Necessary Poetry

I've just spoken via FB Chat to Elysee Thomas, who is back home! Fellow poetic associates in the NJ/NYC area are posting like mad, pictures and comments, about this. For those of you who don't know, Elysee Thomas is an incredible young poet, a friend of mine whom i met during my time as MC/host of the People's Open Mic, "back in the day." Although i don't know all the details of his arrest and imprisonment, a great many people that i personally know and respect vouched for his innocence, and a massive campaign of the spoken word was undertaken by the poetic family to demand his release. I extracted a promise from him to "tell us all about it," which he will no doubt be doing in his poetry.

Right now, my life is pretty much on "hold," but even in times like these, i can rejoice for my brother, and can practically feel the waves of relief and happiness, as if it was a channel that the radio in my skull was tuned to. It reaffirms my commitment to poetry . . . because if Thomas can weather these troubles and come out stronger, then my meager problems are certainly no threat. I keep remembering what Paul said, in Romans, "The One who died for us is standing at the right hand of God, sticking up for us!" and "If God is for us, who can be against us?" Paul, by the way, was in PRISON when he wrote that. God was certainly with Thomas during this time, and He is the author of perfect and true Justice . . . God hears the prayers of the oppressed, and is responsive to their needs.

But this is no time for idleness, no time to rest on our laurels. I'm speaking both to my Christian family and my poetic family. We are weathering great storms here in our own nation, and at the same time reaching forth to those in Haiti who are in such pain . . . and it is my firm belief that if God is going to bless this nation, it is our actions and attitude towards those in Haiti, to ALL who are oppressed or burdened, that is going to create the necessary channel for those blessings. Even in an economic catastrophe, we are one of the wealthiest countries in the world, one that has been so gifted with freedoms, and it is an abomination that we've become complacent, haughty, and selfish. So many in America seem to assume that we are somehow "morally superior" to those who are oppressed, that "it's their own fault" for not embracing the WASP middle-class (a rapidly dwindling middle class at that) "virtues" that are--at their root--Mammon worship. And the freedoms we claim to love? Their being etched away, by an acid compounded of ignorance, greed, bigotry, and political sleight-of-hand.

And why is poetry so important? I've expounded on this plenty of times, but at the risk of being redundant, here it is: poetry, in particular the spoken word, is the native tongue of the human soul. It is the freest of free speech, often the only way the poor, oppressed, outcasts, and outsiders have of expressing their emotions that are probably more real, raw, and honest than anything any of us have come up against. But just because you're "safe" right now, don't think that you're invulnerable to the horrific types of misery and injustice that thousands, millions of individuals you regard as "those OTHER people." The oldest example of the written word we have is a Babylonian epic poem about the hero Gilgamesh. That alone should stand to represent the importance of poetry in history . . . and even if it didn't, pick up your Bible and check out the Old Testament prophets, as well as Psalms and Song of Solomon . . . poetry. Every epoch in history has had plenty of poetic voices to speak for it, and the great shame is that the contemporaries of those voices didn't listen very well (and didn't like what they heard). Poetry IS the voice of the oppressed, the cry of the outsiders, the howl of the prophets, and the echo of the Universe. It's not a plaything . . . it's a weapon of war, a way of cutting our way clear through the wilderness of the banal, the boring, and the mass of red-tape and doublespeak that pervert our language, as well as the supidity of most television and movies and radio talk-show hosts who dumb it down. Speech, and the ability to use it, holds us accountable for the ways in which we do--or don't--use it. Freedom of Speech, like a muscle, must be exercised regularly, and in the right way, in order to remain strong.

And that is another reason for my gladness at Thomas' release: we need all the good, strong voices we can get.

Out of the Ashes: Excerpts from my previous blog

What follows is a series of excerpts from my Myspace blog that i considered worthy of salvage. They're in no particular order, and i'll probably end up doing at least one more entry like this, but for those of you willing to wade through my rambling, here goes:

*******

With God, ALL things are possible.
Now, THERE'S a scary thought! No? But consider--once something enters into the realm of Possibility, it becomes something that needs to be considered, to be dealt with. Jesus taught us that nobody who gave up anything for His name's sake would lose out--in fact, they'd gain more than they ever believed possible, and while that included incredible blessings, it also included troubles! Now, some people would whine that a loving God shouldn't "provide" troubles. It's probably one of the most telling points of debate in the whole of Christianity that what C. S. Lewis called "the problem of Pain" is such a roadblock. Our entire society, at its present, is concerned with the providing of and obtaining of comfort, convenience, and conspicuous consumption. To a culture like that, Pain is something to be avoided, detoured around, or subdued . . . our culture invalidates Pain, and equates suffering with Lacking. Poor people suffer because "they lack money," not because those who have money are lacking in compassion. Comfort, convenience, and conspucious consumption: those are the idols whose lies make us think that "if we're uncomfortable, something's wrong." I challenge that thought! If we're COMFORTABLE, something's wrong! People who have become empty shells for that triad of idols may lack suffering, but they also lack many other things. God brings us a fulness of experience that, while it has some hard nights and rough accomodations, also provides us with a deep and complex personality, not a shallow mirror for the corporations to preen in. It's a hard thing to understand when we're undergoing those "learning experiences," but when you look back on them, they often point to a refining process. God pares you down to the bare essentials, and then says, "Okay, now let's start over at the Beginning. Back to square one." People who look at my life at various points over the past 5 -10 years or so would think I'd had it really hard at times (as I did while those times were going on!) But, it is those rough spots, sort of the equivalent of scouring a pot, that helped me shine where I do. Getting back to basics helps you understand what you really need, and it further helps you recognize the abundance of your blessings. That is both an uplifting and humbling experience (as are most things in the Christian lifepath). With God, all things are possible. Things both wonderful and terrible loom over us with their Possibility. God, who spoke both things into existence, provides the perspective and understanding to deal with them. Revel in the richness of your experience. Rejoice that you can still feel and understand Pain, because without it you would never fully appreciate Joy. The bitter underscores the sweet. People who fall before the idols of comfort, convenience, and conspicuous consumption don't know what they're missing out on.

