I'm having poet-envy-

How do all these poets find the time and money to travel all over the place to do poetry readings?? Seriously, I'm puzzled. I get groceries and gas. I don't go on cruises and trips- I spent a week in June visiting a friend and was eating yogurt for two months (and that was too long- I didn't know, I thought a week was what a vacation was- my faux paux, cultural ignorance- it almost wrecked our friendship, I think, but there are other factors in play, like jobs and shit and my emotional state- I don't think he reads my blog so I can talk about it)

Maybe I don't have enough credit card debt, or maybe everyone else in the world makes more money than I do (that wouldn't be hard). I want to read that book I keep hearing about onNPR about teaching black families to acquire wealth- little girls (aka old women) from East Texas red-clay farmers could use a few lessons, too.

If there is a pool of poet money/plane tickets, stuff like that in a secret location would someone shoot out an email and clue me in?

My poverty is driving me crazy- so I'm quitting my day job. That's America for you.

In the meantime, Tony (the work study student I've mentioned before, is still fighting financial aid- no water, no electricity at her house and she's still trying to get her degree.

It should feel ashamed for complaining, but I help her when I can- and I plowed my own road once upon a time.

But where does the money come from???

afterburn

Wrung out, squint-eyed
she is completely given over
to the needs of others, she is
succor, drained one dollar bill
after another, shallow breath
slipping into plain brown,
she wants it quiet, no music.

If anger simmers, she is
frustrated fury, delusional,
convinced they talk about her
every move- when she's good...
but on an off night, she ends up
alone in her car at the bookstore
parking lot, eating onion rings.

The voices in her head whine, click
and tally the hours spent stamping fires,
the conspiracy to downplay damage,
she has shake the mulberry trees
to reckon memory, reach deep,
smell saltwater and the dinkum oil,
tell the story true as it can be told.


rewrite 2-26-2006

sorry to be so out of date-

the blog, too.

show tonight- it's fabulous!!!

A...My Name is Alice

...a musical being presented by the Henrico High School Drama Club starring 5 senior girls from the Center for the Arts Vocal Music Theater Department!

Feb 22 and 23rd at ComedySportz Improv Theater- 8pm $10- call 266-9377 for reservations (and please do, it will probably sell out both nights)

and Feb 25th at the High School starting at 6:00 pm with dinner beforehand- $20 in advance and $25 at the door- It's a fundraiser for the Center for the Arts-

I'm musical director and my daughter is one of the stars!!! Please come!

No, I'm not- it's just a poem...

edited version (old one below) 2-26

afterburn

Wrung out, squint-eyed
she is completely given over
to the needs of others, she is
succor, drained one dollar bill
after another, shallow breath
slipping into plain brown,
she wants it quiet, no music.

If anger simmers, she is
frustrated fury, delusional,
convinced they talk about her
every move- when she's good...
but on an off night, she ends up
alone in her car at the bookstore
parking lot, eating onion rings.

The voices in her head whine, click
and tally the hours spent stamping fires,
the conspiracy to downplay damage,
she has shake the mulberry trees
to reckon memory, reach deep,
smell saltwater and the dinkum oil,
tell the story true as it can be told.

---------------------------------------
Check your messages

Sometimes when I think about
dying, I'm pretty sure I'd like to
leave a message on your machine
instead of calling 911 because
I'd rather say a few pertinent things
for you to pass on than involve
a total stranger who's doing a job.

Or my kids, who would be frightened
then burdened with guilt wondering
why they couldn't have helped in time,
my husband who wouldn't want to hear
first-hand, unless he's had a beer or two,
or a lesser friend who'd think I was crazy,
hang up on me and feel bad later.

I like the gruff way your voice sounds,
the crisp 'leave a message' command,
the fact I know you'd listen twice, at least,
trying to decide if I was serious before you
called back, checking gingerly with whoever
answers the phone, making general small talk,
hoping you didn't have to ask outright.

Of course, I'd risk the chance you answer
yourself, making me decide on the spot
what I was compelled to reveal, my requests
or my condition? Am I really close to the end?
Or could I put the whole thing off until I'm sure
you're out, unavailable for a boost instead
of an implied blessing, permission to be off.

thought for today....

