o do to my bland head of hairs with your paint hands
my head on tv buzzing and chirping at the soft light
the world's fastest christian in cotton shorts - for a
dollar he'll put you to sleep good with the seeds,
just a boy no more,
just a pace car (no race),
alas the commercial break for rage!
M pace the tv floor witha plan for stampede, with a
big hand M slams the box of infinite song and sadness,
this interruption too many, my tired ears/eyes
and cartoon hands!
that's why the ambush makeover
because I never really lived until now in pixels
the work was never real, just dreams
but the pyramid head has spoken (the chicken w/out bones
came from my true love) and my car made it there and back
w/ bbq sauce in a plastic cup : I made the body fatter thinking
of you, radio between stations, you on commerical break,
I'll meet you in five for my new face and stage name
So yeah, Friday's reading at the no name event. Interesting.
First, let me say that the two local groups Cinders and -h (pronounced 'bar h') are both really good. Cinders are a string trio who do classical and improve. Very structural, often minimal, but usually building to complicated crescendos. Mesmerizing. Moving. I could have listened to them all night. If you get a chance to see Cinders, do. -h is a more rudimentary slowcore pop band, reminescent of early REM. Pretty sounds, touchy feelie. I think this show marked a debut of sorts for them though I am not sure and what I was told I cannot remember. I will definitely look forward to hearing them again though. Sweet stuff.
So, this place Red's Scoot Inn. When Doug and I found the place we were amazed at the amount of cars/trucks/motorcycles parked around the joint. When we opened the door it was like stepping onto the set of some bordertown honkytonk movie. Belt buckles and wide brims in a thick mist of smoke. Beer bottles were clinking/smashing, tejano music blasting, some people danced, everyone in, squeezed wall to wall. I stumbled over some dude's boot and nearly knocked over a card game in progress. I thought I was going to get shivved. I was rethinking reading Kent Johnson's inflammatory 'Get the Hood Back On' poem which I had planned to finish my set with. (Because I wanted people to hear it in its sacasm and tone, do I need to even say that?)
Then I was motioned to a door. I ducked some flying darts and wiggled my way to the door and behold, outside, a pleasant garden patio, a small waterfall scultpure well lit, an awning and underneath it tables and chairs, and a large, raised stage from which the The Archivist spun soothing lounge tunes on a turn table. It was like a different place. On the patio everyone seemed so clean, so educated, so, um, white. And I was disappointed, I wanted to read to the blue collars and the vatos and the bikers and the cow pokes and to their women! They seemed more like my people anyway. I wanted to be there when the bar fight broke out, and surely, I thought, it would.
And funny, all night long, the people inside stayed inside. Outside was a cool breeze and fresh air. Inside an ocean of smoke and stink. But the regulars inside knew what they wanted and had come for it, like they do each Friday I am sure. Can't blame em for that, nope.
So yeah, I lubed up with Corona and lime while Cinders played. Then I was introduced and I read my set. All was fine. There were catcalls and whistling between some pieces. Nothing unusual. I read some fast things, some of the more metrically complicated poems, ones that zigged and zagged. Some laundry poems, some tv poems, some from the Fieldbook rewrites and some in between.
And then I pulled Kent's little dirty bomb from my back pocket. Of course this poem isn't a total shock and shouldn't be. But for some of these people it was. A car alarm behind me went off toward the end. My voice got louder. I stayed sweet at the beginning of each section then hammered home the "here's what I'm going to do to you" parts. Doug says I was half yelling. And then I was done.
Blank faces. A few claps. The happy crowd I was reading to now looked like someone pissed on their shoes. I was pleased.
After me, -h played and after that somebody started projecting old 16mm prints on a sheet hung on a fence.
It's a cool thing what these organizers did, putting together different kinds of artists for the sake of culture and having a good time. I joked at some point between poems that I would be escorted out of the place so people best not fuck with me. I was only half joking. In the end a few people approached me to say nice things. Most people just stayed away, which afterall was quite fine by me. And there were a few people, a couple of girls, that curled their drunken mouths in disgust. One simply couldn't find the words to put me down and just shook her head, looking at me like I'd kicked her pet bird. The other girl gave me some choice criticism and asked me what right I had to read such things which is a very easy question to answer and I did, though not to her satisfaction nor that of her boyfriend.
So, really, a success of sorts. Definitely a good time. Many thanks for those that invited me. I'm sure you'll think twice next time though, ha ha. But seriously, thanks.
get me stoned sunday night wanting something in the eye the town's out doing laundry so let's hunt some digits/designs we are taxed the time it takes to get our dope and get ourselves back home we mean waitress absolve our stony tempers mama where are ya stars in our throats we eat the heat while this hour lends no favor we can't find a dealer i'll have a heineken et tu a lowenbrau while my face has moved to my shoulder blades talk to me there hungry got no eyes the system failed us and we had cell phones marooning through the deadzones (familiar) in our trucks miles we mean no harm prefer a yearly canoe: supplies by the boatload more time devoted for fuck offs (lists of those like shoes i got a small hill i want to float children suspend them in the air) that's a taste from my stash so what are we talking about for five bucks i have something butting against my head it licks my nape we can put down the guitar and descend into dusty night from box to painted box wrap our treasure send it off (you dropped the Duncan in the lazy chair high fives i put on violins) holy shit boss teeth in my forehead someone let in tropical showers screaming out of her face the chorus babe hiss for thee let's get the camera rollin