actually, i dont know sheet

lynne asks:
today’s topic, is dual part. (1) here’s a poet* whose work i’m not so familiar with and who is now for being somewhat inaccessible. He’s purposefully so because he believes (as i do) that there’s little point in communicating something that the reader already knows. that’s not communicating really, it’s scoring points for having access to the same experience or language or the same street. now unlike Ashberry i’m not really hung up on being obscure but i do think that we should be trying to communicate, really communicate. i think that this is our job as poets, (as Jai and I were discussing at the intensive this afternoon), to pull a strand out of the obvious discussion and explore it intellectually and emotionally or philosophically. say for instance you write the poem about the break up but instead of writing a poem about how the ex is an asshound (i mean, c’mon! whose ex isn’t?) do you take a risk and write about why you’re lingering in the place where the relationship stopped? do you explore that distance, what lives in that place? do you look at the nature of the continuum? what’s at the other end? ok, that part might be blather but what i’m curious about is whether or not you think you do that with your poems. honestly. do you take the poem as an opportunity to say something that isn’t obvious, that hasn’t been said, are you writing the 600th middle passage poem and did those who went overboard into the undertow know that down below there would be no more chains? if they did? are you telling us something that we didn’t know about that or did Saul really have the last word? i think this is part (2).

i think that this concept of “being original” stunted my growth early on as a writer.

i set everybody on such a high bar and thought the only way i could distingiush myself from the other voices on the open mic was to come out with the most “profound shit” possible. any time that an idea came into my head, i would analyze it to the most minute detail for fear that i was borrowing from someone or saying something that someone else already said (whether i heard it at the 13 open mic, read it in some anthology or THINK that it was associated with any previous writing)

even as my voice was starting to take shape and some individual elements began to emerge, i was stifled with my percieved obligation to continually add to the canon. this continued for months until i had a sit down wioth omar & ed and the laid it down for me
“you are too busy trying to sound like what you think you should sound like versus just being yourself. stop trying to prove that you are a ‘writer’ and just be a writer”

that sitdown gave me more liberties to be as individual as possible in my writing and let me touch some often broached topics (specifically, my current fascination with the “sorta rican vs nuyorican” topic) with out fear tht i was doing myself a disservice.

bottom line- a car is a car. it has four wheels, it accelerates, it brakes, it gets you from place to place but if nobody ever bothered to refine that concept and try to add their own distinct signature, we would still be driving around in a Model T and never know what a Louts Espirit looked or felt like (not like I know what it looks or feels like but im just sayin)

i dont know if i am saying something never said before, i am going to frankly assume not. i think my life is pretty boring and not so spectacular. so it wouldnt surprise me if someone told me that they heard that same exact poem before. it would wound me, but not surprise me. but know that i mention it, i do get a lot of folks that tell me “i want there but i’ve been to where you’ve been” maybe repeating the stories is then a good thing, if it helps people get through this life knowing that they have some company in their misery. i dont know.

let’s get a lil specific and call it a day-
> philosophically. say for instance you write the poem about the break up but instead of writing a poem about how the ex is an asshound (i mean, c’mon! whose ex isn’t?)
… anybody that has broken your heart should be pounded into the earth and then have an archeology poem written about it

do you take a risk and write about why you’re lingering in the place where the relationship stopped?
… i think i am in the process of doing that now in prose form

do you explore that distance, what lives in that place?
… the moment. that one shiny space where the plate slips out your
hand and you say
“ohshitmymomisgonnakickmyassthatishermostfavoriteplateandimgonnabetheassmunchthatletsitbreak”
and the plate is still in mid air. when you can grab a situation and be able to explore it in all its elements (time, spatial, spiritual, etc) with both the inside and outside viewpoint, you’ve made some poetry

do you look at the nature of the continuum?
… all the time. even chaos is not random.

what’s at the other end?
… nothing concrete. only perception. its our job as writers to shape that perception

ok, that part might be blather but what i’m curious about is whether or not you
think you do that with your poems.

