disaster with flirting

Sometimes I wonder if from some alternate perspective
if palm trees look like legs,
if the sky looks like the ground,
if the Earth looks like it’s running.

We bend the truth sometimes with the intention of making a point.
Hypothetical penmanship.
The only difference between cursive and italic is intention.
If that’s true than it might seem like I’m changing the subject sometimes
but I’m really just trying to catch up on current events
like, where did you come from?

you are here

This is how I write poetry. One lovely little nugget at a time. This poem, which I have already titled, exists in pieces in a text document that I have been toying with for almost a month now. It’s a good bye letter, an apology and a revelation tied into a metaphor about maps and truck stops and crossroads.

(re)visions of god

I could see the chalk whites of his teeth trying to bite down on his words
but before they could be derailed his tongue caught wind and his words assailed
as he said, “I hate surrealism.”

As if his words would never be caught dead in an urn
sometimes his mouth looked more like a jail in an old western
and his thoughts fought like criminals desperate to break out
until they found a way to use his tongue as an escape route.

“No, I don’t hate surrealism,” he says
“I just hate surrealism as a movement.”

Upon hearing this my spine coils like a wine-corker-spiral-staircase
upward; where my brain plugs my cranium like a cork
and my eyes drip like blank canvas,
I am one hollow statue decaying in a melting structure
with wax in my ears I feed landscapes to winged insects
as I drown in pools of water/color.

Behind me is a sky so burlesque it actually looks like the clouds are crying.
Under me is a ground so vast it has nine horizons wrapped in a double helix.
Reconstructed beside me is a tree so old it could be the same wood as The Crucifix.
Nested inside me where my spine should be is a coat rack made crooked by the weight of all-nighters.
The texture of my skin makes it look like god paints with typewriters.

“No, no,” he says, his voice turning melancholy, atomic, uranic, idyll,
“I don’t hate surrealism as a movement,
because hate’s such a strong word, I guess I just don’t get it.”

Now I’m overcome with a sincere desire to light an entire herd of giraffes on fire
and sip wine beneath the light as if it were dinner by candlelight,

“Seriously?” I say.

His head is an empty room with an evaporating skylight,
his ears, hang like clocks on a half-wall, melting.
The escalator to his brain is a spiral staircase moving in reverse.
His eyelids peel back like the last page of a two-dimensional book.
I can see with my Spellbound eyes, we’re finally on the same page.

I say, “Under giraffes, in this light
I can’t tell if you’re Lincoln or Jesus.
In fact, we all look like swans with elephant reflections.
Your trunk is a trumpet.”

I can see the chalk whites of his teeth stall door,
squeaky hinge, his mouth-
occupied with a realization he can’t pronounce.
A pause as pregnant as a desert landscape,
ornamented with butterflies.

I can tell his tongue just curled back into his saloon jaw
like a bee sting rifle shot back into the mouth of a lunging tiger,
swallowed deep into the wells of a fish belly.

“Oh, god” he says, “that’s not what I meant.”

Please, don’t even get me started on where we derive our visions of god
from where I stand everything casts a shadow in the shape of where it’s heading
and the sky, vast and pale and open, the sky is the only all-seer
and the truth is far less surreal:
if your demons are ants then your god is an anteater.
.
.
.
Author’s Note: I originally wrote this piece on 01/19/2008. This is a revision.

bashful astroknots

Put me in a Captain America suit and no one would take me seriously.
Put me in a Sir Mike Mitchell painting and you might take me home, you might even join my team.
Put me in a rocket and I’m not just any rocket man, I’m some boy on the internet’s cover of Maynard James Keenan’s cover of Elton John’s Rocket Man.

What I’m trying to say is- you don’t know me yet.

You left me hangin’ like a giant helium balloon at the Macy’s Gray Parade,
when I tried to say good bye, and I choked,
penciled our farewell into my itinerary,
knowing that there’s a whole lot of triumph residing in my procrastination.

It’s just that if you gave your trust fall to my gravity
you’d bear witness to my second wind,
you’d see, there’s a few things I’m trying to make right.

I promise to no longer wear my indecision like trees wear branches,
pointing them away from the source.
I promise to stop trying to find the wrong side of forgiveness.
I promise to finish what I started, no more excuses.
I promise, I know there is no ghost where the light is warm,
I’ll stop looking for things that aren’t there.

I promise I won’t split at the fork in the road,
only to look back and wonder what it’s like on the other side of assumption.

Maybe the fork in the road is a steak knife.
Maybe the road knows what’s at stake.
Maybe the stake needs to be driven- into the ground.

