Upcoming Readings/Performances

In celebration of new book of poetry, meant to wake up feeling, LOTS of readings coming up:

3 October, 2014: “Tina Barry and Friends” @ Roos Arts Gallery 449 Main Street Rosendale, NY  6-8 pm
9 October, 2014: Performing alongside j/j hastain and samuel ace @ Innisfree Poetry Bookstore and Cafe 1203 13th St. Boulder, CO
10-12 October, 2014: Disembodied Poetics Conference at Naropa University. Registration is free. Boulder, CO
19 October, 2014: Queer Art Organics Performance and Open mic (host) w/ Jenna Leigh Evans, Stephen Ira and Trae Durica @ Branded Saloon  603 Vanderbilt Ave. Brooklyn
24 October, 2014: I Heart NYC @ le poisson rouge 158 Bleeker St. NYC
4 November, 2014: Poetry and Prose with Richard Levine, Aimee Herman, Jenna Leigh Evans, and Puma Perl @ Word Bookshop 126 Franklin St. Brooklyn, NY 7pm-8:30pm
14 November, 2014: meant to wake up feeling poetry and prose with Jenna Leigh Evans @ Dixon Place 161 Chrystie St. NYC 7:30-8:30pm FREE!
22 November, 2014: Reading with Thomas Fucaloro @ Unnameable Books  600 Vanderbilt Ave. Brooklyn 7pm FREE!!!

 

autumnal body OR what version is this.

No pesticides have been added. Nor any corn syrup or sugars not already churning within the veins of this body. No dyes. Minimal dyes. Nothing had been surgically enhanced or altered. (Thoughts of doing so do not count.)

This body is organic.

Autumn has arrived and the air settles onto skin like red, orange and off-green kisses falling from bark to body. This season represents change of color, cooler inhalations, semi-hibernation prep. Humans surround me in scarves and boots, some already wearing jackets.

This body is already feeling the climate shift. Throat is sour and limbs are like old doors, creaking. Energy feels powdered, like dust. It blows off of me too easily. I need to prepare better for this.

I gargle salt water and coffee. Drink ginger tea and red wine. Eat high antioxidant foods like blueberries and chocolate cake.

*

Recently, a stranger on the subway asked me where I was from. I answered: My mother’s womb.

He nodded and turned away, repeating my answer. I think he may have been expecting me to name a state, city or borough. Perhaps I just don’t like to give people want they really want.

*

I was walking to the train and thought: What would I have looked like if I were born/raised as a boy?

Then, I wondered if I’d look different if I were born a mother or decided to become someone whose job fattened my bank account and I no longer worried about the rising cost of capers and peanut butter.

Would I look different if I were a wife or husband or world traveler?

What version was I supposed to be and am I doing this right?

*

My first thought in the morning is coffee. 

*

My next thought is: what if the words never arrive today.

Then, I have a cup of coffee, digest the caffeine and allow it to clear up the bloat in my throat and begin to unravel.

 

an ode to the united states postal service

I have recently acquired a sweater with the most beautiful emblem on it, representing all I believe in, celebrate and practice. This blue and white image is like the rainbow I secretly hope to appear in the sky after each warm rainstorm. It is the signifier of hope, patience and art of writing in this country.

It is……….the United States Postal Service mark of dedication.


Beyond writing letters (almost) each day, I find comfort when I spot a curvy, blue mailbox to slip my envelopes inside. It reminds me that I am not only being encouraged to write, but how dedicated these postal workers are, traveling all over to empty these boxes and bring them to the chosen addressee.

I have written 125 letters to one particular human for the past six months. When I mentioned recently to someone that we live nearby and often see each other, they asked: So, what do you write in your letters? What is left to say?

I mentioned that I never plan out my sentences. I write what I see. How I feel in that moment. I write about the pigeon hopping along on three feet with what looks like bed head, staring me down as I eat a pretzel. When I crumble a few bits of it and toss it onto the ground, I write about how it pecks at it, then walks away. Perhaps the pigeon expected it to have more flavor or bite. I write about the panic attack I have on the A train which follows me onto the 4 train. I write about the way in which I abruptly head above ground, toward a farmers market, breathing in the medicinal fume of local vegetables. I write about the man standing above me on a different commute and the envy I feel for his perfectly-fitting suit and how his tie looks crisper than mine. I write that I wish I could afford a tailored suit and how different fabric looks on a body, which it was measured just for.

My postal worker in Boulder, Colorado, where I lived for a few years, was named Rusty. I often greeted him, asking him about his day and thanking him for his dedication to his job.

