke and (myself)Holly Wheeler.

“The upcoming exhibition, ‘Is this OUR country?’ will run from September 17th – October 17th, 2004. It features works of art that analyze the current state of our country and will feature a poetry reading that will take place during the opening. The scheduled exhibition will be held at a very important time in the year.

“This is a time for us to come together and express our views about America. We are still accepting poetry submissions for the reading, so if you know of any others that may be interested I urge you to spread the word!”

I submitted my work (which included “Political Art,” setting me up for one of the great meta-moments of all time)to them embedded directly in a e-mail to:

gpsaboston@gmail.com

ADDENDUM: The gallery is in Boston, at 565 Boylston Street.

And he’s a nice guy to boot. But you knew that.

The open at AS220 was pretty typical; with the absence of Jared (who got arrested at the RNC, surprise) Morgan stepped in to fill the hosting duties.

I read in the open, doing “News Conferences,” as I threatened earlier. I shared with the crowd my solid feeling that George Bush would win the election and why I felt that way.

Put bluntly, the Right has shown that they’ll kill to defend the country as they define it, and people are fine with that. We the people don’t mind someone killing in our name as long as it’s elsewhere and the dead don’t look like us. We’ll even tolerate a certain level of bloodshed on our side, if we feel safer in the long run.

Safety through bloodshed. It’s an American tradition.

Nobody trusts the Left to be good killers.

The Left needs to stop being pissy and unbelieving that people don’t understand their logic. Americans could care less about logic and sense. They want the emotional satisfaction of blood in their mouths. They distrust intellectuals and will rather follow a man of strong resolve and dull mind anyday.

What the Left needs to do is to go apeshit.

ANYWAY…

Sage finished his new album this afternoon, for release on Epitaph in February. He treated us to three-quarters of the album done a cappella for his feature.

I’ll be buying it.

Afterwards, we talked (before too, but that was mostly goofing with hairy_lamb and androidlustre), and he’s walking on air about the recording…too cool.

I left before the slam, per usual…

Zero Point Zero is up — review of Sage, some random reflections on mastery. Here’s the link.

to see Sage Francis and Slug from Atmosphere (which, evidently, means something to a lot of people) at the slam.

Haven’t been out for a purely fun time in a bit. Gonna read in the open, something loud and nasty for George to hear all the way in NY — probably “News Conferences,” or maybe “In America” if I’m feeling loud enough.

Corrina will be there, Alex, John, and who knows who else.

Yay!

Historic underprosecution of rape?
Victim demonization?
Harassment of victims?
Consensual vs. forced?
Malicious prosecution for the sake of money?

Historic railroading of black men who have sex with white women?
Automatic presumption of guilt? Of innocence?

The vast number of cases of all of the above that no one ever hears about?

Celebrity justice?
Dollars infuencing justice?
Justice as commodity?

Celebrity arrogance?

The media’s blinding spotlight?
The media’s lemming-like gaze?

Where do you stand on this? Not because it’s important; not because it matters; but because of what it says about you. About us.

Do you know why you choose to consider some of these dynamics and not others?

Can you even tell?

Let’s see what happens next, shall we?

Kobe walks on the criminal complaint.

is ill spent on the Internet, reading up on news and such.

I really need to visit NY soon — need a fix.

I really need to book some features here and there — need a fix.

I really need to schedule a tour — maybe Texas in the spring?

I really have to get my fat (albeit slimmed down) ass in gear and have a poetic career. More submissions. More publications.

More poetry.

More work that makes me happy, makes me feel good. Less that makes me feel old and tool-like.

I’m coming up on twenty years here in May. Shit. Although I’ve bounced around and done a lot of different stuff…gotta say it: too long.

I’m 44 years old and ready not to act my age.

I don’t think this is a midlife crisis, or a manic episode, or even a moment of self doubt and despair — it’s just the simple revelation that I’ve been wasting my time.

Everything else will remain true — I’m unhappy, stressed over aging, sick near unto death with the inability to balance my moods. Those things are simple facts.

But it could all be ameliorated a bit if I changed my life to own my poetic endeavors more fully.

So…I shall.

And I can’t even take credit, because dead_kitty dropped superb editing on what I’d done and made it far better. Much more economical.

Hmmmmm…final_girl offered a new ending to one of my poems a week or so ago and it rocked. Maybe I’m better at starting poems these days than finishing them.