I promise I won’t nail myself to the past.

Parade float and pallbearer alike know that the city doesn’t cater to left hand turns.
So, I’ll follow the right path.

I’m just a bashful astronaut too caught up in my own gravitational pull
to recognize that the space between us is directly related to the trajectory of my sarcasm.

I promise I’m not too caught up in space to recognize that
people tend to be like the ghosts in Mario Brothers.
When you pay attention they freeze up.
When you ignore them they want to get closer.

In the pale light of honesty, we’re all clothed in the same transparency.

We’re all different shades of the same hue, man.
I promise to recognize a painting when I see one,
looks like we’re getting tangled in our finger paints,
like bashful astronauts spreading smear campaigns,
we use oil rigs and watercolors to paint the space
and then tell ourselves

that the sky is an illusion.
The Moon is a desert.
God is a projection.

Show me the light.

I promise to listen intently to every cloud that passes from your lungs.
I promise to dance with the thunder in your ribcage.
And after the eye of my storm passes, if you still wanna say good bye
I promise to drink the ice in your whisper- even though I asked for it neat.

Our circumference is divisible.

I know why Earth keeps Moon close.
I know why Moon keeps her distance.
They see each other in a different light.
Neither one knowing how to break the cycle.

It was an astronaut who had to tell Moon, “You
are not, nor should you ever be,
the resulting equivalent of someone else’s expectations.
Stop assuming and let go.”

But the only guys sent to the moon were scientists,
they were fathers, not poets or painters,
therefore it’s doubtful that Moon got the message.

So it’s my job to tell you-
you didn’t break my heart, you gave it purpose.

If I’m to believe in an afterlife
than I’m gonna need proof that I did something positive with this one.
So please, don’t be so hard on yourself,
carry yourself like the Sistine Chapel
because I made my best impressions in your cathedral
and your spine is a series of pillars
so know where your ceiling is and live up to it
because this now here is all we have-

Look.

You don’t know me yet.

If you did, you’d know that I don’t want to reign like the weatherman,
I want to rain, like the weather, man.

I’m sky-lit, universe-as-a-backdrop,
in flight, open like a parachute,
eyes wide like backwards telescopes,
I promise from the pit of my orchestra section,
from the belly of my wind instrument,
I’m never gonna take the ground for granted,
I’m anchored to a heavy heart, from which I promise,
if you’re there when I land I’m gonna hold you-

like the sky
holds everything.

 

.

we are old enough to know the truth

(for Steven LA Mura)

I found my voice in a pocket of oxygen buried in my gut,
it was a hot air ballon
backlit by the aura of my lungs,
my chest– was the sky that coughed it up.

So now, knowing that my chest is the sky,
I spend a lot of time talking to the Moon,
the same way Bruno talks to Mars
and Freddie talked to Mercury.

Knowing, that we are water-based creations, spread thin
like the last spoon of pancake batter,
I wear my impermanence like Jupiter wears her red spot.
I wear my fears like continents wear mountains,
pointing them toward the sky,
hoping to someday adhere a sticker to my chest that reads,
THIS CAR CLIMBED MT. COMMITMENT

I have the scars to prove it.

My mother carried me like the last drop of water in a desert canteen,
there was no need for a soft spot; I was headstrong.

I brought the kitchen to the gun fight.
Held my hands to the stove top
turned my back to the knife rack
kept one foot in the door jam and my mouth to the bedpan,
just in case these words washed my mouth out.

Most people never get close enough to recognize
that the smile on my face is written in Braille–
but you’ve always been there with a blind eye
reading my innuendos
and holding me to my words.

When your marathon feet hit the pavement
it’s a lot like Buddy Wakefield at a typewriter
striking the first letter of the word benevolence–

You taught me how to b b b b b b

Even in my most negative moment
when my body is a hearse,
this heart is a corpse
and this life is a road-trip from funeral parlor to graveyard,
so that I may have spent my entire life in the company of mourners,
who loved me.

Even in my most positive moment
when my body is a universe,
this heart is Hatch Shell located on the south bank of the Charles River
swelling with the sounds of the Boston Pops
and this life is everything leading up to the Big Bang,
so that I may have spent the entirety of my life in the company of creation.

Even on the night we met — the same night I found my voice —
we stayed up to watch Lake Michigan come to life in a pocket of oxygen
under a Chicago sunrise so inescapably underwhelming–
it was covered by clouds.

But we were not disappointed.

