Dark Matter

Three nights of 2-3 hours of sleep + this afternoon’s fit of crazed irritability = ?

Oh, I bet some of you can guess.

*sigh*

Putting myself back on Seroquel. Goddamit.

A weird string of coincidences and memories…

Gidget meets Gonzo
in the great beyond.

She pulls on the bourbon
while he ponders the surf.

He reloads and she drops to the blanket
on her belly.

That wave he once spotted breaking out West
is the wave she once rode all the way home.

The countries they lived in
looked the same from some angles.

The countries they lived in
get confused all the time.

Gonzo meets Gidget and the sun goes down.
They’ll be starting a fire after dark.

They will keep warm together under the glorious
American sky, stars, satellites, planets, planes.

He’ll pull on the bourbon. She’ll pull on a sweatshirt.
He’ll tell stories she won’t want to understand, and she will do the same.

A man who will not give up his gun
loves a woman who married the king of idiots.
They have a child, not a choice. They live
and let live. They take it one day at a time,
let go and let God, who is their
co-pilot. They are lost and making
record time.

In the next lane
someone offers a phone number for the public to call
when he drives badly.
If you can’t see his mirrors, he can’t see you.
There are always opportunities for experienced drivers.

Many people support our troops.
A few want to bring them home.
A few more want to kill ’em all and let God sort them out.

Her son is a Marine. Her son is an honor student.
His daughter is a hockey player and she’s awesome.
She has a terrorist hunting permit and a pass for the drive-on beach.
He loves his Airedale, his Harley, his Red Sox.

They are all here today: Dave Matthews, Hatebreed,
Alan Jackson, Dale Earnhardt, Kerry Edwards, Bush Cheney.
All these cars and so few names to remember, praise Jesus,
hail Darwin, raise a glass to them all (but don’t hit a bump
and spill your drink).

The people who can see who we are
are the ones we least want to catch up.

If you’re reading this,
you’re too close.

There was once a man who was swallowed
by a mole on his own chest.
He shrank and was drawn in until
he vanished in the blood delta it had grown
to survive. No one heard a word from him for many months.
When he returned, his friends came and identified him
and he recalled them at once, but found himself
unable to respond to their questions.

Inside, the man knew he was still missing.
Cancer is not a country you come back from easily,
he tried to explain, and they soothed and patted him until
he was nearly sick again.

Spring’s a mistake, he thought.
It’s wasted on the ones
with easy lives. I want the green for myself,
all for myself.

It’s a myth that suffering always makes us noble.
It’s a myth that suffering makes us love more deeply.
There’s only one truth in suffering: that it hurts,
and that we disappear into it and we can’t entirely explain
what it meant to be there, and what it meant to come out.

He dreams of his red jungle most nights, and many days.
Every dark spot on his skin looks like a river’s mouth,
a point of fear to be wary of.
He is wary of them all. He is wary of re-entry.

But there are times he almost wants to go back —
back where he lived by hunting for the exit,
swimming for days awash in panic,
but fierce and alive because he knew then what he wanted:
the green for myself, all for myself,

and now he has to share it, and he doesn’t know how.

I wake up in bed next to you. What would I say?

Post this in your LJ. Be ruthless. And anonymous.

Then, leave a comment on the LJ of a friend you think I should add to my friend’s list.

Should my LJ break up with your LJ? What about my BLT?

i woke up this morning wanting you
the way a kid wakes up hoping for a fever:
hoping it won’t be bad enough to hurt,
hoping it’s just hot enough to excuse
misbehavior.

thinking of a school kid stumbling out of the kitchen
reminds me: i’m supposed to be this hot
when i move. i’m supposed to be
a little delirious. i’m not supposed
to be able to speak well, or to make sense
the way i always do. this is why they call it fever.

you say i’m supposed to be in school? at work?
at home? if i’m sick i should have a flannel tongue and
a small-bore temper, not be smiling like this?
well, hellcakes on a plate: i’m here, i’m flushed and i’m shaking.
feed the cold, starve the fever? that’s the oldest wives’ tale.
this fever is already a starvation,
so let’s talk papaya and banana cream.
let’s talk mango and bathtub and red linen; and
this fever’s got a tongue for tango,
so let’s talk heels.
let’s talk boots.
let’s talk plum crazy and sheer toe.
let’s talk fast and loose,

and then let’s quit talking.

let’s be reasonable:
i’m not ready to go back to school.

Working on a late paper,
I see a new poem so clearly
that I have to stop and reach for it
while my fingers still work.

I recall for the tenth time today that
there’s nothing between inspiration and me
except theory, masturbation,
and my tendency to confuse the two.

Watch the poet
touch himself! Watch him
self-deconstruct!
Watch him not write the poem!