Never let it be said that I didn’t accept help from better poets when it was offered. I’m no idiot.

thank you, again…

😉

happy family

johnny dropped a penny. ellie
picked it up. saved a few
and bought johnny cigarettes. johnny
smoked them and didn’t speak to ellie
until he needed more.

johnny and ellie got married and
had kids. the kids rolled around
on the floor because
they were crazy anyway. they got pounded until
they fit the holes they fell into. everyday johnny

dropped a valentine in front of the kids
and they didn’t say anything
until they’d about chewed
each other’s arms off to get it.
then ellie asked them why they were such a mess.

and that is how it happens
that we find johnny and ellie smoking
and the kids cringing back
holding a valentine soaked in blood,
with pennies over their eyes.

johnny dropped a penny. ellie
picked it up. saved a few dozen
and bought johnny some cigarettes. johnny
smoked all of them and didn’t speak to ellie
until he needed more.

johnny and ellie got married and had a
couple kids. the kids grew up and
rolled around on the floor because
they were crazy anyway. they got pounded until
they fit the holes they fell into. everyday johnny

dropped a valentine within the reach of the kids
and they didn’t say anything
until they’d about chewed
each other’s arms off to get it.
then ellie always asked them why they were such a mess.

and that is how it happens
that we find johnny and ellie smoking
and the kids cringing back from them
holding a valentine soaked in blood,
with pennies over their eyes.

I just heard a Bright Eyes song on the way in — “Waste of Paint.”

Are they serious?

Is this band really popular?

This was the worst open mike/confessional/open heart bleeding/overlong piece of shit I’ve heard in ages.

Holy fuck.

Off to class…more later.

LEXICON DEVIL

Redefine everything:
the Language will protect you
from how slippery truth can be. In the Language,

if the stray bullet hits the man you love,
you may call it terrorism. If it hits the man you hate,
you may call it justice.

In the enemy’s night garden a red knife will be called a grey flower
and the white, misplaced faith of the children you just slew
will be called a mineshaft.

In the staring eyes of those young dead
there are mountains you find you can’t describe.
You see them now, you feel like you must have lived there once,

even if you can’t say it. Fortunately,
the Language you’re trained to speak will keep you
safe, warm, will hold you firmly as you step over the abyss.

This is your brain on alcohol. This is your friend’s brain on alcohol..and so is this…and there’s some more over there…

http://www.reuters.co.uk/newsPackageArticle.jhtml?type=worldNews&storyID=573875&section=news

I’ll be posting at odd points today. I’ll just update this entry, so keep checking back.

This is a second draft.

DEPRESSION, OFFHAND

The worst part is the sheer offhandedness of it —
how it happens suddenly not in response
to something obvious like disaster or storm-clouds but as an accessory
to good times, as if a just-acquired bauble was weighing me down.
Then again, the worst part is the sheer offhandedness of it

in the sense of emotional dislocation,
as if I were compelled to use an off-hand
in place of the accustomed one – reaching for the doorknob left-
handed and not right. Of course,
the worst part is the sheer offhandedness of it

in the sense of severed hands, my red stumps thumping
cruelly against the outside door, or finding myself unable
to fasten a bracelet, my arms upraised and helpless,
brandishing the remnants of utility as if the memory of utility alone
was enough to hold onto something.

Off-hand,
I would say the worst part is
the way your grip slips,
regardless
of the hold you use.

the column is finally up tonight.

Something a little off topic, I think; a column that is on the surface about poetry but is really about far more; about renewal, and the necessary dead time that precedes it.

There is a difference between owning your pain and wallowing in it.

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

I purchased a copy of Sharon Olds’ “The Unswept Room” yesterday because it had the most gorgeous cover I’ve ever seen on a book of poetry.

Of course, she’s also pretty good.

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

It’s too fucking humid for words. More of them tomorrow.

I feel somewhat better today, but not great.

I want to feel good again. I’d settle for good.

I feel distant from things. Unable to touch, or to be touched.

I, I, I. Bipolar is such a narcissistic condition.

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

SPEAK on Wednesday was great. Our second anniversary. I turned the selection of themes over to the group, and there was great enthusiasm. Will post them later.

Also: we remain at twice a month, and we won’t be having features except on an occasional basis. (Like Rachel Kann on 9/22.)

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

I still have nothing to say about the column.

The problem with treating writing as a spiritual practice is that when the spirit isn’t willing, the weak flesh feels justified in sitting it out.

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

Thanks to javabill and thisrabbit for offering a sympathetic place to hang last night. If I hadn’t talked, I would have exploded.

As it is, I’m sadder but wiser now. Maybe wiser can lead to happier. That would be nice.

I’ve always been of the mindset that I had to figure everything out rationally when I had a problem — which may be why I do so poorly with irrational issues, twisted and complex emotions.

Maybe wiser can lead to happier. Maybe it can’t.

I’m willing to entertain that possibility.