Even though all of our rainbows have been stitched into flags,
draped over coffins
and buried by the same people who taught us to believe
in optical illusions.
Our hearts were not drawn by Jeremy Fish,
we’re not weighted in fiction,
we did not have heartstrings rigged by Geppetto.

No, we were not disappointed,
this was nothing like (I still remember) when we learned
that we couldn’t all be Mouseketeers.

Disappointment is a pastime that we reconciled
when we laid our grandmothers to rest
and recognized that their tombs did not believe in resurrections.

The past is a hot air balloon hoisting us up to a sky we’ll never see.
I get it.
I’m not lookin’ down.

We are old enough to know the truth.

The light at the end of the tunnel is behind us,
that’s where we came from.
We are not running from it.
There’s no looking back.

*

catch the bag. train your dragon.

this post has nothing to do with dragons. except to say that after a few cocktails you can’t get mad at me and dolly for giving kindheartedly into our chicken mcnugget craving — naysayers can go fly a kite. in the midst of the mcdonald’s drive thru, i enthusiastically asked for two of the dragon toys. that’s how the night summed itself up.

i took the cute one, dolly took the one that lights up.

prior to said dragons and cocktails dolly, savior of saviors, escorted me to another night of lightbulb mouth radio hour in long beach. hosted by derrick brown and mindy nettifee, this week’s installment featured incredible music by cory joseph (instant fan), fascinating informationist buzzy enniss, and the poetic wonders of beau sia and karen finneyfrock.

i’ll keep this brief. we had coffee. we did shots of jameson. i performed stills as part of the pre-show poetry session. greygoose and soda. the show inspired and informed and awed. we hung out. champagne in a can. i broke the seal far too early. buzzy confirmed for me the origin of the phrase “lo and behold.” (look it up) three olive grape and soda. i won a pair of karen’s socks at auction for $20. karen signed my copy of her book. we hung out with cory joseph for a bit and mindy and karen. we talked shop.

well, i talked, they listened. well, i probably sounded either too much like a drunk or a lunatic fanboy and they were probably just being polite. oh well.

for full details you can visit the internet sites listed below. you can hear all of the lightbulb mouth gems (including the “catch the bag” story) on the podcast which shall be posted on their site.

derrick: brownpoetry.com
mindy: thecultofmindy.com
cory: coryjoseph.com
karen: finneyfrock.wordpress.com
beau: beausia.com
buzzy: buzzyenniss.com
lbmrh: lightbulbmouth.com

lo and behold, there is also a video…

in the wake of wakefield; words come

These are the facts. Until last night I had never performed spoken word poetry. Until last night I had never seen Buddy Wakefield or Derrick Brown in person. Until last night I had only ever recited the words to epilogue to close friends and to the walls in my bedroom.

Quick history lesson. A few years back I came to a realization that I had never written any of my poetry to be performed and I had never really heard any of my poems spoken aloud by myself or anyone else.

Around this time, I acquired a copy of Sage Francis’ album Human the Death Dance which featured poetry excerpts by Buddy Wakefield. I was thus introduced to a level of spoken word that consequently changed my perspective of my own words and in many ways, for lack of a better phrase, changed my life.

The first time I watched videos of Buddy performing Pretend and The Information Man, I was completely and utterly moved, in awe, and struck silent by a sequence of words and a man with enough energized emotion to drive these words inward. I was compelled to write. More. Better. Bigger. And I did, sort of.

In no way do I think I have reached my potential, nor do I think I could ever compare to someone as eloquent as Wakefield, but I began to write these grand pieces. Poems that I would then record myself reading and I began to feel something in words that I had never felt before.

So when I found out that Derrick Brown, founder of Write Bloody Publishing and also a spoken word poet, was hosting a show in Long Beach featuring Wakefield, I had to go.

The show is called The Lightbulb Mouth Radio Hour and every Wednesday night it features one author, one informationist, and one musician.

So I panned a selection of my friends to see who was available on a random Wednesday in January to travel down to Long Beach. Thankfully Dolly showed much excitement about accompanying me to the event even though she had not much knowledge of anyone who would be there.

What I did not realize was that after the show Brown hosts a six-person poetry slam. So upon arrival at The Basement in Long Beach I was asked if I wanted to partake in said poetry slam. After a moment of hesitation I was first on the list.

This is where I must reiterate that minus the best man speech I gave at my cousin’s wedding I have never performed spoken word prior to this moment. I have never stood in front of a crowd with a microphone and shared a poem. Ever. And so two things occurred to me when I put my name on this list — I would finally be doing the thing I had yet to do and I would be doing it in the presence of someone I greatly admire.

You know what they say, go big or go home. Or go insane with nerves and anxiety.

