Nothing like getting into a soft, comfortable bed.

From the gotpoetry forum, reposted from the slamlist by Sage Francis:

“I am pleased to announce that St. Louis has forged a partnership with Clearchannel Communications. This deal is a great opportunity to grow the NPS from year to year. Clearchannel has suggested that they possibly would be interested in a national partnership from year to year.

The deal breaks down with three radio stations like this;

Z107 Fm, The Beat and Magic will each run three ads per day for three weeks…. with 63 ads per station which gives us 189 produced spots. Each spot will be sixty seconds.

Each station will also provide one live remote during the event.

This package is valued at $106,000.00. I cannot tell you how important this deal is for the national movement. I hope you will embrace the need for media partners as you grow this event forward.

I can understand the reluctance to have certain sponsors branded to this event, however, there is no bigger media partner than Clearchannel out there…and they were the only media company that could offer this package.

Additionally we have purchased radio spots to solely promote finals night. This again was partly in-kind. We will pay $1500.00 cash for the extra radio coverage for finals night. $106,000.00 coverage for only $1500.00 is a great and awesome deal folks. Clearchannel has been most gracious and one of the best contacts to date.”

Not sure how to react? Some other stuff about ClearChannel to think about:

http://www.citizenworks.org/corp/cc.php

This is one of those words that can’t be understood until you have lived through it.

And then, you simply say, “I’m heartbroken,” and those who have been heartbroken understand and fall silent while the others make sympathetic noises. They make sounds with you, in concert with you, in response to you.

What they do not realize is that what you need most is silence.

There are some memories that can only be grasped in the left hand and held to your ear in dead silence.

There are some voices that can only be conjured up when you are so quiet you could hear a pin crack.

There are some rooms that only return to existence when the space around you is sucked clear of anything like a sound, a word.

This is why poetry is useless for heartbreak’s balm. All a poem can do is move along beside you. It can never move inside you until after you are healed.

This is one of those words that can’t be understood until you have lived through it.

And then, you simply say, “I’m heartbroken,” and those who have been heartbroken understand and fall silent while the others make sympathetic noises. They make sounds with you, in concert with you, in response to you.

What they do not realize is that what you need most is silence.

There are some memories that can only be grasped in the left hand and held to your ear in dead silence.

There are some voices that can only be conjured up when you are so quiet you could hear a pin crack.

There are some rooms that only return to existence when the space around you is sucked clear of anything like a sound, a word.

This is why poetry is useless for heartbreak’s balm. All a poem can do is move along beside you. It can never move inside you until after you are healed.

Here you go, Sou: “Geoffry” by Christopher Smart.

Continue reading

We appear to be in the middle of a hot debate over on gotpoetry.com concerning the role, future, etc., of slam…at least in part occasioned by my most recent column, at least in part by other considerations not worth going into here.

If you’re that interested in the details of this debate, go check em out. I’m not commenting specifically on it here. All I really feel like saying about it is: the best thing you can do when you’re done with something is fold your tents and retreat.

I’m actually good at that, usually. I think my constant fiddling about with this topic is telling me something…that I’m not really done with slam.

I think something’s got to give, and give big, for the slamiverse to move forward. It’s become a festival of the New, and tradition is secondary, so the whole’s become incessantly self referential — people are speaking to each other almost exclusively in real time, with no eye back to the past and the future limited to next week.

Who’s writing for tomorrow?

When I was growing up as a poet, I thought of myself as being in competition not with the folks around me, but with folks like Neruda and Whitman.

I really feel if you’re not gunning for Shakespeare, you’re a hobbyist at this — and maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I’m too fucking much of a purist. I ought to settle down and have fun with my poetry; but fun is secondary to transcendence in my world. Fun, in fact, is secondary to almost everything. And maybe, just maybe, I am losing out by being so committed to the primacy of Art in my life.