*******

Slam poetry is, and as long as it endures probably will be, a rather chaotic thing. It will inevitably seek to break any bonds of conventionality that attempt to restrain it. People who come to the Slam are often seeking something, whether they're members of the audience or wordslingers themselves. Granted, its inclusivity is bound to invite a variety of elements that are, taken out of context, divisive, but given the common bond of appreciation of, and seeking expression and affirmation in, poetry. That perhaps is a rather idealistic and simplistic "definition" of Slam poetry and its denizens. As a working template, though, it might also serve as a potential model that the Christian church might consider!
It sounds ridiculous . . . on the surface. And yet, I've known many poetic communities wherein: the attitude towards the newcomer was warm welcome; there was a sense of, "you can let down you're guard here," a sense of safety and security that would seem contradictory to the rather intimidating concept; newcomers weren't expected to know the ropes, and early mistakes and missteps were to be expected; the generally flaky and quirky nature of poets was well-known, and having been through quite a few self-induced catastrophes, the poets tended to be forgiving of such things in others, and were there when one of their poetic siblings needed them; guidance was provided, and although sometimes poets tend to have a kind of abrasive "tough love," the love was clearly evident--that did not, however, mean that excessive indulgence or liberties taken by any one poet would be treated lightly. These attributes, placed within the framework of a Christian perspective, would certainly be considered admirable in any Body of Believers. As a "vagabond poet," I've surfed many sofas, and have found that Slam communities tend to "take in" any wandering poet and treat 'em well. Sure, household duties and some expenses were often shared, but it was a light thing compared to laying out funds for a hotel room and a solitary meal in a restaurant. Imagine a travel-weary man and his pregnant wife, probably a little rough around the edges, coming into your community, in need of a place to stay for a few days. I know plenty of Slam communities where they'd be taken in at the drop of a hat, given at the very least half-decent crash space in somebody else's home and a meal; how many churches could that same couple expect that kind of treatment from--would we even let them sleep in our toolshed?
Sure, I'm exaggerating a bit to make a point. But not by much. And as to those who would point out the scandal, the lust or drunkenness or plain-out stupidity that often dogs the Slam . . . are these so different than the same things that dog the Christian church? Simply stated, no. The difference is possibly that the Slam doesn't attempt to cover up its scandals, and the Church often does . . . so which is the more honest approach there? Did the Adulteress pretend NOT to have committed adultery in front of Jesus? Did Matthew hide the fact that he was a Roman sympathizer, or Simon the Zealot pretend NOT to be a freedom fighter committed to overthrowing the Romans BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY? No, of course not. We all have quirks and flaws. To utterly succumb to any of these quirks and flaws is wrong; but it is equally wrong to deny or attempt to cover up these wrongs. I suffer from these limitations, myself . . . there are things I've stood up and admitted in a poetry slam that I would be hard-pressed to stand up and admit in a Church, when someday I am going to have to stand before God and admit them, one way or the other . . . but, wouldn't it be a wonderful thing if there was a Church in which confession did what it can often do in a poetry slam . . . simultaneously make you aware of your own vulnerability while feeling utterly free? That awareness of vulnerability and sense of freedom and possiblity is a precious thing. Most of us experience it as children, less and less as we grow old . . . but Jesus said that unless we received the Kingdom of Heaven as a little child, we'd never find the way in . . . and in that condition that both acknowledges our own weakness and yet at the same time makes us free, a sort of free-fall, we understand the Principles of Grace and Mercy. Grace is the state that is, while it lasts, so much like flying; Mercy is the chute that we can absolutely depend on to open us. Perhaps Fear, turned upside-down, is Joy and Awe. If I've seen elements of all this in such a humble place as a poetry Slam, shouldn't I also be able to see them in the Christian church, and in myself?

*****

I have a problem with winter.
The light that falls on the trees and rooftops here make it look like everything and everyone is experiencing muted emotions, like music robbed of all its vitality and heartbeat. I can remember being in offices or elevators, hearing that "muzak" that's supposed to be soothing, making my pulse pound until my head felt like a furnace, and I wanted to scramble up, yank that speaker out, and stomp it into the floor, screaming, "QUIT IT! YOU'RE KILLING ONE OF THE FEW THINGS THAT MAKES MY LIFE TOLERABLE!" But, see, in the winter I hardly even have that much energy. It sucks me dry, dries up all my sap, turns my pithy potency into something that would barely light a candle, let alone a bonfire. It's almost like my "disorder" is tied to the seasons. I feel manic pretty much for all of spring and a good part of summer. Autumn is when I usually have my flare-ups or flake-outs or breakdowns. Whatever you want to call them. And then there's winter, where I have a season where everything sort of collides with me like a big snowball. As Lou Reed says, "It makes me mad, and that makes me sad, and then I start to freeze." That pretty much follows the progression. I've leaned on a lot of people during my winter seasons. This year I'm not going to make anyone bear the brunt of my depression. If you keep on reading this, you've been forewarned: I plan on unleashing a lot of the stupid drama and angst in here. Maybe when the chrysalis breaks open again in spring I'll feel like I have been pounded into shape.
Some of the frustration I feel (and here those of you who are anti-religious are going to start squirming around in your seats, I know), is the way Christmas is turned into the Ultimate Capitalist Holiday. SPEND! GO! NOW! PEOPLE ARE DYING ALL OVER THE WORLD, YOU COULD BE NEXT, SO GO . . . RIGHT . . . NOW! RUN! RUN TO ALL THE SHOPS AND SPEND ALL YOU CAN! HELP KEEP THIS STUPID BROKE-ASS ECONOMIC SYSTEM FROM COLLAPSING! BUY MORE SHIT THAT YOU DON'T NEED, THAT YOU CAN'T POSSIBLY AFFORD . . . GIFTS THAT WILL BE EXCHANGED ON THE DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS!!! This is how we celebrate Christ's birth? You are bombarded on all sides by commercials that don't just perch on the edge of Blasphemy, they dive right in and take a bath in it. Every day, they continue to hammer the idea that "Captialism and Christianity go hand in hand." Notice how very few people quote that verse "You cannot serve God and Mammon (i.e., the Bank, Profit, Capitalism)"? We don't even NOTICE our own excesses anymore. That's what happenes when you're constantly beaten about the head with commercialism, you sort of go numb, and you suffer brain damage, too. So, brain-damaged consumers, pimps of the corporate whores, war-mongering capitalism-pushers . . . BACK THE FUCK OFF!!!! This year, if commercialism tries to hit me, I'm not just going to duck and run, I'm going to hit back. I've HAD it. I remember when Christ chased the moneychangers from the temple, overturning their tables and brandishing a braided whip (yes, that's what happened). There's a DIRECT APPROACH, laid out there in the Scripture, the Word itself, that FLIES DIRECTLY IN THE FACE of this whole Dragonball Z Fusion Technique of Economics and Religion.
Now, see, there's where I get mad. I want to grab hold of the things that Christmas SHOULD mean to me. Christmas, in its original context, as the focal point of History, the amazing concept of God-With-Us, God-AMONG-Us, taking on the flesh and doing for us what we could never do ourselves. It is that Gift that should drive us to give abundantly, not some farcical commercial contrivance. And it is in that Spirit that the gift should be given, not in some vanitorious "look-what-I'M-giving" sense or with some sort of hidden pretext . . . but lavishly, with joy. There are gifts you can give that don't come out of some catalogue or commercial--those are the best kind. If I make THIS important enough, can I stave off the frozen wastes of January and February as well? Or, if it were possible, to LIVE in that Spirit, CONSTANTLY, could all the Soul's Winters widen their eyes at the sight of blossoms that do not wither, warmth that does not grow cold, winds that are not bitter?
And, having said that . . . will you help, too?

