and today is another wild day as i am at a meet & greet breakfast of bronx legislators… at 8:30 in the ay to the em… more later… set the way back machine 24 hours earlier to Acentos…

Tuesday was a good work day, mucho productive and me feeling very comfortable in my skin allowing me to leave in plenty of time to get to the Blue Ox Bar.

Where nothing else has deterred us, the weather may be our biggest foe. The nicer it gets, the thinner the crowd at the Ox. It wasn’t bad and nothing to call the troops over but it was a little less then what we have been used to lately. The upside- An easier to manage Open Mic list where the spotlight can be spread around better and a chance to plug some other events. We had a world premiere debut, never read a piece, ever. Eliel christened her a Senorita and damn, that may stick! What we will call the fellas is another matter entirely…

I was able to clear through everything to set up a nice size break in between and give the ladies some room and hit em with the surprise of the night- Lenny reading a poem to intro em. I don’t know why everybody was so shocked, the way Lenny ran to me as soon as I got there set my poet.sense (like spider sense but not as cool) all abuzz and as she says, “I need a favor.” I’m saying, “What ya reading?” The surprise did stick and she did a great job of starting off the features.

I’ve never tries to make a request to a feature. I’ve had a few ask what they should read and I tell em, Whatever is moving you… As a fan, I have asked for personal faves from poets but as a curator I would rather see what happens naturally or what the crowd asks for. Meaning I had no idea what the ladies would do. I told em how much time they had on stage together and that’s about it. Seeing them kick it with a group piece was dope especially when you consider that the group piece was well done and had good flow rather than just the cut-and-paste jobs I see way too often disguising themselves as collabos.

Nina is THE lead off hitter of the group. She commands attention and her more emotionally driven pieces really nail you to your seat. The story within the feature was a great touch and I was really thrilled with her new (Thanks, Rachel Hyman) piece that combined many of her facets into a full blown gem.

Jess has come a long way and not in her writing which has always been mature but in her voice which just needed as much practice as her writing hand was getting. Every time she gets just a lil better, though this time around she was a LOT better which is kinda scary, in a Shiva kinda way. Dat gir, good!

Maria also put a lot of thought into this her first set. The epics were well edited and her sincerity never crossed into the saccharine territory. She did get all mushy with Rich but what ya expect? The night wouldn’t be right without it.

And then the group close which led to my only regret of the night which is that I shoulda asked Jess to just close out the mic, she knows what to do and how to push the next show but by the time I thought of it- too late! But ya know already, flaws are the measure of perfect. And this night was among the best.

I was thinking that it may have to do with the fact that Acentos is still pretty young so all the benchmark performance from Mahina, Louis Reyes, Fish, Alixa & Naima, Guy, Ed, Cheryl, Jorge, Ray, et al… are fresh in the dome and when you come up on the mic, you better have you’re a game cuz we are keeping score.

I have seen bad features in a lot of spots. Folks with mad rep fall seriously flat. Hey, shit happens. Ya know?

Chuck Knoblauch was the man at 2nd until he got divorced from his wife and he was never the same after, things happen away from the spotlight that carry over. And everybody is entitled to an off night. Some folks see a few shows at the Nuyo and think its always fantastic and never hear about folks getting lost and arriving an hour late or some just not showing up at all! And, I’ve seen my share of 13 features that wasn’t all that but so far we got a real good record in the Bx. We just got to make sure not to forget.

yes, last night’s Acentos was definitively off the hook but my body is doing the slow recovery and it still stuck on monday…

chinatown bus up to NYC… get off… still tired and now i am soaked… take a bus ride to the spaceship casita in lieu of returning to the bx and never waking up again (thanks, ray)… shit, shower and shave… catch a nap… head to PS 116 with rich and lovella… no parking… park illegally with nothing more than a “Hi! My name is…” visitors pass to give us props… badges, we dont need no stinking badges… meet the kids.. rich does a mini set, then does a workshop q&a with the kids…

