I may be all set in terms of steadier employment — waiting for final contracts to bring me on more regularly as a trainer for the company I’ve been independently contracting for. I’ll still be self-employed, but it’ll be through a different branch of the company so I’ll be doing work more regularly and closer to home.
Considering my last post, interesting timing.
I have to get out more. I’m becoming a full-time poet, something I swore I would never do. I don’t do much of anything, or come into contact with a lot of people who aren’t poets. And I’m pretty tired of that.
stone laughter
peeks over the top
of the laptop’s screen.
i call him henri, henri
gargoyle. henri
sits back on his haunches
with his long arms touching down
between his feet.
henri’s mounted between
the speakers, head just showing
its wide shapeless mouth, all of it
tilted back and i just know he’s laughing.
if a gargoyle’s job
is to drive off demons, henri
must do it by mocking them. he’s
a great friend to this poet.
this is not the poem
where henri actually moves, by the way.
i’m still waiting for that one. in all the years
i’ve known him he’s never moved. in all the years
i’ve moved him around he’s never complained. even when
i used him as a pen rest for a while,
sticking a Waterman in his mouth,
i never saw a scowl or squirm. this gargoyle is loyal,
stoic, shaped like a belly laugh coming out of horror.
one day i just know henri
is going to step around to try the key board
and i fear i’m going to have to smash him to bits. (don’t tell him,
i want it to be a surprise.) i could never bear
to change places with him, demons being demons and all;
demons being demons, and henri gargoyle
understands demons. knows it’s not a battle, but a war.
he chips away at them
as patiently as a stonemason.
it’s those flakes stinging my arms and face
that goad me to poetry. but if henri
wants to become a poet, he’ll have to find
his own.
it’s not that i’m ungrateful, henri, mon frere,
it’s that i haven’t got the tools.
Even pulled out the sketch pens and sketch pad I bought a while back. Might try to do something in the visual arts, which I never do. I’m an auditory guy at heart. But it should be fun to try.
Of course, this is also vodka and olive tasting night — I’m gonna drink Bushmills, since I don’t like vodka. Does Irish whiskey go well with olives? Stay tuned.
If you’re coming over…see you later! If not…um, see you later too, although it’ll be likely be later than the first later, if you know what I mean.
NOTE: Thanks to louiserobertson for helping think through this.
Hidden Track
a dreadful fate
would be to wake up someday
and find i’ve been reborn
as a pop song.
worse yet, born into a family
of pop songs.
(worse again, born a twin.
it would be intolerable
to look to my left
and find myself.)
i’d cringe if all my other siblings were
catchy and simple.
what fear to have
a mother and father at the top
of whatever charts might exist
in such a place.
i know i could never stick
in anyone’s ear long enough
to become a favorite.
even if i did, i am sure
it might happen once at most
in my life. i could never
carry my own tune. i could never be hummed
by millions. i could never make
my family proud.
still, there’s one hope: when i was young
needles would slide to a hidden track
at the end of the vinyl. maybe
it could happen here. no one ever knew
the name of that song. that might work.
i might look to my left
and find her there when the track
began to play. maybe that counterpart
might give me some hope: lines
twinning as we are twinned. they
love her. maybe they could love me
for the counterpoint i could add
to something the family could not name.
a dreadful fate
would be to wake up someday
and find i’ve been reborn
as a pop song.
worse yet, born into a family
of pop songs.
(worse again, born a twin.
it would be intolerable
to look to my left
and find myself.)
i’d cringe if all my other siblings were
catchy and simple.
what fear to have
a mother and father at the top
of whatever charts might exist
in such a place.
i know i could never stick
in anyone’s ear long enough
to become a favorite.
even if i did, i am sure
it might happen once at most
in my life. i could never
carry my own tune. i could never be hummed
by millions. i could never make
my family proud.
the worst fate
i can imagine
is to wake up someday
and find i’ve been reborn
as a pop song.
worse yet,
born into a family of pop songs.
(worse again,
born a twin.
it would be intolerable
to have someone to always sing in unison
with me.) i’d cringe
if all my other siblings were
catchy and simple.
what fear to have
a mother and father at the top
of whatever charts might exist
in such a place. as for me,
i would never want to stick
in anyone’s ear long enough
to become a favorite.
even if it did, i am sure
it might happen once at most
in my life. i am certain
i would never be hummed
by millions. i know my family
would never be proud.
A long day with some unexpected travel and such. I’m tired as hell, so no Cantab for me tonight, which bums me out a bit to say the least — Regie Gibson being one of the few poets I can see feature more than once a year (hell, I think I might be able to see him four or five times a year at least and would be willing to test the limits far more often).
I finally got paid for all the work I did in November and December — when you think of it, it’s only about five weeks after the dates so the pay cycle’s not bad for contract work. A good chunk of change, even after I pay off bills and such.
Still thinking about creating an over-30 slam here in Worcester. Put it in a bar, once a month, with a 100 dollar cash prize. Maybe use iWPS format. Maybe not. Enforce the age limit strongly. Maybe put together a team for regional competitions. Maybe not.