Freedom of Speech in Action: The Poetry Slam

It's been over 2 weeks since my last cigarette, and the craving is pretty rough. But, if anything, i've got an extra reason to hold off on the smoking coming up tomorrow night. That's right, after a long hiatus, Grendel is going to hit the Slam scene again, this time in the town that gave him his first set of Slam wings.

To newcomers to the concept of Poetry Slam, a bit of explanation is probably in order. First and foremost, someone interested in the concept should check out www.slampapi.com, and www.poetryslam.com . The first is the website of Marc Smith (SO WHAT?) (you have to be an insider to the Slam to get the "SO WHAT?" reference, but trust me, it's cool). Marc Smith is the "Slam Pappy," a man who has started the whole movement. Very few people can claim that they've inspired a movement, but Marc has. He's a Chicago poet who, in the mid-1980's, began bringing poetry back to the people. For years, poetry had been "caged" by the academia, the purview of readings where the only people in attendance were academics, other poets, and students. The decorous silence and golf-clap applause, where people were expected to HANG ON EVERY WORD, even if the speaker droned on for an intolerably long time. The Beat poets were a breath of fresh air in their time, Allen Ginsberg's live performance of "Howl" probably breaking the conceptual sound-barrier, actually being a "banned book" (a laughable concept which probably means that even people who would not normally read it would fight to get their hands on it). But as the Beats aged, finally gaining a grudging acceptance by the academia (and Allen Ginsberg turned into a really creepy guy who would take his clothes off in public and make everyone watch), poetry seemed to "slump" back into its former state. Along came Marc Smith . . . and everything changed again. At the famous Green Mill in Chicago . . . a BAR, of all things . . . the concept of having poets "compete" for prizes, with randomly chosen individuals in the crowd holding up scores in imitation of an Olympic event, became the epicenter of a movement that would sweep the nation, and even reach other nations . . . Great Britain, Germany, France, and even Israel, and by now probably many other countries around the world. Suddenly, people who normally would not even THINK about poetry, much less read it or listen to it, were attending these events, participating, and finding themselves enjoying it. Once you come into a Slam, whether you're a performer or a member of the audience, you're part of it, an integral part of something that is much greater than the sum of its parts. It's often intense, in-your-face, aggressive, perhaps a little intimidating, always entertaining . . . freedom of speech in action! I've seen poets perform all types and styles even in our hometown Slam . . . everything from hip-hop to villanelles, ages ranging from 7 to 70, subject matter that spanned the entire consciousness of this time and the times that preceded it.

Marc Smith, for somebody who started a movement, is a down-to-earth, likeable, friendly guy. He makes it a point to introduce people to one another, to "bring them in." It's an attitude that makes coming to a Slam that holds true to its roots a lot like "coming home." I've attended a number of Slams, including 2 Southeastern Regional and National competitions, and i've got to say that, like Kenny Mostern said, in his "Cheap Art Manifesto," i've been to one-horse-town Slams where i met 12 of my best friends that i've never known before. My own personal Slam experience began here in Roanoke, taken under the wing of a banty little Jew named Ian Cohen, a manic street-poet who encouraged me, and--along with poets like Mark Skelley, Patricia Johnson, Ian Mack, John Beard, and a number of others--gave me my early chops, showed me what it was all about, and ultimately convinced me that yes, i could do this. I'm not going to say that all my experiences with the Slam have been clear "wins"--it came to me at a time in my life when i was struggling with a lot of things, and there were situations where (especially once i accepted the responsibility of maintaining or running a slam) i mishandled it--it has also been the vehicle for many good things, probably most of the positive things in my life. I felt like i found something that the odd equipment God had given me could be put to use. It was at a Slam that i met Pastor John Ault and his wife Jane, two people who eventually became mentors and leaders as i re-encountered Christ on a new level. It was the Slam that put a hunger for travel and an edge to my senses, made me brave enough to tackle Jersey, and eventually NYC, for years . . . and not without some success. Some people who have become the best friends i've ever had, or ever will have, i met through the Slam. One individual i met through the Slam, Taalam Acey, has become--especially after seeing him twice in New Jersey, and purchasing his 2-CD set "The Market 4 Change"--almost like a prophet, and certainly somebody who made me more aware of what an awesome, dangerous responsibility it is to take on the title of "poet," to apply it to oneself. I can only hope that i could become one tenth of the poet that he is.

It's really no surprise to me that "Stevedogg," one of my friends from the old Wits' End days, is at the helm of the current incarnation of the Roanoke Poetry Slam. His energy and creative ability will no doubt sustain the new Slam, and i'm looking forward to seeing him, and many of my other old friends, at Studio Roanoke tomorrow night. It will be worth coming back to Roanoke just to see this new incarnation, and to be part of the wind in its sails.