(side note- if you are really nervous about a feature or a slam or some other poetry type event- go teach a workshop first especially to kids. it will get your mind off the ego and let you know this poetry thing is a lil bit bigger than we may think it is. definitely, bigger than us. just sayin’)

…kids, love rich… rich, loves kids… more poems… i am quite impressed as to how accessible rich’s work is… the kids are all into him… “5 minutes in Spanish Harlem” probably taught more about the hood than any social studies class… i go up… have a lil assignment for the youngins… start out doing “Capicu”… nail it again… from memory, no less… intro myself, tell em… poetry has been very, very good to me… not in the Spic voice, sillies… tell em that poetry can let em be who they want to be… poetry can make you immortal… poetry can let em know you were here, forever (copyright, willie p)…

run through the exercise… list your three favorite colors… describe one of the colors, what does it mean to you?… read, “What the Gypsy said to her children” by Judith Ortiz Cofer… they explode the poem… break it up… search for similies and metaphor… underline what they like, key phrases and such… review the poem… “the purple lament of our song”… the kids explain to me what they think that means… i get quite the lesson… lovella does a free write based on the assignment… reads it to the kids… they love lovella… three periods, over… bell rings… kids is free… we get asked to critique the drama class… cool… me and rich help out to more of the kids… the school tells us “you did good, dems the bad kids”.. how come they always tell me this after the fact… time to eat!

raina, lovella, rich and I hit spoonbread for some lunch… catfish… mac & cheese… cabbage… hot turkey… candied yams.. rice & peas… it’s all good

back to the bx… time to teach… good class with the enlace kids… need to put their poems together for an anthology…. one of the kids getting better and better

off to 13… miss the feature and the open mic… hence, no cheese sandwich for o.b…. back to score keeping… i am faster than a slide rule on viagra… RAC kicks it off… she heckles her own scores!…. then the real shit starts… rocky theme music- on!

jai starts it off… oppenhiemer poem… he shoulda started with the Pi poem… oh, well… 25.4… sheet, the judges are starting low… rog with song for trent lott… after nats, i dont know if he can perform it any better or any different… 27.6… nice… rich with noche buena… can he ride the lightning?… nope- 26.5… mahoganey, with her “hey girl” poem… 27.0… she knows what shes doing up there… cirelli, drops to a 26.5… judges are being tight but its only the first round

rog- how the ghetto… 27.3… real tight… mahoganey “nigerian memories”… 26.4… damn, the judges are sticking to their guns… cirelli “every day in new york schools”… 27.3… that sounds about right… rich- letter from a refugee… he nails it even with paper in hand… 26.6…he needs more points… jai- praise to junga, the river… 27.0… jai is rising up

at this point- rog (54.9), cirelli (53.8) mahoganey (53.4) rich (53.1) jai (52.4)… its looking like a dog fight between rich and mahoganey and jai is out of it

rog- south africa poem… off page!… 27.3… judges still consistent… cirelli- old school flavor… he should break it open here… 27.5… guess not… mahoganey- love me like yo 1st… 26.2… she is trailing off… her performance are still strong but the judges aint havin it… rich- cancion para el griot… i love this poem… this can get rich in front… 26.5… shit!.. its enough to tie mahoganey… jai- the Pi poem…

and then this is where it all goes out the window and why you always gotta show up to win. jai works with numbers for a living and we had a fun time looking over the arc of the scores for the first semi final. i asked him if he was taking into account what happens with score creep and the law of diminishing returns. he nodded in that nod that says he could probably explain all this shit in five ways to me if he had the chance. at the last acentos, he also hit the open mic and i asked him “practicing?” he said, “yep” cool! its great to see the “olympics of performance poetry” being treated as such. out of everybody at 13, jai seems like one of the least likely candidates for slam which of course, makes him PERFECT for slam. he has been working on his performance all season long and kept knocking at it bit by bit. improving here and there with only the clock being his biggest foe and thus far in this slam everybody has been tight (mahoganey stopped at 3:0 even for one piece and cirelli cut it close with a 3:08 but otherwise its been cool). i always liked the Pi poem since i am a math freak and love how jai mixes it all together to turn the oldest complex number into a bedroom war chant. and then he went and lost his fool mind letting the whole world know that he wrote that in a mind space that not a lot of people know about. where he turns into “smooth jai” (inside joke) and can make fun at others and himself with the best of them. he turned the slam into his own big inside joke and what happens…

