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Dear Slam Poets:

I’ve been reading your chapbooks and seeing you perform for quite a while now.

A few thoughts:

1.
Could you consider adding some silence to your performances here and there? Just a few seconds, to let the tumble of imagery and important thoughts register?

I know you can do it; I’ve seen the way you write and you use things like line breaks, stanza breaks, and punctuation that imply occasional pauses here and there in your flow. Allowing your performance to actually reflect the text might actually allow people to judge and absorb your work better. Just a suggestion.

I know that might make some of your poems longer than three minutes, but there’s this nifty thing called editing that can help take care of that. You might even consider having, in rare cases, two different versions of the same poem — one for slamming, one for reading at features where you have more time.

2.
There’s this cool concept called “dynamic range.” It’s the idea that you can do everything from whisper to scream in a piece, and use a wide variety of techniques in the same poem. Things don’t always start out loud and get louder, or start fast and get faster. A wider range of dynamics might actually help you make a poem more powerful in performance.

Again, just a thought.

3.
I like listening to Buddy Wakefield too. When I want to hear him, I put on one of his CDs.

If I’m listening to you, even if it’s for the first time, I’d like to hear you, not Buddy.

(By the way…you can substitute a lot of names in there for Buddy’s — Andrea Gibson, Rachel MacKibbens, Saul Williams, Mike McGee come to mind. It’s a natural thing — I tried to be Robert Bly for most of the 70s after seeing him read — but at some point, it’s best to be yourself, don’t you think?)

4.
I know you won’t listen to me. That’s OK. I’m getting to the point where I don’t want to listen to you, either. I’d like to hope that may change, but if it doesn’t, that’s OK too.

5.
Try doing a poem you fully expect to tank sometime because it’s not what you do best, and see what happens. If you tried it at NPS, that’d be great, but I understand if the pressures are too great then. But really, try it sometime.

Have fun at NPS. I’ll miss you because you’re colorful, wonderful inspiring people. I won’t miss the slamming though. I don’t feel like I always see you at your best then, and that hurts. A lot.

Of course, if you feel this doesn’t fit you, don’t try it on. But I hope it’s worth your time to at least consider it.

Love (and yes, I mean that),
T


Hey, Columbus…

Looks like we get to meet in person.

Looks like it might be on November 12.

Looks like a fun time.

I’m psyched! Are you?


Legal query

Can anyone point me to a direct, official citation of the laws in either Worcester or Massachusetts regarding 18 year olds in bars?

I do know the official state law is that you have to be 21 to drink, 18 or older to serve or work with alcohol. But I’m looking for restrictions on performers, and I can’t find anything specific…I know that we all think, but I’m not sure it’s really true.

Thanks.


Northbeast Slam, Take 2

1.
I like Jumpin’ Juice and Java, and I hope this works out.

2.
Slam itself? Nothing to make me change my mind about how I’m feeling. I did think the judging was consistent and fair. Yes, even the low scores.

3.
Just booked a feature that I’m really, REALLY excited about. More on that shortly…


The Secret Life Of A Guidance Counselor

10:00 AM:
Kid, you can’t rely on clever
because clever only gets you so far:
from sophomore homeroom pranks
to your first college party at most. After that,
clever becomes desperate and winds up
believing that “Waking Life”
is a good movie because
clever got laid once
after watching it.

10:30 AM:
You? You shouldn’t rely so much on earnest.
Earnest will only lead you
to protest rallies and long nights debating
what “emo” means with people
you would really rather be kissing.

11:00 AM:
You should try to develop
some mad skills and become pretty
because
pretty helps and is all about
the mad skills; there are beautiful children
no one ever notices who would be pretty
if they just developed their mad skills.
It’s not pretty
that I know this,
and not pretty that it’s true,
but it’s true.

11:30 AM:
You’re doomed.

11:40 AM:
You’re going to be fine
in spite of what I say.

12:15 PM:
You would make a fine
guidance counselor.
Lucky you.

1:30 PM:
I don’t know what to tell
you.

There are times when
I can remember what I am
supposed to be doing here
when I speak to you,
and I hate you for that.

2:30 PM:
Joy, and spirit, and service.
God love you.
May you one day forget
I ever existed.


Environmental Impact Statement

Blue is the swing
of my lips from side to side
as I frown and frown
at what we’ve done.

Blue is the color of me
whistling past the graveyard
I have made of my home.

Blue is the shade
of our impotent
disapproval.

Blue is the wing
of a thunderbird
caught above us
in the smoggy answer
to the question,
“What have you done
for me lately?” Blue
is the laughter of
triumphant myth
righting itself.

Blue, the sky’s blue,
deepens as the earth imagines
itself healed, patient again
with our dwindling presence.

Blue, goodnight blue, kissing us
good bye, glad to see us go.

Blue is the color of our absence.
Blue is the fact of it happening.