I want to create a place for those of us who, after much study, have determined that “emo” is just a synonym for “young,” and who believe that the poetry scene is way too “emo.”
And maybe, just maybe, to create a place that people will want to pay some dues to get into.
It’s too fucking cold.
I’m off to do errands; finally (FINALLY) got paid for all that work I did in November and December.
Tonight: possibly the Cantab for Regie G.
EDIT: Battery is dead. Looks like I’m here for a bit…
Jan 9 — Alveraz Ricardez
Jan 16 — Melissa Guillet
Jan 23 — Ken Arkind
Jan 30 — Marc Marcel
Feb 6 — Michael Brown
Feb 13 — HOLD
Feb 20 — 200 Proof Poetry
Feb 27 — Jane Cassady
March 6 — Seren Divine
March 13 — Sou Macmillan
March 20 — Ducky
March 27 — Valerie Lawson
April 3 — Joe Gouveia
April 10 — Eric Darby
April 17 — HOLD
April 24 — Adam Rubenstein
May 8 — Stone and Plank Poetry Group
May 15 — Phil Hasouris
May 22 — triple bill: Jamie Kilstein, Andrea Gibson, Katie Wirsig
More dates to follow. C’mon out!
And if you’re touring in the spring, or we’ve talked about a date, get in touch…
when you go
i’ll cut off my ponytail
and place it in your casket
this is called
“giving back”
when this was how
it was always done
there was always a rule
about what you couldn’t do
while it grew long again
that is called
“managed pain”
when you go
i’ll think of something
i won’t do
and i won’t do it
that could be called
a “sin of omission”
when i go
i’ll have grown that tail back
no one will lift that hair
while i’m above ground
i know you’ll be waiting
to see if it’s there
once again
and that is called
“heritage”
that is called
“legacy”
that is called
“shackle”
that is called
“home”
yellow
alarm clock
grey
notebook
pink
monkey
blue red and white
extra memory
this is my desk
my desk where
bad ideas come to die
desk where good ideas
don’t come much at all
anymore
blind moment and
i slip off the chair
and hit the floor
(i think it’s the floor
it’s underfoot)
but there’s no thump
just pure slump
nothing’s gonna punish me
but someone’s gonna run away
unless i power myself up
and back in the saddle
back in the seat for another try
to stare at yellow time
fog paper waiting
ape pale red pointing
flag memory
black pen
i forgot to mention black pen
biggest pain on the desk
hang onto the wood under my ass
and close the door
I recorded one of my own songs today, hoping to feel confident enough to put it on Myspace…however, I broke two nails on my picking hand on Saturday. Since I don’t use picks of any sort, that translates to a pretty muted treble sound on those strings. I tried to compensate but I’m just not satisfied with the results, so it’ll have to wait a bit till they’re back to normal — not terribly long, as I like the sound of fingertip behind the nail on the string, as opposed to just nails. I find that too bright for my tastes, and Blondie sounds bright enough as it is.
I am looking forward to posting the song — as I’ve said many times in the past, I think you have to scare yourself artistically from time to time, and I can’t think of anything scarier than posting both my guitar playing and my singing voice online for public view.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I went to the Asylum last night to see Bobby Miller, the feature, who unfortunately couldn’t make it, so Dave Mac filled in and did well, as usual.
I have very little interest in reading in the open these days, or even in listening to it. It’s definitely an age thing — the interests and topics of most of the readers no longer hold me much.
I know I’ve talked about this before, so I won’t belabor it — but i’m getting too old for this scene, and it hurts.
I’ve been thinking about starting an over-30 slam in Worcester, but as always, it’s more speculation than intention. We’ll see.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Anyone read Harry Frankfurt’s books “On Bullshit” and “On Truth”? Curious for opinions.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As for the news: C’mon, folks. Heads pop off during hangings all the time. Grow up — your squeamishness seems a small price to pay for justice, eh? I mean, hell…they did it to Nicholas Berg and Daniel Pearl, after all.
I headed down to ARTSWorcester tonight to participate in what had been billed as a night of collaborative work — poets working with painters, musicians and poets, painters and musicians, etc.
When I got there, there were no apparent musicians, a lot of painters, and NO poets. They didn’t even have my name on the performers’ list.
So I left after about half an hour.
I went over to Guitar Center and hung out for a bit, playing my (I call it “mine” even though I don’t and will likely never own it) Gibson J-45. The J-45 is hands down my favorite guitar from any of the big makers; its thump and woody sound fit well with my style of playing. Someday, maybe.
Then, I headed down to West Warwick RI to watch Faro play in the classic rock band “Hidden Drive.” These guys are getting to know me and I’m pretty popular with them; I wrote a poem a while ago about seeing them play (“Friday Night At the Wood River Inn”) and they’ve got it up on their website. We had a good time. There’s something very satisfying to me about completely familiar rock songs performed well by guys (and women) for the sheer joy of it, not out of any expectation of getting famous or anything.
Now, I’m home, getting ready for bed…Exciting, huh? Hope yours was as wonderful. 😉
Dark Matter 