Luckily I kept my composure.

I sat at the bar prior to the show with three sheets of paper that Dolly provided me and I scratched out the words to Epilogue, just to make sure that I had in fact fully memorized them.

I watched Brown and Wakefield as they conversed with people around the room, watched them laugh and share stories, watched them socialize and I didn’t know what to say or do. I really wanted to tell each of them how much I admire their work. But I didn’t want to come off as creepy or silly or stalker-esque. If I was going to say anything I needed to play it cool. Typing that sentence proves how uncool I am.

The show begins with Brown and his keyboard-stroking sidekick Mindy Nettifee as they hash out the shows opening sing-a-long and a few current event themed jokes. Then Brown introduced Ray Barbee who played a song on his electric guitar before sitting down with Brown to discuss his adventures in skateboarding and his musical stylings. The interview began with a hilarious game of identify the skateboard move, which included a Twenty Twenty with Barbara Walters, a Madonna and a Sean Penn.

Next up was informationist, fertility specialist Wendie Wilson, who discussed her work helping infertile couples find egg donors. Some very interesting points were made about genetic testing and the egg donating process and some insightfully funny quips were made by Brown.

And then there was Buddy.

It is abundantly apparent that Brown and Wakefield could probably fill an entire hour and then-some together and keep the audience entertained.

Buddy performed two poems, Crowbirds and Mockingbars followed by Bedrooms & Battle Scars. He then interviewed with Brown about his ridiculous touring schedule, how it takes him months to structure a poem precisely, and how he’s training for a triathlon; for which he trains every morning by doing two of the three exercises; run, bike or swim.

He then performed Information Man with the accompaniment of Ray Barbee who he admitted to admiring greatly. Saying that for him being in the same room with Barbee was the equivalent of growing up as a fan of the WWF (turned WWE) and later sharing the same stage with Hulk Hogan as he tore his shirt off.

The show broke from there and came back with another number by Barbee and then Buddy kicked off the slam with Gandhi’s Autobiography. The three audience judges voted. And then they called me up to the stage and I performed Epilogue.

Five other poets went after me, and unfortunately I do not have much of their information. The poet that won the slam, Rich Ferguson, got a much deserved can of champagne that came with it’s own straw! His poem had a lot of sick lines in it, none of which I can remember at the moment.

I was too high on life to even care about winning the slam.

When I stood at the mic, I looked up and saw Buddy sitting in the back of the room, and I knew that the first line of my poem was on the tip of my tongue, people still ask me about you as if you were a standard operating procedure, and it came naturally, the entire poem did, but there was so much I wanted to say before I began. Like, thank you Derrick, thanks for this night, thanks for the show, thanks for sharing all of this.

Or something like, Buddy, you are my Hulk Hogan.

What I really wanted to say was I grew up watching the WWF and that Buddy was in fact much more like Hulk Hogan to me than the Hulk himself, and I wanted to instruct the audience to visualize a cage match, to visualize at the start of my poem, the Ultimate Warrior standing atop the cage like he did during a Summer Slam event in the mid-nineties, and that at the delivery of my first line the Ultimate Warrior jumps and begins a slow motion free-fall, and that at the moment my poem ends, at the exact second I deliver the last word of the last line, that the Ultimate Warrior completes his freef-all and body slams me.

But I did not say any of that. I just took a deep breath, accepted the moment and performed Epilogue to the best of my ability. Sure, it probably could have been better, but it was perfect in the moment. For me it was such a giant moon-walk of a step. It was a leap. And by the end of the night it became more of an affirmation.

Many people congratulated me. Thanked me. Told me they appreciated the poem. And even Derrick and Buddy had some kind words. In the end I don’t think even I fully comprehend the grand scheme of what last night meant to me. What I do know is that it was a much needed moment and I can not believe I finally performed spoken word and that I had the balls do it in front of two masters of the craft.

On the off-given chance that either Derrick or Buddy reads this, thank you. For everything.

lightbulb mouth: http://lightbulbmouth.com
derrick brown: http://brownpoetry.com
buddy wakefield: http://buddywakefield.com
write bloody: http://writebloody.com

pedestrian

according to the timer that hangs overhead i have twenty-some-odd seconds,
i have a crosswalk stretched out before me,
and what happens between these two sides of the same road,
in the amount of time allotted, is nothing short of miraculous,
according to wikipedia the average speed at which a human walks is about three miles per hour,
according to science it takes jupiter roughly eleven-point-eight earth years to orbit the sun,
thus, according to my own calculations — i have all the time in the world,

stills (visual aid)