Blue is the way we used to think
heaven would be, and blue is heaven
without us.


no more BIG WORDS

give them up

take them out of your bag
and hang them up to dry
and die

we need the dance of good and bad
with all its twists and feints
to be shown to us as a chart
of small and long steps
that march back and forth
to a beat that drags and then speeds up
for that is the one way
we will learn it
and then we can work
to try and make it smooth
and straight

we need the arc of love
to be drawn in dots and lines
that curve and halt
roll and drop back
so that we can take hold
of the long view
and not be slaves
to the past wreck of any one time
when it did not come out as we
had planned

give up
your rotted
flowered and sickly fragrant
overextended vocabulary
your
adoration of complication
in pursuit of explication
of creation’s obfuscation

phew!

it is all just so much spit on the tongue

this world you claim to know
so well you can write of it
is not the world
we were asked to show
for all to see and hang
upon

the rules that say
it must be so are
too glib to be true

you have lost the thread
of how we were meant to run
this race
have made a choice
to paint your names
in truth’s place
and made them
ten times the size
of what is in fact there

a word to the wise
is all we need
wise words are small words
keys
for locks
not made for codes and
traps

so
give the huge words up
and be brief when you sit
with pen to page

live for the short road
and for praise
of what is found
when the Big Words
are cut down
to size

NOTE: Rough recording of this up on Myspace: http://www.myspace.com/poetrybytonybrown


Incidents on Water Street (edited)

A certain part of a man’s body
walks the street looking for the blue pills.
There’s a storefront on Water Street
that’s supposed to have them
but he’s not sure of the address
so he goes into several before he finds
the one he wants and buys a pack
from the certain part of a woman’s body
behind the counter.

Certain parts of men’s and women’s bodies
crowd the night streets around the club district
where the exchange has taken place.
It’s party night, party hour.
The parties of the first part
merge with their counterparts on the sidewalks, in the bars
and parking lots. It’s all so exciting,
with the undercurrent
of deception, the blue pills everywhere,
the gels,
the creams
and implants.

Meanwhile, all over the city,
men and women
whose parts have strayed
stir uneasily
in front of the blue fire
of their televisions.
Smiling, whole bodies
keep telling them
something is missing.
Even when they know better,
they cannot sleep.
If it’s not too late,
they may head
to Water Street
themselves, having
a long look around
for themselves.


A Northbeast Regional Slam

is going on right now at the Hotel Vernon. I left before the end of the second round with no qualms. It’s not the poetry was bad; in fact, I heard one duet that I thought was pretty damn good, and we all know how much I hate multi-voice work. (Cantab, by the way. Any of you bringing poems about Iraq, prepare to be schooled.) it’s just that the atmosphere and the process of the slam is not where I’m at anymore, and I don’t feel it. I keep trying, but it’s wearying to me to keep trying. I don’t have time to be weary of it. There’s too much of my own work to be done.

I’ll be attending the regional on Sunday at Jumpin’ Juice and Java, and I’ll stay to the end for the sake of the team. My weariness isn’t (and shouldn’t) be interpreted as ill-will towards those who still love it. I’ll attend and support them as the mood strikes because the slam family is still one of the best families I’ve every known, and I still think it’s the single best thing that’s ever come out of the slam — not the poetry, not the fame and the profile, not the awareness and the energy. The family. The network, the connections. That’s the gold that’s come from the slam. I hope you’ll still invite me around from time to time.

But I’m glad I’m not going to Nationals. The team thing isn’t working for me any more. The dynamic of the team slam isn’t interesting to me, and a full week of it is too much.

I am looking forward to Charlotte in December, though. I think the IWPS is where it’s at, after having seen both several times. Less cliquey, more variety, etc.


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Taking a moment out of the craziness…

Y’know, it’s been a while since I posted about any gigs, so…

I know these are a ways off but it helps to plan ahead.

Sept. 9, 2008: Faro and I will be on the beautiful island of Nantucket for a show at the Umass Field Research Station, in a gorgeous room overlooking the ocean. I’ve been here before, but it’s a first for Duende and we look forward to a great time with the usual enthusiastic crowd that attends this unique venue. Afternoon show on a Sunday with Melissa Guillet as a co-feature. Take the ferry out and come have a great time.

Sept. 30, 2008: I’ll be doing one of my increasingly rare solo poetry features at one of my favorite venues, the Newark Arts Alliance in Newark, Delaware. I’ll be in town for a work gig, so it seemed like a natural to book a feature there even without the Bass Player of Extraordinariness. The good folks at the reading were glad to oblige, for which I thank them.

More details — you know, times, dollars involved, dress code, etc. — as it all approaches. But save the dates now, you slackers…um, I mean, you beloved and wonderful people!


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Reminder for tonight at GotPoetry Live in Providence:

We have the Manchester Slam Team!!! They will showing off their stuff at

Reflections Cafe
8 Governor Street
(corner of Wickenden & Governor)
sign up at 7:30
$2

Ryk will be hosting…come down and support the reading! You know you want to…


Peach Tree

All that any of us truly know
of death

is that in the face of it, we can rely
on the sight of a peach tree

split black and rotten from top to bottom with
almost every one of the branches dry and cracked,

and on how upon the few remaining green arms
are handfuls of fruits waiting to ripen.


Aliens and Natives

I’m SO glad the Mayans and Aztecs had all those extraterrestrial aliens to help them with their pyramids and buildings and the Nazca Lines and the astronomical calculations. God knows those benighted savages couldn’t possibly have done it on their own…Even the fucking Egyptians needed help.

Stonehenge, though? Those guys were SMART, I guess. I mean, why else would the dramatic television recreation of the construction and meaning of Stonehenge be filled with reenactments of the Celtic ancestors working so damn hard to drag and raise stones according to their astronomical labors, and the ones about the structures built in the Americas always include statements like, “no one knows how the Mayans were able to calculate the movements of stars so far in advance, although experts are still working on possible theories. One theory suggests that they had help…”

I’d lay odds that when it comes down to it, the aliens are pretty much white guys in the minds of these filmmakers. Maybe they even have hardhats, laptops, and Starbucks’ cups in their beneficent hands, or they’re tapping away on their Blackberries to the mothership while the dusky chumps in front of them cower in wonder and invent Quetzalcoatl to explain it all.

I’m exaggerating, but I detect a touch of racism here.