It’s not easy delivering mail in rain, sleet, or snow. On the coldest days of the year or the hottest.

Postal workers are my heroes. They are thankless publishers, bringing handwriting and languages to worthy recipients.

Yes, they also deliver your bills and bad messages, but if you were to have a pen pal (or several), it makes the junk mail feel less lackluster.

Thank you to all those who go door-t0-door, filling up mailboxes across the world.

And find yourself a pen pal, if you haven’t already.

(I’ve always got room for one or two more!)

 

chest.

Dear male-presenting human meditating on a wednesday when the sun was at its hottest in union square,

I wasn’t checking you out.

That is to say, I wasn’t looking to get inside your pants which were wide open, zipper down. I wasn’t interested in the way your body would feel pressed against mine. I had no interest in knowing how soft you could be. Or how…hard.

I had no interest in your mouth. Or your long hair whipping into mine. I didn’t care how many indents you had pressed into your abdominals. If your thighs were strong or weak, it did not matter.

I could not care about the color of your eyes or if they caught my stare.

I had no plans on learning whether or not you are a good kisser. Perhaps you have a tongue that can drip a thousand alphabets down my throat. I will never know.

What I could not stop noticing was the skin between your collarbone and bellybutton.

The human who sat beside me said, “I think that’s what your chest would like like.”

would look like…….

I couldn’t stop memorizing the ways in which your chest flattened and curved, shadowed by the sun. I was too far to calculate or memorize the drips of sweat from the heat, but I imagined they were there.

I curled my head downward toward my own chest. It was clothed in button-down shirt, tie, vest. It was flat until I touched it and then, the curve could be felt. The binder. The interruption of how I feel and what remains.

I watched you pray, Male-Presenting-Meditating-Human.

I watched you contemplate peace or life or maybe you were just napping with strict posture. Maybe you were wishing for a different chest……like I was.

Maybe you were wondering what it might be like to look the way you feel inside.

Guess it’s hard to know what you feel inside when all that is seen is your outside….

Guess it’s hard to show what I feel inside when the outside appears so different.

 

 

 

Performance TONIGHT!

House of Screwball & Three of Cups Presents:
DIVINE: A Theatre and Fortune telling Hideout
Come to The Redroom, located at KGB Bar at 85 E. 4th St. / 3rd Floor / 7:30-10pm / $15 at door
 
What is this?
A tarot trading society event with palm/tarot reading, poetry and live music!!!
 
This month’s card: 
THE FOOL
 
Performances by:
The Fools featuring Michael Wiener and Gavin Price
Fritz Donnelly of HiChristina
(the absolutely captivating) Jane LeCroy
Aimee Herman and Pancetta Bruschetta (the ukelele)
 
Friday, September 12th 7:30 – 10pm
at The Red Room at KGB Bar NYC
85 E. 4th St. 3rd Floor

$15 at the door
$10 in advance (http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/853689)

http://houseofscrewball.com/
http://redroomnyc.com/

 
Tarot Readings by: Anais L’amour and Lynn Sabulski of Tarot Society 
Piano by Mitch Hampton

the necessity to connect.

Eyes scroll palms instead of sidewalk cracks and I wonder what would happen if we all spent a day foregoing text messaging and reminded each other that we exist through face contact and voice contact and in-person breaths.

We are forgetting how to connect without the use of electronic devices. We are moved by a human and the first question that often slips out of mouths has grown to: can we be facebook friends?

What happened to: Can we have a cup of coffee sometime and swap stories?

After so many open mics, poetry events and spaces where people share their art, I realize that we so often forget about the importance of in-person contact. By living our lives on computer screens, we are creating another version of ourselves, sometimes very different from the one that exists off-line.

What do we really know about each other. We can certainly learn a lot due to what one posts about themselves. Some feel the need to document their meals; some share links to global issues and world news; some post photographs of themselves taken by themselves; there are those that share poems or slices of their art; there are those that are in search of personal connections albeit through the computer screen.

I wonder what my words say about me.

Key words: gender, sexuality, identity, body, sad, human, love, words, poetry. 

But what version of this is me?

What am I not giving away; what am I holding back?

I know I have typed this before: UNPLUG.

And I know I am saying this not just to you, but to me as well. Ask a stranger (or someone you’ve known the name of for awhile but couldn’t list more than three things about them) for coffee. Reconnect with someone you may be FACEBOOK FRIENDS with but rarely–if ever–speak to.

There was a time none of this existed. And by this, I mean, TECHNOLOGY.

How did we connect before computer screens and text messaging?

Unplug and find out the answer.