ADAM AND EVE ON A RAFT, WRECK ‘EM

The cup’s on the counter.
Your lipstick’s on the rim.
The whole day’s shot to hell.
My job and your tumbled papers
swept aside, I sit down
on the corner stool. I used to kiss you
here, and there. We used to make each other
hungry. After us I was not intact
but I was complete as long as
the lipstick stayed in my head
and wasn’t smeared all over.

I take a drink, get
lipstick on the rim of my teeth.
You never used your teeth but
you always let me know
they were there, and now
they are not. I’m left with tears
and left hooks.
I’m counter
help in hell — short order joint, learning to wash the
dishes, make sure all the
stains are gone.

Boss, I’m not up to the job
of dealing with this.
Fire me. I’ll collect
thoughts
for a while.

I’ll never be able to hold this job.
I’m too numb to quit. Boss,
tell me I’m fired.
Tell me to make like an egg and
scramble. Tell me
I’m gone.

I competed in a New England Slam League bout.

And I had FUN.

Too cool.

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

Spent most of the weekend in Mystic CT with friends, came home, jumped in the car and hit Worcester for the first time in a while.

Morris and Corrina asked me to slam for Providence, so I said, “what the hell — it’s a holiday, eh?”

I’m sure Adam and Morris will be publishing their dissections, but the teams were:

Providence Defectors: Corrina Bain androidlustre, Carlos Gomez, Tony Brown (you know…me)

Worcester Wickeds: Alex C hairy_lamb, Urban urbanitus, Ryk McIntyre (allegedly soon to be here), Morris mstegosaurus

Team Snake With Legs: Starthisisstar, Sou MacMillanthisrabbit, Adam Stoneakamuu (who took off too fast afterward — dude! Where’d you go?)

In the final dust, Worcester pulled it out over us, with the Snake slithering in third.

But I had a good time…which makes the new Zero Point Zero (which is now up here ) a bit ironic, since the title is “How Slam Became Irrelevant.”

A bit of a rant…

Very well then; I contradict myself; I contain multitudes. (Some poet said that a while back…)

Zero Point Zero will be up shortly; just an issue with getting on to approve it and post it. Keep checking here for the update. Should be soon. (Update: as of 1:15 am July 3, still nothing. I’ll let you know when it’s up. Sorry.)

It’s a doozy.

Probably won’t be around much this weekend, what with the holiday and all…

Have a good one.

I’m really interested in this meme.

I always find them interesting as phenomena, in general; some are dumber than others, of course. But this one — you know, I’m vainly interested in what people who do and do not know me will ask.

So here goes…

“This is the problem with LJ, we all think we are so close, and we know nothing about each other. I’m going to rectify it. I want you to ask me something you think you should know about me. Something that should be obvious, but you have no idea about. Then post this in your LJ and find out what people don’t know about you.”

Let the healing begin. (I think I heard that in a movie someplace.)

Take the quiz: “Which American City Are You?”

Cleveland
You are blue collar and Rock n Roll. You Work hard and party harder.

Rock on.

In other news: Some of you asked about the short order cooks’ slang that gave me the title of my most recently posted poem.

Here’s a link to some of the common phrases:

http://www.jitterbuzz.com/diners.html

Specifically, “Adam and Eve on a raft, wreck ’em” means two scrambled eggs on toast.

Been working on this for a bit. Just getting to a first post…

ADAM AND EVE ON A RAFT, WRECK EM

The cup’s on the counter with
your lipstick on the rim.
Now the whole day’s shot to hell.
Woe and tumbled eyelashes swept aside, I sit down
at the edge of the counter. I used to kiss you
there, and there. I used to make you
easy there, and there. I was not
intact but I was complete and
the lipstick never stayed in one place on the
rim, it would be smeared over
again and again.

I’m not up to the job
of dealing with this.
Fire me, I’ll collect thoughts
for dole money.