28.0… high score so far… and totally blows the doors off the place…

here ya go… last round coming up… rog (82.2) cirelli (81.3) jai (80.4) rich (79.6) mahoganey (79.6)… and, for real, anything can happen now…

sorbet poet time… i go up.. bust out “America: My First Love Poem” ver 2.0… half the place is still buzzing about jai’s performance… then some are talking to the slammers… or talking about the slam… the slammers are gearing up for the last round… i was surprised i was able to get as much attention as i did… half me friends said they didnt here it… thats OK… i was able to capture the crowd that was looking at the stage… ray says you know you got it when you leave them thinking you still have more to say… nice… i like how it felt up there… must work more on this baby… time to finish the slam…

rog- blue sex prodigy… hmm, interesting choice… last round poems cant be used in finals… so i guess thats a good sacrifice… 27.3… wow, talk about consistent… cirelli- talking about stars like joan rivers… 26.7… he had a chance to take the lead but these judges took the job serious tonight… jai- great uncle… damn, this is one of my favorites… cant take no chances, though… 27.2… rich- poem not for valentines day… make no mistake… i’ve pulling for rich the whole night… this poem has what it takes to get him in… “an 8.8, an 8.9…” nope, i know enough to know that he needed at least nines across the board… mahoganey- contradictions… she is a vet and has what it takes to get 30s… except from these judges… 26.7… they had an idea of the perfect poem in mind… and nobody had it tonight… jai pulls one 10 for the night and thats about it

when the dust settles- rich (106.6) mahoganey (106.9) and going to finals rog (109.5) cirelli (108.0) and jai!!! (107.6)

it was still mad tight and anything coulda happened at the end but the night (though rog and cirelli were on point throughout) belonged to jai. he may not have won but he took his poems to a new level and all of us with him. and thats why, i still love the slam cuz just like baseball you can strike out 7 out of ten and you can get singles 80% of the time but when you see the raging fastball meet the perfect swing and the ball pops off the bat and i know, the batter knows, the pitcher knows, and the whole damn stadium knows that that ball aint comin back. its gone and it dont belong to nobody no more.

eat at res… bullshit with scot… have some fun.. eat a burger.. get home.. crawl to bed.. damn, im done

reporting live from the nation’s capital!

the ‘few hours before feature’ check in has become sumthin of a tradition on this blog, so here goes

the chinatown bus was a breeze and got me here in four hours. i had nobody next to me on the ride which was damn fine. i have bouts of people-claustrophobia and i dont want dat sheet to be hittin me on a long ass trip.

once down here, i found my way to Teaism- the restaurant which houses the DC Slam that i will be featuring for tonight. the place is hella cool and there cilantro eggs with ginger limeade was off da hizzy. ’nuff said!

at the advise of nina, i hit the smithsonian but first had to travel through the woman’s day march. again, people-claustrophobia is not good when its one bald ecuadorian vs a million ladies but i survived.

i gotta hit more museums! between the african art museum, a display on chinese/japanese calligraphy in religion (which mixed in quite the number of cool haikus *REAL ONES AND NOT THE HALF ASS, LET ME RAISE MY HAND TO COUNT THE SYLLABLES CUZ ANY POEM I DO THAT HAS 17 SYLLABLES IS A HAIKU REGARDLESS OF THE ORIGIN OF THE FORM (this rant brought to you by UPHA)* and short poems, the evolution of chinese script and its leap into the cyber age and indian textiles was enough t leave me quite happy. part of the african art display emphasized the importance of certain objects like the staff and how they were crafted and conceived with the express purpose of powerful religious ceremonies in many cases which was a concept that was sticking to my mind for a minute and then went Splat! when i hit the museum shop and found (what else?) replica staffs to hang around your house so you could be cool. ah, capitalism and the arts…

the space museum kinda sucked for this tech.head as most of the cutting edge technology being displayed and talked about was severely dated but the wright brothers exhibition was no joke and, por su puesto, thats when they kicked us all out.

