Category Archives: uncategorized

FINALS results from NPS:

1. Slam Charlotte, NC
2. Killeen, TX
3. NYC louderARTS (Bar 13)
4. Denver, CO Slam Nuba
5. NYC Nuyorican

I don’t have scores or anything; newsflash from Gotpoetry.com.

Danny Sherrard of Seattle won the Indy title last night.

I wasn’t there, so I won’t comment other than to say congrats to the winners and that personally, I’m sad that louderARTS (my other poetic homeland; even though I’ve never slammed or been a regular there, it’s still my favorite slam other than Worcester) didn’t come in first.


Team Semi-Finals must be over…

Any news yet?


Best post about slam I’ve seen in a long while.

Read and comment here or there…

http://dj-muse.livejournal.com/123146.html?style=mine


forgot to mention

that I saw John Waters riding a bike in Provincetown on Wednesday. Positive it was him.

He didn’t make the stir that the nearly naked men did walking down the street a half an hour later, but it was still cool.


back

Just got back from Nantucket and Provincetown, where we watched people from various subcultures wearing funny clothes and doing strange ritualized things.

And to think we could have been in Austin.

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My facial paralysis is no better. I keep straining to smile but the most I can manage is a twitch in my left cheek that you can’t see unless you’re staring at me. I think I understand something about amputees’ ghost pains now — I feel like I look like the Joker when I smile, but nothing happens.

My mouth isn’t working right — I bite my lip constantly, sometimes to the point of blood, and I’ve become a very indistinct speaker. I sound pretty much like Dr. Zoidberg from Futurama and have taken to saying “Hooray!” a lot because it’s the funniest thing I can manage.

My left eye’s drooping and waters constantly — it doesn’t close well when I sleep, either.

Not good. I know it’ll be better eventually, but this is embarrassing to say the least and frankly, the strain of trying to keep my face looking “normal” without drooling and weeping all over myself is pretty tiring. I want it to be over soon, and with less pain (the nerve is regenerating and when it gets cooking it twitches imperceptibly to others but with a pretty good amount of discomfort to me).

Add to that the two days of walking around that’s aggravated my foot injury a bit and I’m not a happy camper.

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Taking the ferry from Nantucket to Hyannis this afternoon, I watched a young woman reading one of those celebrity magazines and the titles of the articles have got a poem brewing in me…keep yer eyes peeled…

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I also broke out my old film SLR for the trip. Can’t wait to see what I managed to remember about taking a decent picture.

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Home now, exhausted, and ready to sleep…see y’all later.


Goodbye, Chryslerpoet.

Hello, radioactiveart.

Here’s the poem from which the name is taken.

The Radioactive Artist


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Not much to do except shake the head and wonder at the world…

WASHINGTON (CNN) — Colorado Rep. Tom Tancredo’s campaign stood by his assertion that bombing holy Muslim sites would serve as a good “deterrent” to prevent Islamic fundamentalists from attacking the United States, his spokeswoman said Friday.

“This shows that we mean business,” said Bay Buchanan, a senior Tancredo adviser. “There’s no more effective deterrent than that. But he is open-minded and willing to embrace other options. This is just a means to deter them from attacking us.”

On Tuesday, Tancredo warned a group of Iowans that another terrorist attack would “cause a worldwide economic collapse.” IowaPolitics.com recorded his comments.

“If it is up to me, we are going to explain that an attack on this homeland of that nature would be followed by an attack on the holy sites in Mecca and Medina,” Tancredo said. “That is the only thing I can think of that might deter somebody from doing what they would otherwise do. If I am wrong, fine, tell me, and I would be happy to do something else. But you had better find a deterrent, or you will find an attack.”

Tom Casey, a deputy spokesman for the State Department, told CNN’s Elise Labott that the congressman’s comments were “reprehensible” and “absolutely crazy.” Tancredo was widely criticized in 2005 for making a similar suggestion.


Hey SoCal

i’m coming out to Costa Mesa for work on September 20, will be there at least through Sept. 21, leaving (I suspect) the AM of Sept. 22. Any gigs out there?


Radio story right now on NPR on one of my favorite musical artists, the Pakistani qawali singer Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.

He died ten years ago this month…I never would have imagined that it’s been that long. He was 49…

Time sense shifts as you get older, but his work suspends time.

