I’m working on a couple of projects right now, and am interested in your opinions.

1. Slam as a place to move performance poetry forward in terms of artistic merit seems broken right now. If you were in charge, what would you do to change that?

2. Anyone know anything about the psychological phenomenon known as a “fugue state”? Anecdotes, etc.? I know the definition.

Thanks in advance.

I’m trying to figure out what that spot is on my arm in my user-pic.

That was taken in Seattle at the Hurricane, during one of my various open mike appearances…It was probably dirt, or maybe it wasn’t.

Any thoughts? (Silly, I know; but I’m trying to get trivial here just to keep away from dwelling on things…)

and don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

I just want to hurt someone when I’m in this mood…

Usually, that means me. But not always.

Went to Bill’s feature at the Hut tonight; got there late and left early. It was good, and his new chapbook is very good.

Could barely speak to anyone, feeling quite anti-social in the most strict sociological sense of the word (read: criminal).

People were kind enough, or my friends were, anyway…I think I was giving off that “edge of the cliff” kind of vibe.

There’s one regular at the Hut I always know I’m one wrong word away from blowing up at. He was there, but he steered clear tonight…it’s not his fault, really; he just embodies things I dislike, and I should be more tolerant of those things. Seriously.

January 16th…the new meds manager appointment. Too much to lay on one day, I know, but hope hangs where it can.

Say it with me, people; say it with me. Hope hangs where it can.

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

I’m looking back at this, and I don’t like what I see.

I’m gonna chill out on the blogging for a bit. Need to refocus on health.

Hit me via e-mail if it’s critical– please, no calls for those who do call me from time to time.

I will be better. I have to be.

— The Eve: good food at mother-in-law’s place as is traditional.

— The Day : early to rise, drive to the nieces to watch the festivities; then to my folks for unwrapping and food; then, Annie went off to see a recently widowed friend while I made the scene at thisrabbit‘s and Bill’s annual open house, along with aurorabell and Taylor (and the lovely Apollo), ocvictor, myainsel, thephotofairy, mstegosaurus, and a host of the locals. Good food, good times. I actually played guitar and sang in public for strangers! (Sou did too, but she’s good at that). Home early, early to bed.

— Today: down with the beginnings of the flu, which I’m trying to shake and drug off.

Amazing how working on a poem or two helps. I swear it’s my version of religion; this is how I talk my way back to God.

Struck by how, um, CHRISTIAN this stuff is of late –“Frontier”, “Suicide Notes” both have strong Biblical motifs.

And I can’t think of too many poets less Xian than me…just working the myths that I know best, I think.

Thanks for comments. Closer to the meaning I wanted now; still working on the music…

SUICIDE NOTES {take two}

SUICIDE NOTES

the Worcester semi final slam tonight. First one I’ve missed in years.

I wasn’t feeling all that well, but mostly I was bored. I’m bored in general by a lot of things right now. I think I hate poetry and poets a lot…

I did get to sit with Morris, which helped me a bit with maintaining a modicum of interest in things for a while; nonetheless, I am missing something…

I read “The Frontier” tonight, and have been working on it since I got home; the last lines aren’t working at all. The immediate solution is to cut them, but I think it’s too easy that way.

But why bother?

I feel like I can’t read poetry any more the way I have always tried to read it — as if it were the last thing I would ever do, and so needed to be invested in it to that level for the sake of excellence and legacy and passion…Know why?

Because I did it tonight, as I always do; said those words to myself before I started…and all I could think of was, “So what? So what if it is the last thing you’lll ever do? Who here will care? Who will recall that? It’s just another stupid poem by just another stupid poet, just another idiot masturbation.”

We’d be better off as ghosts. We’d haunt people longer.

I copied this from Wanda Coleman’s recent article in the LA Weekly concerning the furor over her criticism of Maya Angelou’s most recent book.

I posted this to the slam list as well…I think it’s a good encapsulation of one of the key issues regarding slam/performance poetry today: the apparent unwillingness to honestly critique each other’s work.

Would love your thoughts…

“ALL LITERARY CRITICISM, AT ROOT, IS BIASED because each reviewer
must bring to the act his or her individual world-view and aesthetic
sensibility.

Each must decide if the social values of a text as a political record
are more important than its literary values…

But fostering an illusion of excellence where none exists, regardless
of the writer or subject matter, is to do a democratic readership the
ultimate disservice.

Saying amen to the going cultural directives, minus a true analysis,
is as morally suspect as any bigoted criticism — whether done out of
guilt, fear, or the desire to compensate the author for the social
ills that shaped his or her existence.”

— Wanda Coleman

============================================================

12:00:

And within minutes, I had been told that my posting this “as a white man” was dangerous because I resembled those white Republicans who claimed to understand how Martin Luther King would react because they’ve taken individual comments out of context.

Y’know, I really ought to let my dad know that I’ve been promoted to “white”.

I just posted a comment to the slam list suggesting that Maya Angelou isn’t a great poet.