i wasnt as nervous as i thought i would be on the way down as i have enough poems to cover the 20 minute set easily and came up with “America: A Love Poem in Three Acts” on the way down (you hear that, rich! i got the New Shit!) the added bonus of being an unknown quantity (i.e. they aint heard mah shit befo’) also eased the nerves. i got me a new journal from the museum and may be able to pump out sumthin’ else before the night is dun. in 20/20 retro, i wish that i had organized some more folks to come down and enjoy what has turned out to be a great day to be around the planet but me hears rumors of a return to the capital somewhere down the line…

ok, ima go now and see whats poppin. there will be an open mic before me and then a semi-final slam will follow so my ears will mos def be on.

love y’all like i marched with 999,999 other folks in your name…

I dream like mad dog and retain a lot of what I dream about. Part of my insomnia may be, in part, due to the fact that I no longer wish to dream. It started a few years after the nasty break up. Home girl would start to visit me in my sleep and we would have these great “dream dates” where we did nothing but go to a museum or get the popcorn ready before putting on a DVD or take a nice walk after a great meal. Ya know- the simple stuff that, for me, makes it all worth it. As opposed to the dreams of intricate roughhouse sex or me beating on some fool that talked to her wrong or grabbing her hand to fly her to the top of some mountain.

Nah, this was strictly pedestrian and that’s what started pissing me off about it. I wouldn’t figure out that it was a dream till the very end. Once, she took me to this park north of White Plains, a beautiful field at the base of a dam, to go roller blading. The day is warm, there are kids all around us having a ball and she is laughing her ass off at the prospect that we may bust our asses. I, on the other hand, am SURE that I will bust my ass since I suck at roller blading but, lo and behold, here I am able to break at will and then catch up to her. Signaling to me that this was a dream. After a few laps around the park, we sit under some shade and I ask, “You aren’t going to be around when I wake up, are you?” She smiled and pulled out some fruit to get my mind off the task, which was another dream “no-no” since the taste was a little too real and I could feel my mouth moving in the waking world. I asked again and she still wouldn’t say anything but kept smiling this siren’s smile. After a sigh of false resignation, I let myself feel the grass to the side and the warm breeze that was around me, asked what we were going to do when we got home and if she had any work tomorrow (maybe she could play hookie) as she started to answer, I interrupted and gave her this fucked up stare that I put on when I think I’ve busted someone in a lie. She didn’t smile back and let me know that she would not be around in a little bit and then she got somewhat pissed as the edges of the park got hazy and things started to fade to bright white. She lasted throughout but she was not happy with me, not at all.

Neil Gaiman, in his “Sandman” series, maintains that we do not retreat to our subconscious when we dream but rather travel, through mental projection, to an ethereal realm where our subconscious desires/fears are made tangible. The energy that we use to dream fuels this place and symbiotically allows us an outlet for the things that we can not or dare not experience in the material world. Kinda like the Matrix but it’s a war that neither side can or tries to win with “The Sandman” being the sovereign lord and a key universal figure who rules in a place that even gods must relinquish their power to enter.

Me, I’m kinda thinking that we do go somewhere or at least, I go somewhere when I dream and with the dream above I feel as if I visited somebody. Wishful thinking says that she traveled there willing too but I think I only encountered a small piece of her that may not even exist anymore but that does still exist in me. A part of her that was being seriously repressed at the time since I was at that stage where no one was allowed to mention her name.