Poetry Slams in general might "shock" or "offend" (oh, how i hate that word!) some people whose concept of poetry begins with Hallmark Cards and ends with Reader's Digest, and it might seem silly or wonky or perverse to people who've been freeze-dried in the academia . . . but, as Marc Smith would say, "So what?" I strongly believe that spoken word venues like this are the last bastion of true "freedom of speech," where people of different social, political, religious, racial, and national backgrounds can come together and find out just how much they have in common . . . and how much they have to learn from one another. A Slam isn't about scores, or about one or two divas who show up just to suck up the attention, or the applause or heckling or even "boos" of a bar-crowd . . . it is a thing that is greater than the sum of its parts, art happening before your eyes. Yes, you'll hear things that you may disagree with. Yes, you'll likely feel the prickly contact with more than a few artistic temperaments. Yes, you'll probably experience everything from rage to tears to hilarity. And, yes, you will probably learn something in spite of yourself. Is it for everyone? No . . . but it darn well should be. I've always maintained that freedoms, liberties, are like muscles . . . if you don't exercise them, they'll grow weak and atrophied, and when you most need to depend on them, they won't be strong enough to hold up. And, from a Christian perspective, if your Faith isn't strong enough to handle being in a place like this, a place where you might encounter in-your-face opposition, a place where people are WHO they are at the top of your lungs . . . then how can your Faith walk in the world there these things are real, but might otherwise escape your attention?

From the 2 Train Journals: Pursuit/Elusion

the nature of this mystery i pursue
makes me wonder who's stalking who
rakish basilisk basking naked
adjacent to the azaleas,
brazen and emblazoned with
razored blades arranged
like blossoms that could be eyes;
this whole synthesis could paralyze
any system of allegory
that endeavored to tell its story.
fearful distances render feral dances
into microcosmic storms, atoms and
mad planets translate eternity into
something the senses can almost grasp,
grappling with the vatic beast
that sinks its teeth into my heart
and turns back into the night
with a scrap of me caught in its jaws.
it will not bear the locks and bars
of language's cages, passing
through my fogged glass like a whisper,
like a ghost, like smoke.
sleep eludes those who pursue
this dream that walks awake among us,
stung with wonder, sudnered
as if by thunders paws rending me into surrender
until hunger pains only remain
to entice me to chase it again.
beds and friends alike have fled
before the sligthest glimmer of it
in the eyes of those who've seen it--
it forces me to translate the oracular
by embracing the vernacular
without having an incestuous relationship with it;
and no matter how i make the verbs cavort
and nouns contort, the right words
forever elude my cages . . .
all i can do is show you
the holes it's torn in my soul,
and say,
"it's shaped sort of like this . . . ."

The First Poem I've Written Since NYC: Lane's End

Lane's End
***
the lights don't penetrate, here
where grapevines yellowing in the cooling September
cast their kraken-shadows
over a fire-scar.
a femur protrudes from the carpet
of tree-shed tapestry, other
bones no doubt lying deeper.
Micheloeb, Bud Ice, Southpaw, Miller Lite
glitter like cheap armor in the gravel;
Philly Blunts have spilled their guts,
a torrid adolescence read in these remains.
it's haunted, whatever
they said or did still hangs in the air,
the way the smells of cigarettes and sex
are caught in the curtains
of cheap hotels.
spearmint, motherwort, vetch,
yarrow, goldenrod, and rot
of blackberry-vince tangles
work their own magic. something
is caught, snarled
in these brambles
and empty bottles.
it was like this seven years ago;
now, only the names and faces
have changed, hanging
like ghost-mask lanterns.
here at the heron's bend of the creek,
the sleepers wake
to walk in the green dark
and search for what's left here
by those who've gone before
and left their mark
on the soul of this place.

***************************
This is the first poem i've written since i returned from NYC . . . it's about a place down at the end of a gravel side-road here in Bonsack. Not sure what i was getting at here.

How I Became "Grendel"

Grendel, in Beowulf, was a monster of some kind. There are different concepts of what he was . . . some say a dragon-like creature, others say he was more like an ogre or giant, and still others say he was a descendant of the Biblical Cain.
The way i picked up the nickname is kind of humorous. Back in late 1999 and early 2000, there were a group of us--Slam poets--in my hometown of Roanoke, who started going to schools doing exhibitions of Slam poetry. Word got around to several middle and high schools that we were turning kids on to the concept of poetry, giving them a different view than what they'd had from textbooks. Teachers loved getting the kids hooked on something that would have been regarded as "dull"or "boring." We presented in perhaps a dozen middle and high schools, as well as a couple of local colleges. The first school we went to, we were performing for a single classroom (later on, we packed auditoriums!). The current unit that they were studying in English class was "Beowulf." The teacher asked if we could somehow tie that concept into our presentation. That "hook" was given to me, and of course i told the kids that Slam was actually a modern-day descendant of the old oral tradition . . . that the concept of "competition poetry" went back to ancient Greece, and to the Anglo-Saxon bardic tales . . . and then i performed this poem i wrote, called "Sympathy for Grendel," which was a re-telling (albeit much shorter) of the Beowulf story from Grendel's point of view, that Grendel was just a victim of "bad press." Pretty soon, the Slammers occasionally referred to me as "Grendel." When i moved to NJ, i dusted off the moniker, and decided that since Grendel was a predator who trashed the "status quo" of his time, that the new Grendel personna was perfect for my rants and tirades. It also fits with the kind of stage presence i adopt when i'm performing those rants . . . stalking around, glaring at the audience, kind of a "predatory" stance. When i went to the Open Mic in Newark for the first time, i signed in simply as "Grendel." That's how i was known there from that point on. Later, hanging out in NYC, i introduced myself to the Union Square "Park Rats" as Grendel, and that's what most of them still would call me. Ask 'em about Todd, and only a couple would know who you were talking about. Ask 'em about "Grendel," and they'll probably tell you some stories. Some of 'em might even be true. You never know . . . .

