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

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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.


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Today

was pretty much a total waste — was off my feet much of the day with this injury. I really wanted to go to NYC to see Roger’s new show and see Mindy Nettifee and Amber Tamblyn’s feature afterward, but couldn’t justify the ride and the walking with my foot this way.

I should have gone to see Heather at B and N, but the foot was hurting badly in the early evening.

The stretching exercises I got off the Web are helping, but I think it’ll be a day or two before it’s back to something like normal.

Did force myself out late tonight to buy a heel support and dry some clothes — my dryer’s not heating at the moment.

Worked on a couple of poems — mostly stuff for the show in October — nothing new, just starting to look at continuity and flow.

And…that’s all folks…


Tag Team Poem /Trip notes

We have a permanent forum on Gotpoetry where there’s a running challenge — someone posts a short poem, and the next poster (or posters — no reason multiple folks can’t try it, of course) has to post a poem, not necessarily related, that begins with the first poem’s last line. That last line has to then be the first line of the next poem, and so on. Theoretically, it goes on forever…

Sometimes, the resulting poems are just silly, and of course you’re always trying to challenge whoever posts next. Sometimes, the results are better than silly.

This is one I posted just recently:

You’re a big-fat-Barry-White-looking motherfucker.
You’ve got more gut than an Indiana trucker.
You’ve got more hair than a dog in a fur coat,
and it sounds like a bullfrog’s caught in your throat.

You’re a big-fat-Barry-White-looking motherfucker.
That God-like voice lets you reel in suckers
who think you’ve got something to say worth listening to.
Oughta be a law against abuse of that tool.

You’re a big-fat-Barry-White-looking motherfucker.
Your name is Tony. You were born out of luck, sir.
You will learn before long that you end up alone.
When that voice of yours fails you, can you ever go home?

In other news, yesterday AM I did something serious to my foot and can barely walk. This made for a lovely training session of four hours on my feet and a six hour drive home yesterday.

All signs (according to what I find here on the Magic Web) point to something called plantar fascitis, which requires rest, heel support in the shoe, and stretching exercises to get better. At least it’s not surgery. But no NYC trip for me today — sorry, all.

I did get a lovely lunch with aurorabell out of the trip, though…so that’s good.


Show on the way: statement of intention

On October 6, I will be doing a show at the Perishable Theatre in Providence.

It’ll be a Duende show, and I’m planning to use a bunch of the new stuff I’ve been posting lately as the basis for the show, along with a couple of older pieces I think will fit the theme.

It’ll be called “Americanized.” I plan to create a roughly 45 minute set of poems set to Faro’s music that will examine what it means to be American right now, in all the glory and pain of the term, with the contradictions intact.

It’ll include a chapbook release and a new CD.

It’s ambitious, it’s scary, and it feels like the right thing at the right time.


Americanized (second draft)

Under my Americanized skin
I’ve got a dog soldier and a fat Neopolitan cop
keeping track of infractions.

Under my Americanized eyelids
the marble graves of my hope
are rolling like blues tombstones.

Under the meat of my lower lip
an Americanized raspberry of justice delayed
burbles at odd hours like a soul revue bass line.

That’s my Americanized heart
banging like kitchen help when the party’s over.
I’ll gather the leftover wine and we’ll pioneer something, or kill it.

And those are my Americanized nostrils, flaring
at the scent of the dying cotton mill and the rising pretense
of coffee served in Italian vessels of pure paper.

This Americanized face of mine, beard-bruised and faux-tender,
hangs open-mouthed before the choices of ease and waste.
Don’t be dismayed at all the gold in my pores —

the Americanized man in me says: it’s fine.
I never want to wipe
this skin of mine naked again,

don’t want to see the gold start to disappear,
don’t want to see Cortez under the shine,
dont’ want to see how Americanized his rotten old smile’s become.

Do you know me? There’s a wee battle
in me. I recognize you, your own war,
the memorials we share.

I’ve no clue
about the methods of our dog soldiers and cops
until I see them in action, and I try never

to see them in action. Americanized as they are,
they own their invisibility, pass it between them
even as they hate each other’s histories.

They play their games,
knock each other off and punch back in
next morning to redeem and continue.

Instead of that, just give me the usual something, and give me death too,
an Americanized death of course, bristling with confident stickers
and steel tubs of beer across the rehab hall from the President.

The fat cop and the dog soldier will lift their heads up out of me.
Death always gives our contradictions something to do,
gives them a pose to assume — as if to say:

here is the family portrait;
here are the brothers in arms
who campaign under the skin.


Mirror Over The Desk

When I sit down to write
in an unfamiliar room
and there’s a mirror over the desk,
when I can see
that same old raccoon looking at me,
shaggy thief with his paws full of
things worth saying, things I can’t get at
and that would be utterly different
if ever I could hold them —
I almost die laughing, choking on the words:

old bear,
there are so many places like home.


Ok, finally

off to Harrisburg, PA for work. Took me long enough — I’m at least an hour benind my most pessimistic schedule.

Back tomorrow night.