… i have on a few occasions more often than not i fail very badly but i figures its like baseball- if i can hit 3 out of ten, im an all star

honestly. do you take the poem as an opportunity to say something that isn’t obvious, that hasn’t been said, are you writing the 600th middle passage poem and did those who went overboard into the undertow know that down below there would be no more chains?
… see opening statement. i still think i am “unremarkable”

if they did? are you telling us something that we didn’t know about that or did Saul really have the last word?
… i think what i am trying to say is the no one will ever have the last word. we are just syllables in a much larger conversation

* an article on John Ashberry was also sent with this. ya can read it here

how you got here

here is the latest list of words or phrases used by random mofos to reach (cue walter mercado- voice) las casa de geminis (channel 47- off!)

“peruvian shrimp soup”
:: you can pick this up at Flor de Mayo over at 84th @ Amsterdam on Fridays for mad cheap!

gemini engaged this february
:: maybe someone knows something that i dont know about

oscar appropriate
:: hardly ever

pete sampras herpes
:: what?!?! the fact that someone actually typed this leaves me STUPEFIED

(you got dissed )poem
:: sorry, you wont find that here… no siree… the after poem diss talk, yes

meaning and sade’s pearls
:: i dont search for the meaning of that one… just let the tune be the tune

something to do for kids
:: “hey kids! this weekend we are going to go to three workshops and hang out in the city till 3 in the morning so that when ya get home, your lil sleep deprived selves can write till your eye balls explode! doesnt that sound like fun?”

speech of hillary swank – 77th oscar
:: the funny part is that somebody ran this search about a half hour before the show started… PROPHET!

www.funny place.rog
:: that should be the URL for any spot that you hang with el panama

poems o saying goodbye
:: is somebody tryin to tell me sumthin?

“neil gaiman” farted
LOL

more from “the big heartbreak” aka “The Last Windmill in the Bronx”

The only thing that sucks about hitting a hot streak when you are dating is that you’ve hit a hot streak. It’s like hitting that fat downhill ride on a bicycle, you know it aint gonna last forever but you stop pedaling,, stand on the seat a bit, and let the air hit ya all up in your face and all the while you’re thinking that with a good enough wind to your back, you could ride like this all day.

That’s exactly what it was like the week we hooked up. Not only was I with the hottest woman in the Bx (That is if you like them Latina, about 5’ even, soft brown eyes, curly auburn medium length hair that when straightened out just about hits the curve of their lower spine, toned upper body and the patented Porto-Rock bubble ass) but I also had offers coming in from all points of the city. Of course, like a suckah, I eventually turned them all down.

First to get shot down was the Italian girl that was working at the daycare center my niece was going to. I was dropping her off their every day for two years and didn’t think for a minute that she was into me. Then on a fluke I ask her out and she instantly accepts. It didn’t hurt that I just scored tickets for a Broadway opening and that we we’re going to meet up with some friends for a nice dinner in the city first. Here I am all looking like I am about to interview for some six figure position in Wall Street and she is looking just as nice and all I’m thinking about as she steps in to my car is that this date is a bad idea. If I had known that my weekend hangout was going to end with me making out with Señorita Right, I would have just gave Miss Thing here both the tickets and asked her to write me a review about it. This would have earned me a swift kick in the ass from my sister who, unbeknownst to me, was talking me up for a while at the day care and helped make this date a reality.

The play turned out to be a bust which would close within two months of its opening and this date was over even before it began. I was a gentleman throughout trying desperately to keep a conversation going but in the end I dropped her off home as soon as I could, gave her a peck on the cheek and ran back to Señorita’s house and crashed on her sofa after talking till nearly 3 in the morning on a work night.

This isn’t the part where I kick myself in the ass for flushing down the toilet a date that my best friend (who got the tickets for the Broadway show) and my sister (who promised she would never ever help me get a date again) worked weeks to put together solely because they knew I had the serious hots for this girl for months. Nah, that part I can actually live with just fine.
The part where I still randomly punch the mirror, even seven years after the fact, is when I recall how I gave up a chance to be the boy toy for the finest stripper this side of Scores.