Deconstructing Inevitable Discovery

Deconstructing Inevitable Discovery
***
you hear that phrase a lot if you watch
Law & Order. usually, it's the cops
or Jack McCoy with his bushy eyebrow-scowl,
saying, in essence, "Well,we would've found it anyway."
yes, indeedy.
after all the things they don't depict on TV shows go down.
after they bust down the door to your apartment
because of a "sound, suspiciously like
a woman being strangled" (you were
gargling in the bathroom), they charge in
and go tearing around looking for a victim and a criminal,
and in that frenzied search, a cop opens a closet
and your jacket falls out, dislodging
half a blunt that you stashed there
a week ago and forgot about,
and they call it "evidence of criminal activity,"
and since buying drugs supports terrorism(it said so on TV),
it's "aiding and abetting," too,
and then when they come to drag you
out of the bathroom, and you try to grab a bathrobe
because you're stark naked, they call it "resisting arrest"
and throw you down a flight of stairs, and
your face hits the pavement and your teeth get knocked out
and fall into the gutter, and they charge you with "littering."
and that's BEFORE the ATF gets involved,
assuming your apartment building is a drug operation,
possbly a terrorist organization,
or a suspicious gathering of people from other nations,
so they firebomb the whole neighborhood and get a commendation
from the President.
first it's Philly, then it's Waco,
guess who's coming to dinner?
paramilitary exercises in the ghetto!
Newark, you may already be a winner!
it's clearly evident that
the inevitable discovery in this case
is that things like this
have already happened . . . and,
inevitably, somebody will discover an excuse
to make it happen again. Pity there's no
real McCoy to prosecute the real criminals
in THIS drama.

Vocation Destinations

I had a long talk with an old friend of mine, Leslie, the other night via Facebook. To boil it all down and summarize, the topic itself was something about what i wanted to "do" now, i.e., a job. Now, in the past 10 or so years of my life, my job was only something to do to support me while i continued to work out what i saw as my vocation, calling, craft . . . poetry. As Taalam Acey pointed out, "Poems don't buy big homes, and poems don't light up wrists . . . " Or, as my old mentor Dan Leidig once said, "Poetry bakes no bread." Of all the creative arts, poets are on the rock bottom of the hit list . . . maybe because a lot of poets understand that part of their duty is to say things that a lot of people would rather not hear (and, in particular, people who have money would rather not hear). Blah, blah, blah . . . I'll leave that for another rant. Anyway, Leslie asked me about what inspired my poems, what made me write. I responded back, "Everything. My life." She said, "Too general. I'm looking for specifics." That kind of rocked me back on my heels, and i had to actually think about it.

Most of my poems deal with one or more of the following topics: my Faith (and reflections on the Christian walk), Nature, what would loosely be called "Political" poetry (i'd call it more philosophical than anything, because unlike most politicians i don't pretend to come up with any easy answers or recoil with a predictable knee-jerk when i have to wrangle with something that doesn't fit neatly into a political pigeonhole), Poetic Portraits (depictions of people i've come across), and Self-Examination. Then there are those weird little outbursts like "I'll Get You, Squid McGhee!" or "Sandy Duncan is Trying to Kill Me!" I don't know exactly WHAT is going on there, unless they're like a sub-category of what i used to call "Myth Sticks," which were really more conceptual Rorschach blots . . . other people would tell me what they got from the poem, and i'd nod and look wise, but they were actually revealing more about themselves than anything (that was the point). Now, let me tell you, i haven't written ANYTHING poetic since i came back from NYC. NOT ONE THING. This scares me, because in dry times like these i feel like i've "lost the muse," or whatever. And, i'll tell you something ELSE . . . i am also afraid that i'm not where i need to be with God. I know God's been giving me a lot of lee-way since i came back, but now He's pulling in the reins, and i need to be paying attention. My creative energy is always a difficult thing to deal with, because it has a tendency to go running off on its own if i'm not careful . . . and, as always, i find that the process of getting it under control often means that there's gonna be collateral damage. Mostly because whenever my creative impulses run on their own, they always come dragging stuff back like burdocks in their hide.

I'm not sure what this all means as regards Leslie's question . . . but i simply can't think of any other way to frame a response other than to kind of sit here and type it out. I can't climb a corporate ladder . . . that's not IN me, and i honestly don't think that's what God built me for . . . and a lot of what i'm hearing from my family lately seems to deal with "success" in the World's terms, which makes me sick to my stomach. ESPECIALLY as regards my grandmother, who--God bless her--will at one point insist that i could "dress like i was successful" (which, to her, means "like i have money"), and in the next breath say that she believes we're living in the Last Times (and, on that point, i can see some indications of that pretty plainly) . . . but it's the conflict between those two points that's giving me so much grief! YOU CANNOT SERVE GOD AND MAMMON. And who or what is Mammon? An appropriate modern translation would be Money, the Bank, Profit . . . and, it's true, people tend to go in one direction or the other. Whatever else i can see myself doing, it won't involve building a fortune for myself. My legacy will end up being a bunch of poems which will probably go unread until AFTER i die (and poets are usually only recognized for their vision AFTER they're dead, anyway), and in the actions and deeds that i've done. If anything, i want to pursue a goal that has to do with the ministry, in whatever function God has designed me to perform. I don't know exactly WHAT that is . . . but i understand He knows, and will reveal that to me when i'm ready to receive it. That means focusing a lot more on the skills and gifts He gave me, and being prayerful and watchful. Lewis has been a great help in this time . . . he's one of the few people i know who shares the Christian faith, a lot of similar tastes in music, a powerful creative gift, and a general distrust of the political system as a whole. He and i both agree that we'll end up partnering on something here in the valley while i'm here . . . and now i'm in doubt as to whether or not i'm supposed to go back to NYC long-term.

What do i want to do? I want to stop this state of free-fall and land somewhere for a while. I want to stop wasting my time and my talent. I want--at some point--to get back onstage and rock the Slam mic like i used to, and know i still COULD if i had the ambition and the focus. And most of all, i want to find out what it is God has prepared for me, and grab hold with both hands, and NEVER LET GO.

If i have to have some low-end job just to feed myself and manage my life while i'm doing this, well, so be it. Even Paul, when he was working on seedling churches that couldn't (or wouldn't) pay his upkeep, wasn't too proud to make a few tents.