After that dream, I was on the lookout for her and she appeared maybe a week or two later. We were going out to eat and she was chastising me for being a slow poke as she was slipping into a black mini skirt. I was ironing a shirt being semi-distracted by the way this dress had not had that same curve just a minute ago and then got a slight burn from the iron. That was the ticket to let me know that this was not her apartment and there would be no dinner later. Without saying anything to her, I willed myself out of the dream and woke up in my bed short of breath. I needed a strong dose of reality and walked to the fridge for a blast of air and a hearty swig of orange juice. The tart in my mouth lasted for a nice second as I sauntered to the couch and turned on ESPN (the only thing that I thought would be interesting at 2:11 am) and started to recount how the Knicks lost, again. I slipped back into dream and it seemed that dinner was pretty good but that the waiter was just a little too snotty for her. I told her that she always thought that when she didn’t get her way. This earned me a light punch to the arm but I told her to chill anyways since I didn’t like that shit while I was driving. She bit her lip and punched me harder but then grabbed onto me saying ‘sorry’ faster then it would take for me to be really mad at her. The time on the dashboard clock said 2:11 which made it kinda weird that there would be this much traffic this late at night and that was the new cue to come back to the waking world.

She wasn’t having it and persisted over the next few weeks but every time she showed up I would be ready and snapping out of my dreams was getting to be a skill. The next time we met was at a mall looking for some paintings for my apartment. There was no rush to this window shopping and she never hurried me a bit but after some talking and some laughs she was relaxed enough to grab on to my arm and I was curious as to why this stranger didn’t feel like a stranger. Her hair color shifted from light blonde to straight brunette and her unclear features starting forming in place and I realized that it was her. I retreated and she let out a little bit of a smirk as she figured a way to get past my defenses.

“You can’t really get mad at yourself for what you dream,” is what Eric would tell me and I would insist that I can. He bought me a dream catcher and it worked for a while or maybe my defenses got that good, I don’t know.

This all sounds way too silly to be true and probably borders on some kind of psychosis but it is what is. I have seen a lot in dreams. Been fed poetry lines and tasted wonderful strawberries, once almost lost my heartbeat in a dream (an entry for another day) and was able to say “Goodbye” to my moms as she drove me around Ecuador in a jeep that had a slight crack in the window of the rear driver side glass. I have lost friends in dreams, as in felt their deaths and have grieved for them. I do not see violence or violent death (as I am not that experienced with either) but have experienced some crazy sex (as I am somewhat experienced in that).

I just woke up from a dream where I was actually slamming in some kind of outdoor setting. I did pretty well too as it was between me and some other dude at the end. For my last piece, I had somewhat of a breakdown in the middle and got real visceral in my delivery but recovered enough to end the poem in a manner that mirrored the content (I am going to hold on to what I was reading with me, for now) and got some scores that seemed to be lower than what I was getting that afternoon. We flash forward to me sharing some laughs with a well wisher when my “opponent” comes up to me with entourage in hand. Homeboy was mad cool and generous in victory as he and his crew congratulated me on a good slam. All smiles and palms as we joked for a bit and he lets me on a little secret, “Man, I thought I was toast for the last round but then you pulled out some real different shit up there… But I gotta know… how come you didn’t do the Salsa poem… That woulda nailed it for you… you know, you always have to make your language come alive in rhythm” He walks away and I wonder why I didn’t fall on ol’ reliable but knew that it wasn’t an option. The place I was at was a place where it was more important to get raw on stage and do what took me to new places inside rather than worry about a slam win. It feels like I went somewhere forward in time, which can also happen in the ethereal and that it’s a place I hope I get to soon.

Her name is Jeanette, by the way. I can say her name no problem and she visited me a couple of months back but things were way different. We’ve never talked in the dreams only shared in the serenity of moments. Last time around, we stared at each other like chess warriors waiting to see who would make the next move and no one blinked. The last time I saw her in the real world was the month that I started going to Bar 13 and my new life started. We didn’t speak much but there was enough tension in the room to insure that we wouldn’t get very close, not close enough to talk, to see how life was, to ask why choices were made, to see if there were any regrets, or even just to enjoy the simplicity of a child’s birthday party.

apologies in advance to ray, rog and rojas…




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