Sasha was just one of those women that made other strippers say, “I wish my body could do that!” Guys would throw their whole rent money at her and she would smile, give them a peck on the cheek, give the poor sap cab fare to get home and then move on the sucker. Worse yet, no one cared. Her only allegiance was to her check book and every guy that walked in the door thought he had a chance to take her home. Everybody but me and the door man. My boys would ask me for years what the secret was to getting strippers to go home with you and I always told them the one rule, “Treat a stripper just like you would any other girl.” What I never told them was the second rule of stripper dating, “Make friends with the head bouncer.” The rest of the bar called him Greg but I used to call him Malone since he had an uncanny resemblance to Karl “the Mailman” Malone of the Jazz. Malone was a perfect gentleman in his double breasted suits and glasses. He looked like a super sized version of all the other lawyers and stockbrokers in this Wall Street strip club instead he was the law and order in the place. I don’t know why Malone liked me so much but I think it has to do with the fact that I never got drunk in the bar, didn’t throw myself all over the girls and never spoke to him like if he worked for me. In return, Malone gave me the dirt on all the girls. Who really had a boyfriend, who really had a girlfriend, who enjoyed dating, who hated everyone on the planet. In regard to Sasha, Malone warned me that she was all business all the time and she was an expensive habit that I shouldn’t pick up. He also told her I was a cool person to accept a ride home from, probably the highest praise possible at 4am. Sasha laid all the cards on the table from the jump. “Here is my personal beeper number. Share it with anyone else and you won’t ever get any ass again.” This all happened the weekend before the big kiss and once that went down, Sasha’s number got lost in the washing machine.

And I couldn’t be any happier about it all. The time seemed right to give up perfect blind dates and strippers that were paying for dinner. I was having the time of my life hanging with somebody that I didn’t have to invent conversation around, finally with the woman who I could share my silences with.

Looking back at that first week of hanging out, I think maybe we said a dozen words to each other every night before we would just start to kiss and get comfortable, fall back on the sofa and just lay there. Waking up in the morning with my arm numb from the way she had slept on it all wrong but me figuring that my arm was going to have to deal with it on its own. It was like a vacation every night but we also knew that vacation time was going to be over real soon. Her daughter was going to come back from spending the week at her ex-husbands in the next two days.

the truth in poetry

todays topic: must there be truth?

i think that truth is higly over prized. there can only be a kernel of truth in the average telling of a story so why oh why are people determined to hold the poet in particular to telling the truth, the whole truth… you get my drift? i used to know a poet who would fall in love with tragedy in poems then be horrified and heartbroken to the point of moral outrage when she found out that the “thing” hadn’t happend to the poet at all. how dare they write that in the first person? she would demand. i also know lots of writers who will sacrifice the possiblity of a decent poem so that they can tell the whole story of the break up just as it happened, to the detail.
Clearly this bothers me. I’m a bit of an extremist. in poetry, i don’t so much care that some girl broke your heart or that a car hit your friend when he was crossing the street as i do about how you tell me. stuff happens and it happens to everyone all day long. what makes it interesting, what makes it art, what makes it a poem is how you position the words around it, how you break the vowels about the body of the subject. so ok, tell me are you down for truth in reporting, advertising and poems?
*

… thats a pretty easy one for me. all my poems that people seem to “connect” with have some outright falsehood in them. it never really starts that way. its just a natural fork in the road while im writing. at one point my pen gets it groove on and all of a sudden im thinking this isnt how the events actually went down but what the fuck lets see if we can clean up later. usually, its actually more of how
i would have liked for the events to turn out that comes up on my page.

it doesnt seem to matter much since i am usually lying in an effort to highlight some greater truth in the story any hows. which is to say, i dont lie on the page to fuck with people, i do it just to get to the point in the fastest way possible.
(though i do “fuck” with the reader in one of my newer prose pieces but i let the reader know that i am “fuckin” with them by the second paragraph and proceed to get ‘relatively’ truthful from there)

the fact that my best work is consistent with these shortcuts says that i dont plan on changing my habits any time soon the “truth”, btw, is a lousy shield for a piss poor poem. i really dont care if it actually went down that way, if all you are givin me is a detailed monologue of the events at hand. as such, i dont always
vibe with poets who cry onstage while revealing some painful truth (for the 98th time) and i dont always feel humbled just cuz someone shared a dark secret (i actually bought a Spice Girl album, should you applaud for me too?)