I am taking bets on how long it will be before I am called a “hater”.

Who’s in?

Starting a poem
at midnight is
a goddamn awful idea –

sitting straight up in bed
just because a spider crossed
your face
and now
you’re awake

what good is
thinking about writing now
get some sleep

anyway
once you dust off a shit idea for a poem
(and don’t they all seem so good until you
actually
think them through?)
you’ll just head off to bed most nights
anyway

I mean
hell
if you’re smart
you’ll opt for more pocket change
or for getting laid
instead of bending over to kiss that spider
hoping it’s the same fairy tale spider
that miss muffet damn near sat herself
upon

(thinking miss m was a wuss
when it came to
arachnids and
it’s a sin
all that poison going to waste
just because ) but

what the hell
any poem worth writing will cost you
and when all you need to do to pay up
is bend to it
rub your eyes
suck that spider in and let it
roll around on your tongue
then
simple enough
poet
you ought to do that
let the pen flow where it may even if
the words escape like eight legs skittering
like pens on glass where the ink wipes clean
as soon as it leaves the nib

fuck miss muffet and sleep alike
there’s work to be done

Thoughts welcome.

The Frontier

This is a short week at work. I ought to be busy. I’m not.

PERFECT WORLD

In a perfect world,
Roy Horn could have saved
himself. So let me say this right up front:

I am not Roy, I am not even Siegfried, and I cannot make anything disappear.
Therefore, Lord, let me give up. I will turn toward the headlines
and surrender my own head to the tiger, and

into his jaws, his ivory ridged answer, I shall commend my spirit.
I shall learn to speak in sitcom
and imagine in high definition what it’s like to be at war –

if my left eye opens,
I will wash it in a pool of agreement and dry it
with a flag.

Let me hear the roll call again — call out the names of those fated
to die for overdetermined reasons.
Think for instance of the Flight 11 passengers

watching the river passing
too close below, seated under the watchful eyes
of robots praising razors before God. Lord,

I should set their cries to music; somebody teach me
the chords to a country song. I should light a candle for them at dusk; somebody
piss me a gasoline river, pass me a lighter. Somebody

pardon me for being slow to resign myself –
I had a hard life, was raised among Masonite paneling, insult flavored rugs,
marketing for the survival of the thinnest —

I used to think I deserved a shot at redemption. Don’t I owe myself
a chance to be in the majority?
You promised once that I’d be unique; now, we’re all supposed

to be unique together. What happened?
Weren’t we supposed to be on top?
The apple pie apple of every eye?

Wasn’t this supposed to be our century, our planet, our time to shine
with the Coca-Cola glazed and handsome sheen
of the skin on a roasted hog?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still down with it; it’s just that I’m finding it harder to believe.
It’s too damn hard to think through the roaring. Everybody dies
for something these days. Somebody, anybody, even the Lord —

tell me something simple, and I’ll pretend that I like dying for it,
even as I wonder why Roy wasn’t faster, swinging the mike at the tiger’s head
and leaping back in time to laugh and laugh

at how those handsome teeth closed on air?
Why were our free will and his gleaming magic not enough to stop the blood?
Why isn’t history dead? Why are we still at war?

I swear I didn’t notice the resemblances in the first lines until after this was complete…a “My Sweet Lord” defense, to be sure, but the honest truth.

IN A PERFECT WORLD, ROY HORN WOULD SAVE AMERICA FROM ITSELF

Let me say this: I am not Siegfried, I am not Roy, I cannot make anything disappear —
so, Lord, let me give up.
Let me surrender my head to the tiger, and

into his jaws, that ivory ridged answer, I shall commend my spirit.
Let me surrender into a peace beyond understanding. Let me learn to think in “dramedy”.
Let me think in high definition of what it’s like to be at war,

and if my left eye opens,
I will wash it in a pool of agreement and dry it
with a flag.

Let’s hear the rollcall again: call out the names of those fated
to die for ill-determined causes;
think for instance of the Flight 11 passengers

watching the river passing
too close below, seated under the watchful eyes
of robots praising razors. Lord,

I want to set their cries to music, so somebody teach me
the chords to a country song. Somebody
piss me a gasoline river, then pass me a lighter. Somebody

pardon me for being incautious – hell,
I had a hard life, was raised among Masonite paneling, insult flavored rugs,
marketing for the survival of the thinnest —

don’t I deserve a shot at redemption? Don’t I owe myself a chance to be
passionate for something definable?
It was promised to me that I’d be unique.

We were all supposed to be unique together.
Isn’t this world supposed to be ours
as part of that bargain?

It’s just that I’m finding it hard to believe right now as I wonder
why Roy wasn’t faster, swinging the mike at the tiger’s head
and leaping back in time to laugh and laugh

at how the handsome teeth closed on air. Why were free will and shiny magic
not enough to stop the blood?
Why isn’t history dead? Why are we still at war?

It’s just too damn hard to think through all the roaring. Everybody dies
for something these days: somebody, anybody,
just tell me something simple I can pretend to die for.