Okay, Let Me Explain it THIS Way . . . .

Wise Fool
***
God has installed
some pretty effective
equipment in me.
He encoded some things into my DNA
that are perfectly suited
for one who likes to ride the edge
in this realm of poetry . . .you see, bipolar disorder and poetry
come together in me
like this: when i'm manic, i can crank out the poetry.
once i wrote 7 in the space of 3 hours,posted them online, and received
much praise! and, given such an ego boost, i
start to strut a little, and then . . .just when i'm feeling full of myself
. . .CRASH! here comes the depression, the
other side of the hyphen i've come
to know and dread so well,
and now i know what Rimbaud meant
when he talked about a season in Hell.
and people get disappointed with me,
and . . . i . . . get disappointed with me,
and so i drag my scaly hide into my cave
and hide out for a while.
then, manic's back like Rocky Balboa,
ready to step into that ring again!
and, it feels so good to be back, that
the level of my poetic attack
rises each time manic has my back.
so, you see, this thing that provides
the emotional energy and creativity in me,
is also my greatest limitation. and, that inspires humility.
God created me
to walk a razor edge, and He knew
what He was doing, even though,
looking at me, some people would think
God is crazy (and, sometimes, i wonder
about that too)--but, if crazy is the tool
God needs to do this job . . . here am i,
send me . . . i will be God's wise fool.

You Can't Move Mountains With Tales Like These

Nega-Sheep
***
now, you've all heard about how
we're like sheep. i mean, when
Jesus called us that, do you think
it was meantas a compliment?
alas, i'm afraid
sheep are stupid creatures
less brains than a cow . . .they'll walk right in to a slaughterhouse
and let you hammer their brains right out.
now, the time has come
for a new breed of sheep
to emerge, and so you see,
i am sort of a Nega-sheep.
my wool's not white,
probably quite tie-dyed, and
very seldom do you encounter
a sheep with fangs.
no, honey, that's not a smile,
i'm just baring my teeth for you.
yes, i bite.
this sheep fights back.
this sheep has a survival instinct.
this sheep has already been sheared
so some idiot can wear a sweater
but don't think this sheep's just gonna
let you hammer out his brains
so some idiot can eat lamb chops.
i got your chops, right here,sucker.
a sheep in wolf's clothing, yes it's true,
but i'll still bet i've got
more bite than you.


Varf!
***
Varf! Everything gets back to varf! What is varf? Where, there are
several potential definitions. Varf could be when your cat
hacks up a hairball on the carpet and it gets sucked up into
a vaccuum cleaner, where it develops a sort of vampiric life.
But, that's pretty nasty, so we won't contemplate that. Another
kind of varf could be a vampiric smurf, but let's just hope he doesn't
hack up a furball on the carpet while he's running the vaccuum,
because that would only complicate things by creating such conditions as "Smurfy Vampire Furf Varf," "Furfy Varf Vaccuum Smurf,"and even "Vampric Varf Smurfs Vaccuum! (Film at Eleven)." But the third and best definition of Varf is a tribe of Vikings,
who were also Veatniks (this was back in the day when
the letter B was excommunicated from the alphabet). They left their recipes on a runestone,
the "Varf Viking Veatnik Recipe Rosetta Stone," referring to such things as "Varf Vegetable Veef Soup," "Varf Viking Vaked Veans and Spam," and "Varf Viking Lizard Surprise." See, you didn't know that the fourth definition of varf is a kind of lizard. "Hey, there's a LIZARD in this stuff!" That's the surprise. It also refers to the fact that you have to surprise the lizard to get it into the stewpot.

Boxed
***
you think inside the box, and
lock your mind inside the box, and
throw away the key.
and then you start to forget
that there ever was a key
that there ever was an "outside"
that the box is just a limit
you've slapped on your head.
there are some people who use that box
like a harness.
they yoke your head to some idea, and you
just follow in line right into the
slaughterhouse, baaa baaa, baaa baaa . . .
oh, and just before they take away
your writing hands, they'll
staple your lips together, too.
if you hurry up, though, i'll
help you look for that key . . .it's gotta be around here somewhere.

Carpe Poem
***
"Seize the echoes of creatures struggling to live against the dagger of man."
--Orannia Hamilton
***
Seize
the naked poem, raw with
vibrant green light and
razored fangs, from the turbid air.
From dark moments, bright things
sometimes shoot forth
like meteors etching a rune
of fire across the aching
firmament.
*
Transform
each piece of dangerous terrain
into your territory, proclaim your
domain in the poetic tongues,
conquer your emotions and yoke them to your plow.
the Earth lies fallow, unless
it is broken to receive the
seed.
*
Blaze
your trail across this tapestry, and
make your path one of light,
translate the celestial messages,
make your relationships inspirations,
receive in abundance the
overflowing cascades of
blessings, flowing from on
High.
*
And may the poem always rise to greet you,
as welcome and expectant as the dawn,
pregnant with possibility,
where each moment
of ascending brightness
is a phoenix of experience,
and the poet is
reborn.

After the Storm

It's been a little over a week since my return to the 'noke, and a little over a year since i've posted in this thing. I figured it was about time. I haven't quite had time to process everything that's been going on in the past year in NYC, and i'm still "in transition," which is usually a difficult time for me to write. Hindsight is 20/20, eh?

Since my return, i've re-connected via Facebook with several friends, including several of my old poetry slam cohorts. Steve Glassbrenner, Leslie Barger, Bill Payne, and Lewis Kleiner are all there. I also re-connected with my long-time friend Vickie Holt, who's remained a friend since my high school days, back when i ran with a group of oddballs we called "Saturn Pattern," and yeah, i was a wing-nut back then, too. I hope they don't mind being mentioned by name in this blog, but they're way too important for me to just give a passing "my old friends" mention.