if the “truth” on paper was all a good poem needed, then the Guinness Book of World Records would be the world’s greatest anthology, n’est pas?

i do want truth in my reporting (Fox News can go to hell)
i do want truth for my documentaries (Micheal Moore has a ton of nerve calling Fahrenheit 911 a documentary)
i am not expecting any kind of truth in advertising (it’s all about the bottom line/i know that & so does the advertiser)
and fo sure, i am not expecting “truth” in poetry just honesty

reporting live from the heated sauna of my 25 room mansion,
o.b.

[EDIT]
* much thanks to lynne for letting me put up her comments in their entirety. i will be adding some stuff to the previous posts so watch for that it y’all are curious and sheet.

the inspiration behind poems

today, i’m wondering about inspiration.

i take poems from everywhere, conversation, films, random info from CSI, the color and art history stuff that i learn at work. anyhoo. i think my newest poems are coming from literature that i’m trying to study with a little more care. as i explained Monday, i’ve been ‘reading’ Without Sanctuary and Seems Like Murder Here for the last 18 months or so. i started out wanting to understand more about the culture and history of lynching and the links inherent in blues music. the poems haven’t necessarily been stellar but i did particularly wanted to work on Blues Obligatto and i was hoping to come to some understanding of what it’s like to be born, to live and to grow up in a culture that can for all intents and purposes gift the world with a phenomenon like lynching.

well i’ve learned too much now and i’ve only just begun to write the poems that i really want to write on that subject. but the inspiration thing also comes from two other sources. Marty’s work with Lizzie B’s index finger, the notion of absolutely writing the poem from some very specific perspective and Mara’s Carolina poem with
it’s insidious ambience which crystallized my feelings about my experience of some parts of the south, both gave me a sense of how and why i wanted to write Lace & Knife as well as what i hope will be the next small series of poems. This idea of lynchings belonging to the mob, the tree, the rope, the whip, night flowering jessamine, the small smiling boy in the corner of a photo of a hanging man, Cattle
Kate’s longhorns and of course eventually, when I can wrap my head around it, the victim is really engaging to me. Trying to make something comprehesible of the relationships that exist between all the factors makes me want to write poems.

so ok, don’t all jump in now but i’d like to hear from the rest of you on what is inspiring or has inspired your current poems.

Lynne

it wasnt that long a go that just going to an open mic was enough inspiration to lay down a new poem and have it breathe on the open mic.

it may go back to something corie feiner said about writers block recently “one of my teachers told me, ‘you have to be less critical, dear'” and that rings way true.

as of late, most of my inspiration from having to be on the mic. features are a wonderful chance to arrange my poems in a way that shows me i am not really writing individual poems but actually trying to capture moments of a bigger experience.

and then there is “the new hotness” the acentos term for your new work that may not always be a perfect portrait and, in fact, just be scribblings on a napkin but its not the point as to how polished the work is but the celebration that there is new work to polish. every attempt at a poem leads to come kind of understanding as to what makes us tick as writers. i love hearing poems that were just jotted down on the train ride up cuz i can say i was there when the new hotness was born (i can still remember lynne arriving straight from the airport with bags still in tow jumpin on the mic and layin down the first (public) version of “Ode to Rita Marley”) as an organizer at acentos, i always try to make sure i have some new work to share on
the mic whenever i am not hosting (as a rule, i dont like to read on nights that i host) to keep the tradition going

another serious shot of inspiration comes from the camaraderie of team_acentos. i have been to an insane number of open mics with rich, jess & fish in the last two years as well as having the pleasure of co-featuring with them. its great to have them in the audience and be an anchor of sorts but every once in a while i say
“damn, they must be sick to death of me doing this poem all the time”
so somewhere in the back of my mind, i am coming up with new poems to keep it fresh and interesting for all of us.

as for the actual well spring of this inspiration, it usually comes from conversations just like this and usually with all of y’all yahoos ((the louderARTS Project)) (said in the most loving 3am disco fries & beer kinda way)