I imagine myself
done at last
with the paper.
I win a coveted position

at a rare college. Damn, it’s peaceful —
sprawled out here, sitting around as comfortable
as a corpse in a casket, just another
smiling, brand-new professor on the make.

There are lots of pages left to fill.
Words float all around me. I seize a handful
and settle in to the wrong chore: first one line, then the next,
and a poem is scrawled across the school night.

See above.

Loser, stand up. Apologize your way past
the girl next to you and stand in the aisle; you’ll be
getting off first. Careful you don’t stumble on the step again
and fall into the street.

Wait for the next bus. Check your pockets
twice for the fare. When the door blows open
get on and drop the transfer. Walk down the aisle and then stop:
she’s there, in the same seat she was in

on the first bus. Sit across from her
and notice that she’s reading
the newspaper you left behind,
with its half done crossword and the coupons ripped out.

At the next stop tumble out the door and
into the street. Your twice skinned knees
will break open again, while the passengers
pretend not to see. Dust yourself off,

loser, because there’s another bus coming
full of serial impersonators
looking for the next big act,
and you’re it. You’re it everyday from now on;

it’ll be this way all the way everyday
you head to the office, the park, or the store:
people will show up everywhere holding on
to the unfinished things you thought you’d lost.

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

PS: thanks to Jon Wolf for the suggestion that brought this home.

Loser, stand up. Apologize your way past
the girl and stand in the aisle; you’ll be
getting off first. Careful you don’t stumble on the step
and fall into the street.

Wait for the next bus. Check your pockets
twice for the fare. When the door blows open
get on and drop the transfer. Walk down the aisle and then stop:
she’s there, in the same seat she was in

on the first bus. You sit across from her
and pretend not to notice
that she’s reading the newspaper you left behind,
with its half done crossword and the coupons ripped out.

It’s this way all the way everyday
to the office, to the park, or to the store:
people everywhere show up holding on
to unfinished things you’ve lost.

I am extra sensitive about lots of things these days, from comments that make assumptions without knowing all the facts to righteous self-importance in general. Voice of authority type things.

(It usually means I’ve been guilty of the same sins lately and am feeling it.)

People — any people, including me — get too sure of themselves and create entire sets of pronouncements regarding life, poetry, politics, critical theory, slam, judging…anything, really.

And you ending sounding like an ass. With or without hat.

Nothing is certain. All facts are in question at all times. And you probably have it wrong most of the time.

So…qualify every single freaking “fact” until you know the score, ok?

Rocked socks.

Best night of slam I’ve seen in years. Period.

The whole event felt better than almost any NPS I’ve ever attended. Period.

I got to hang with some great people I’ve missed — the whole DelaWHERE crew, Nick Fox, Scott Woods, Roger, Regie; Rich Villar and Fish drove up from NYC just for the night and that was SWEET; and all my buddies from here too numerous to mention.

Particular love goes out to my best friend Bill MacMillan, Becky Henderson, Bob Gill, Dawn Gabriel, and the rest of the wonderful folks who made sure that Worcester did iWPS proud.

It almost made me wanna slam again.

Almost.

But don’t hold your breath.

Last week in class(this month only I’ve got two weekends in a row) we spent some time getting to know each other — we’ll be, at least theoretically, together for two years — and I of course mentioned that I was a poet. Mild interest, some inquiries, that’s all.

My class is 11 women all interested in becoming elementary school teachers (it’s a BA with a complementary EE minor) and one lone male with a deep and abiding interest in getting the BA and then getting the hell out. So I’m already a couple ways odd man out here.

This week…

one woman in the class Googled me in the intervening week, came in and said, “Hey! You’re famous!” which caused a stir. (I quickly explained that “slam poet famous” — and I don’t think I’m even really THAT — is the approximate level of fame accorded to the average employee of the month at a moderate sized accounting firm.)

More seriously, the professor this week ACTUALLY changed the syllabus to include a video about poets for our discussion on lives in historical context. It’s a new guy; he came in knowing I was a poet which means he spoke to the instructor from last week. He said point blank that he changed the video because of me.

I feel a little weird here for even feeling a little weird. Am I ego-obsessing? Is this freakish self centeredness on my part?

And if not: what does this mean for the class going forward?

poetry counts. opinions about poetry don’t count.

people connecting to good poetry? that counts.

people connecting to bad poetry? sorry, folks; that counts too.

whether a particular poem works, scores well, reads well, “is a good poem” — ultimately the decisions of humans who believe all sorts of things. all sorts of contradictory things, often all at once.

there is quality poetry, and that’s an opinion; there’s shitty poetry, and that’s an opinion too.

stand where you stand, and remember that the trappings we put around our passions are as silly to others as their fumblings are to us.

in other words: absolutely no opinion matters absolutely. slam is just another trap for catching fog. its associated mechanics are just the way the trap swings shut.

you might as well argue about a carburetor.