I'm now 44 years old, which is like being dead in dog years. I'm confused about where my future lies now . . . i guess the path is laid at my feet, and this time of transition is my opportunity to pick the right one, or to screw things up royally again. As far as what i wanted to do back in NJ and NYC, i accomplished about 15% of it . . . i.e., just shy of a total failure. I did LEARN a lot, which may have been God's reason for keeping me up there as long as He did. I've written reams of poetry that, in all likelihood, nobody will read, and there's no slamma-ramma stuff going down in the 'noke anymore (and, considering my track record in the last years of that, i'm not looking in that direction now). Blah, blah, blah. And, no, this isn't-self pity, this is just me making another attempt at the pinnacle of Maslow's hierarchy: self-actualization. It's not enough to simply take pieces of other people's opinions or idealizations of what you are, there has to be some kind of "click" in your mind. One thing i've learned is that my inherent distrust of government, bureacracy, and "the system" in general might have served me better if i'd aimed some of it at the people in NYC i called "friends." I DID have quite a few good friends, but when my ship hit the rocks towards the end of my time there, i found out who were really my friends . . . and there were some surprises there. I'm not going into detail about that here . . . and if i ever do, the names will be changed to protect the innocent (and obscure the guilty). For somebody who can sniff out the connections of a conspiracy, i have the tendency to be far too trusting of my associates, especially considering that a number of my NYC associates are, in a legal sense, criminals. But they're still my FRIENDS, damn it, and i don't think God would be very happy with me if i wrote them off just because they happened to have a few misdemeanors on their record. When Jesus walked the earth, He was called a friend of degenerates and riff-raff (nevermind the fact that most of them reformed once they connected with Him). And some of these so-called "low-lifes" that society rejects and looks down on helped me out in my times of trouble, whereas the more "respectable" members of society left me hanging. So, yeah, i may have trusted some of them a little more than i should have, held them to a higher standard when i should have kept my expectations low. I'm not exactly a hero myself--far from it.

But enough of that for now. I'm sure my readers (the seven or eight of them) don't want me to belabor that point.

This is a poem that i wrote while living in Brooklyn, part of it composed on a subway (which was where a lot of poems i wrote began), and this is probably a work in progress which will undergo several iterations, but while it's still fairly fresh, here 'tis.

Battery Acid #1
***
question: how are we going to
rescue the economy
reduce our carbon footprint
win the war on terror
and provide a future for our children?
objection! too complicated? i'll rephrase:
how many corpses
piled on our doorsteps
or stacked like cordwood
in our toxic back yards
will it take for us to think,
"ummm . . . maybe we fucked up,"
but, since fucking things up is both
easy and profitable, how much longer
can it go on before people
get wise to the act and stop paying
for new and improved ways
of getting screwed? it's like
paying a rapist to rape you again,
only HARDER this time!
pick a problem, and you'll find
50 or more self-help books
(available at Barnes & Noble,
occasionally ostentatiously autographed
by the author)
to help you solve it, but
as any third-grader can tell you,
increasing the number of options
in a multiple-choice question
just creates a greater potential for picking
the wrong one,
and since i don't have all the answers either,
i started by picking up a pen
and writing a poem--say hello
to my little friend!
"you believe the children are our future,"
so you'll croon that song
while making sure that future generations can
be taxed into servitude
eat genetically altered food
watch 500 channels of increasingly stupid tube
and won't worry about what defines "torture"
until it's their turn to get screwed
(and, i might add, if the children in question
are currently involved in conflicts in countries
whose exploitable resources don't warrant
our "liberation" lube,
the future's already dead)!
you're a nation of people who
are kind to others,
as long as it's a tax write-off
or pays dividends,
all smiles while you bury knives
in the backs of your friends,
shoot up that corporate ladder so fast
you get the bends,
and everybody pretends
that they're not losers,
even though nobody ever really wins.
you've got fully functional cybernetic wombs--
think "The Matrix," just designed by Martha Stewart--
and cell-phones and ipods and other pods and mods
that keep you totally connected
but unable to make a connection,
and text-messaging is a lousy substitute
for intense verbal interaction,
and for those of you NOT PAYING ATTENTION,
that's what THIS is!
did you MISS it?
maybe your brain turned off when you unplugged!
they've terraformed the wrinkles out of your mind,
leaving it smooth as a baby's behind
and full of the same runny, yellow crap
until that cosmic roundhouse slap
arrives to wake you from your nap of dollar dreaming,
and you'll leave the world the way you arrived:
fists clenched, naked, covered in blood, and screaming!
oh, and just as a postscript?
if you believe the children are our future?
watch out--they're sneaking up on you
to write "the end."
maybe you'll make good fertilizer, friend,
because that's all you can really do
with
BULL SHIT!

April Fool's Resolution

THE FOLLOWING POEM COMES WITH A MAJOR CAVEAT. READ NO FURTHER
IF YOU ARE A WIMP, AFRAID OF RAW HONESTY, OR BASICALLY IGNORANT.

You should also stop here if you're: easily offended, gender-sensitive, or weak in
regards to your opinion of me (which, by the way, is none of my business).

(Consider this the equivalent of the Haunted Forest in "The Wizard of Oz." I'D TURN BACK IF I WERE YOU).



April Fool's Resolution
***
i've made a resolution to hereafter
make all my resolutions on April Fool's Day,
which makes perfect sense, because,
most people who make resolutions
know it's an April Fool's game, because
they have no intention on keeping them . . .
and even the best of them
seldom even survive through March.
but, this April, i made a resolution
that's final. that's right, i'm
giving up sex. Oh, don't look at me
that way . . . like any other male, i
suffer from testosterone, but
sex hasn't done anything for me
but distract me from the Muse, and she
can be one jealous bitch. She demands
most of my attention, and her company
is entertaining . . . no, i'm not complaining,
i rather like it this way. But when a
twenty-first century male stands up
and openly resolves to give up sex,
people wonder why, so, caveat lector
and auditor, let me lay it out for you:
the modern thing is to "embrace your sexuality,"
which is easy if you've been given a choice,
but a big piece of radioactive ore
has been buried in my past, and
it really screws up my personal navigation system,
so pardon me if i steer right clear . . .
what happened to me wasn't something i chose,
a bitter fruit of a tree i wasn't ready to taste, and
asking me to embrace that
is like asking me to go to bed with a monster.
Not all the booze and zoloft in the world
seemed to be enough to keep it in the past,
that motherfucker was buried alive.
Every encounter with it since then
is another radioactive exposure, and
sooner or later that stuff starts to sink in,
and speaking of which, is THIS sinking in?
Don't hand me that line about "you just need
to get LAID," for the record, i am NOT
a virgin, and also for the record, it did
NOTHING to solve my problems,
it FED them.
I believe everyone has the right
to choose their own path, so damn it,
at least affirm MINE.
Now, i'd better stop this raw honesty
that peels me down to the bedrock,
because i've been warned that
people aren't READY for it, and
i've also been warned about
casting my pearls before swine, but
i sometimes have a hard time
distinguishing the pigs
until after i see what they do with it.
Yes, men are pigs, and i have
experience to prove it. Yes, i'm
chained to the same Y chromosome,
braincells saturated in testosterone,
the same thing that makes men
think with their little heads
and talk to girls' breasts instead of their faces,
the same thing that makes some men
take from other men
what no woman will willingly give them,
so, don't look at me like i'm some alien, because
we're really not that different, are we?
the only difference is, i've
found a solution . . . and if, by now,
you don't understand, who's
REALLY the April Fool in this picture?