I take a drink,
lipstick on the rim of my teeth,
you never used your teeth,
you always let me know
they were there, and now they are
not. I’m all tears and left hooks.
I’m counter
help in hell — short order joint, learning to wash the
dishes, make sure all the
stains are gone.

I’ll never hold this job.
I’m fired. I’m fired.
I’m history.
I’m gone.

Well, Annie’s been sick, so we haven’t gotten to the movies yet. And I’m likely skipping tonight at the Asylum for the same reason. (Sorry, Shakti.)

In other news, I’m working on a weird poem right now that talks about what happens when anticipation becomes memory. Not sure it’s working, but it’s an interesting concept.

I always find it difficult to get into the poetry-creation mode after releasing a new book. My body and soul cry out for a rest…but I fear rest, I fear it like death. It is death.

One of these days, I fear I may dry up and disappear in the wind that blows through where my poetry used to be. I have an obsessive need to keep the door blocked open until that happens, just to make sure everything that can get out does get out.

I’ve probably written 3,000 poems in my lifetime. (Seriously. Figure an average of 100 per year for 30 years or so.) I like probably 100. The world has heard maybe 75.

Bad statistics? I dunno. They’re mine…I own them.

I just wish they didn’t also own me.

I’m glad to see LJ is up to the usual standards or nearly so — I was going through withdrawal.

Also, I’m having big trouble at home with my PC. I’m ready for a return to Mac.

Just checking in.

OK, I have been a slacker and not done the column yet.

I’ll get right on it at lunch.

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

I’m STILL tired from the trip.

This is my first big drive since the new meds regimen, and I did find it difficult to maintain a schedule with my dosages, so I’m sure that’s part of it. But I managed quite well, considering.

Thanks again to all the folks in DE and MD who came out, offered applause, bought books, offered hospitality (esp. Beverly, my gracious and accomodating host for the two days).

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

Tonight: heading out to see Farenheit 9/11. I really want to give this flick a big box office opening. Sending a message, don’t you know…I may not love Michael Moore, but I loathe Bush.

I hope I can take it. I get so screwy around this subject.

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

More later.

OK, the digest version of the trip:

1. Three hours from home to Montvale, NJ. Five hours and change to the Delaware Memorial Bridge. I rock. And break speed limits.

2. Picked up my host for the two days, Beverly Wilkinson (imsonshyne) and we jetted to Baltimore.

3. I printed the new chapbook and headed back in to Xando for a fun reading (and got to see the miraculously unscathed Droopy and the more battered but still ok delrica after their car accident). Good time.

4. Zoomed back to Newark for the night, did a little sightseeing/antiquing the next day, had Indian dinner and good conversation with Beverly, azureoceanlight and caolinnshouse, and then headed over to the Arts Alliance, a great space, to the reading, which was packed and high quality — besides those mentioned earlier, Amy Eyre pelelawngoddess, Matt MacDonald (who has an lj here but I don’t know the name), and Megan blindlyinnocent among the folks I recall. Good stuff.

5. I ended up doing a 45 minute set! Totally shocked me, but the crowd was into it…included a reading of “Geodes”, which I haven’t done in a while.

6. I’d give you setlists, but I haven’t got a clue. Mostly stuff from the new book with only a few repeats. Know I read “Clinical” in Baltimore, “Cante Jondo…” and “Suicide Notes” in Delaware, but the rest is a blur.

7. I got a standing ovation. Wow.

8. Afterward, off to a karaoke bar for rounds of exquisite corpse and bad singing, with the exception of a guy who covered that Evanescence song — doing both the female and male parts, and nailing them both. Impressive, to say the least, and I don’t even like the song.

9. Ride home included a beagle jumping out of a Jeep window under the wheels of an 18 wheeler stopped in traffic (he survived) and a two hour back up in southern CT. It took me 8 hours to get home. Grr.

10. Finished the night by watching “Monster”, which I’d never seen. Holy shit.

Be good, y’all…