(courtesy of Lyle Lovett)

She said something about going home
She said something about needing to spend some time alone
And she wondered out loud what it was she had to find
But she's already made up her mind

Now there is nothing so deep as the ocean
And there is nothing so high as the sky
And there is nothing so unwavering as a woman
When she's already made up her mind

from Joshua Judges Ruth

and no, I'm not leaving my husband.

Happy Valentine's Day

Small minds

always think simple solutions
will cover major event plans:
which vendor really delivers,
about how many custom widgets
the local wood shop can whittle,
the perfect Hallmark card.

Beady little eyes can't see
around corners, an exotic view
is needed, a desire for more
than a plain cheese omelet,
egg drop soup, the next bold idea,
a better place for pantyhose.

I thought you were bona fide:
good genes, sharp sunglasses,
non-linear road maps, a fondness
for show tunes and chocolate,
a sense of flamingos, bow ties,
the gift of genuine perfidy.

Out of good plots, I devoured yours,
eager to be swept onto the Oriental,
dancing backwards anyway, I was
an easy sheep, ready for the spit
shiny lifestyle of the brainless,
eye candy devotees, the watchers.

Goes to show, in the end nobody
smiles anymore than they have to,
we all pick our noses in the car
and you turned inside out, after all
the changes I made for fickle fashion,
the new red is just as black as ever.

Watch out, Richmond! Your southern entrenched plantation owner/slave rebellion bullshit mentality will not blot out or put down the excitement of new (and not so new ventures)

People get so attached in this town, they do something once, sometimes even half-assed, but then, oh then- it becomes their property in perpetuity and God help the poor schlub who dares to make a step a little farther on the path-

There are two bugaboos right now- a place and a person- oddly enough, not connected (though actually they probably are somewhere back in time).

All will be decided soon, on both counts. And I will still be doing all that I do- writing, reading, and promoting poetry. I suppose that's my mission statement- that and to encourage participants in all manner of involvement in the written arts, but hey!

Anyway- I will hold on and see what transpires- there are good folks out there working hard that I can give encouragment to (and you know who you are).

maybe it's the position of the planets- a lot of shit seems to be coming down all over right now-

I need some time- I always need time. There is dust all over the paneled wall in the bedroom.

When I was home more, I would keep it clean, my allergies loved me.

Now I go to work, go to rehearsal, come home, cook, doze, wake up, do this and go back to sleep to begin it all again.

My Christmas tree is still up.

My poems are unsubmitted and worse, unwritten.

I'm in rehearsal at Henrico High School Center for the Arts
for "A- My Name is Alice" a musical by and about women-
Wed Feb 22 and Thurs 23rd at ComedySportz Theater
on Staples Mill and Glenside
8:00pm $10
and February 24th at the high school-

I'm musical director and my daughter is one of five girls in the cast-
call 266-9377 for reservations at ComedySportz

after that, maybe I'll clean the wall.

Good news! Looks like we have a venue for the RichmondSlam- more info later!!!

and re:that- check here for Chicago news

Kate Campbell- she has a voice like sorghum syrup- and if you don't know what that is, I'm sorry for you. Or if you've never heard her. I did once, last year, I think- I sat ten feet away, in a hall the Starbucks Series uses for concerts (Presbyterian Church- nothing offensive or radical). She is a pure good person, just is- like somebody you never heard of, till you meet them and know they'd help you fix your tire, clean up after a sick baby- you know- country folk, decent.

What I always believed "America" should be- hard-working, any color, any age, any religion that believes in something better, all that. I am so simple. I guess. It's everything else that's complicated.

I'm trying to get back into writing- a little at a time- the show rehearsals are eating me up, so I try to let it all slide over me, into me, so I can write later.

Deep down, I always wonder how much 'later' I've got- who doesn't? The days go by, go by, go by- I can't remember what I did Tuesday, Monday, a month ago-

I like to make deals with that god I'm not sure about anymore- ten more years- that's all, I say- ten more. Ever so often I send that message out- ten more years, from now, from next week, next year.