Poems: 2 New Writes & 1 "Lost Poem" (Thanks, Biker)

No More
***
"no more Mister Nice Guy,
no more Mister Clean . . . ."
but, sincerely,
no more.
no more of this half-ass sloppy
sentinel asleep on duty,
no more of this Dallas Police watching
everyone but Jack Ruby,
no more complacently getting by on
good behavior. this is right out
on the edge of things, my dear,
the very end, razor-sharp verge of
vertigo, so
no more of that nice, modern,
politically correct, compassionate conservative
(which renders as well backwards,
conservative compassion), non-assertive,
hey-i-already-gave-at-the-office-whaddya-want-
from-me-blood . . .
YES! just once, just to prove
that you can still bleed, that
the wheezy rusted engine of your heart
hasn't turned your blood into
coagulated sludge
from all the corporate cholesterol
and a budget you can't budge.
i'm sorry, i can't play Spin-the-Wheel psychoanalysis,
or chart the disaster with your Horoscope,
or somehow phrase this in a tasteful postmodern way
so you can crawl out from under
by claiming that i'm an "enigma,"
but there's still something in me
that chafes at the thought of sitting back
and channel-surfing
when the tsunami is getting closer. my friend,
there will come a time at which
the roaring of that wave
will refuse to fade
into the background, no matter
how much you turn up the sound with your remote,
trying to drown out the oncoming deluge,
because when doom is on your doorstep,
you won't need a television to see it, and
IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD
in your
OWN FUCKING LIVING ROOM,
brought to you by MTV, Miller Light, Joe Camel,
hell, everybody's sponsoring this damn thing, because
you paid them so well to do it,
and even then you weren't screwed enough, you
had to re-elect some of them
to do it again.
so, tell me i'm playing rough,
that i'm not playing fair,
that i have to play the game by your rules
because you OWN the Monopoly board, but
there's just one thing:
I'M NOT PLAYING. no more games.
this is for real. oh, and,
the reason i'm lowering my voice? i'm
hoping you can hear the same sound
in the background
that i do.
i hear it all the time, anymore.

----------------------------------

Retro-Darwinism
***
the contours of scarred geography,
land scattered with useless things,
cut loose from hands that
didn't use them all that well,
well, it's more or less
the moral or ethical irregularity
that continues to cut up chunks of Earth
and create more useless things
thereof. it sometimes frightens me
that He who created the lamb, the dove,
the waterfall, and the diamond
also created the tiger, the vampire bat,
the hurricane, and uranium, but
He did not create poaching,
the electric chair, FEMA, or the MX Missile,
which would indicate that, given
something of no intrinsic morality,
we'll come up with a way to endanger, murder,
render useless, or destroy
long before we think of anything else.
homo sapiens, a name supposedly representing
the fact that because we've advanced
to this level of walking upright
and beating the ever-loving shit out of each other,
we're more sapient, wise, intelligent, and
otherwise better equipped to survive
than other species . . .
of course, if that big nuclear brainstorm hits,
it'll be the rats and cockroaches
making jokes about the stupid two-leggers
who thought they were in control.
stupid two-leggers who still insist
on squealing "survival of the fittest"
while they're feeding from the trough, forgetting
that when the time for the slaughter comes
it's the fattest that don't survive, so,
bend over and squeal like a pig,
fuck bringing home the bacon, you ARE the bacon,
asshole, how else did you think
the wheels of the machine were being greased?
human lard. just ask the Nazis.
my question is, how is it that the bloodiest horrors
of the modern world
seem to have the by-product
of politicians, tyrants, dictators and religious fakers,
a bunch of world leaders who,
when put in the same room, behave
like monkeys, promptly flinging their own shit
in every direction
to see where it will stick. who said evolution
was a one-way street?
we're computer literate, but we can't read the signs;
we can put a missile through a bunker door, but
we can't drive a lawnmower without warning labels;
we can spend more money on a movie
that makes dinosaurs seem alive
than we're spending on all the other species
that are currently going extinct;
we can put a man on the moon,
but we still can't put one in the White House . . .
sad to say, Darwin was wrong on this one,
because survival of the fittest doesn't apply
when an animal smart enough to conquer land and sky
still can't hit the toilet on the first try.


--------------------------------



Invested
***
i am the dirt under a Black nation's feet.
linked by backwards DNA
to people who caused the sacrifice of
people who paid in blood for the stage i'm standing on.
i'm relying on their words to hold me up,
to look me in the eye, to tell me to shape up
or shut up, 'cuz this poetry shit ain't for wimps.
i've been helped by people society looks down on,
lived on handouts from outcasts, been adopted by Jesus-people,
been given more by street-rats than by
people who swore to stand by me,
every time i spun away,somebody was there to catch me.
i owe it to them to grab this poetry thing
and wrestle it to the mat, to have that light attack,
that savage lunge, that deadly riposte,
to look that beastie in the eye and REALLY give him hell.
my own self-worth isn't measuredby how much i am worth in wealth,
but in the wealth of words invested in me
by those who are worth the wealth of the world,
who paved the way for me in blood, sweat, and death.
you ask me how i dare to stand up here and say things out loud i've inscribed
on pages, shouted from stages and
encoded on the Internet . . .
i ask you,how dare i remain silent?