Some basic info here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nusrat_Fateh_Ali_Khan


Selfish confession

I make a lot of noise about my ambiguous relationship with the world of slam poetry. I love the people and the energy and it’s still the single artistic community where I feel most at home. I hate the formulaic, hidebound, conservative place it’s become (yes, I mean conservative in the sense of having a commitment to maintaining the status quo) and the too frequent confusion between the concept of “what wins” and “what’s good.”

So why do I stick around?

For all the high minded reasons I could state, I have to confess that I harbor one unfulfilled slam ambition: I’d like, someday, to perform this poem as a sacrifice at Finals. Just once. Just one chance to speak to the whole assembled community at once.

I know it won’t happen now, and I’m OK with that in most ways…but you can always dream.

MISSION STATEMENT

Our mission is

to act up at public gatherings
toss stones at the comfortable
sneer at the television
and afflict the generic

to dance naked in the clean laundry in the great steam room of the world
to get LAID/ to get LOVE /to get NOTICED
to waltz against the knives of war and greed
as they try to cut us loose from the church of our freedom

to look each other in the eyes at 2 AM
speaking like flowers and acting like idiots
to write rants missives novels novellas epistles
and advertisements for our huge and tender egos

to find a child crying alone and offer a hand
to get an old woman up from her electric rocker
and hear stories of the holocaust in her lonely patriarchal days
to stop bullets with a single line and make them over into pencil leads

Our mission (should we choose to accept it)
involves us – all of us – even Bill Gates
(in theory)
in a mass chain improvisation
leading a dance of tongue and cheek and bump and grind
Amos Andy Sacco Vanzetti
skatepunks riot grrls and anyone else
hurling epics and haiku into the face of bland conformity
rap snapped like a chalkline straight line
double time quick rhyme from the victim to the stage
a whisper of erotica sliding us home
end rhyme as tightly matched as lips
the right words cut and shaped to fit
into white hot bursts
of short sharp verse
and the longline wasted pseudo Beat nonetheless pure at heart stories of pain and gargantuan gothic gallows laughter

Our mission friends is
poetry
and we are on a mission only we can define

so dig, daddio:

Listen:
poets in other places and times have died
doing what we do here tonight so casually
They stand at our elbows every time we pick up that pen
step to the mike or
(God Forbid!) listen to one another
so: do not let anyone define your voice
and if you want a leader then lead –
you lead
And many voices will come together in one mission
The way storm clouds come together to make lightning
And when lightning passes it leaves thunder
And one day
they will say the same
about us


Blue faced, onion taint,
vapor trail of grief, sticky
old feeling on the lips.

Many times charmed
and blessed, tonight unable
to move —

old man looking in
on a party that
twists for hours.

Sum total of life: he ends up
sitting in a bathtub sobbing
while his books fall apart,

ink blackening his skin.
No one’s got a care in the world.
No one’s bothered when he slips away.


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The Poet Thinks It Over

What I first wanted
from this
is lost to me now.

Later, I wanted
every word to bring me back
the scent of my grandfather’s
after shave, even though
I’d never met him.

Later still, there was something
gained from the sound of gasps
and murmured assent or dissent
when I tried to explain
the scent of my grandfather’s after shave
to people I’d never met.

I learned something from chasing those
who reminded me what the scent of my grandfather’s after shave
was like, even though they’d never met him
and they were as surprised as I was
when I found myself begging them to tell me
what he was like.

Now all I get from this is a lot of late nights.
I don’t shave much. The paper
and the screen are as odorless
as they’ve ever been, and all I can smell
is old sweat on my own weak muscles,
atrophied from inaccurate use.

Still, I sit down all the time
and hope for some token
that will pay me a way
down an old road to the place
where he sits, fresh as I can imagine him,
waiting for me.

He’ll turn and welcome me
and I’ll bury my face in his neck
and breathe.
He’ll say something like
“I’ve been waiting for you”
and I’ll cry.

If the poems mean anything
now, after all this wasted effort,
it’s not what I meant them to mean
when I first sat down on fire
to burn off the past’s overgrowth,
reopen the roads
and reveal the man.

What I first wanted is lost.
What I wanted next was someone else
and now I’m losing the One I gained in his place, but
if I shut the notebook, turn off the switch,
leave the stage to the next seeker
and walk away from the jungly history
where I thought the answer lay,

what will I do then with all this time
in this flat place, cleared of brush
and not worth replanting?


Au revoir, Michel Serrault et Ingmar Bergman

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/6922473.stm

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/6921960.stm

I didn’t know Serrault’s work well, and Bergman didn’t ever do much for me (I far prefer Fellini, Kurosawa, and Hitchcock), but I suspect there are fans out there.