You hid your empty bottles behind your teeth because you knew I’d never check there. Your fingers tasted of bitters and bitter and it is so difficult to kiss a drunk because their mouths are always occupied. But last night, I knew time had touched the nooks of our skin because your eyes were river phoenix blue and and mine were the ones stumbling, drunk.
Hydrogen Junkbox presents an evening full of music inspired by poetry and spoken word. Featuring the NYC band o’ poets Hydrogen Junkbox ( David Lawton, Aimee Herman, and Zita Zenda), plus special guests Davey Patterson (music maker) and TIDAL CHANNEL (theatrical spoken word paired with music)
Come to Dixon Place located at 161 Chrystie St in NYC. Doors open at 7pm/ show begins promptly at 7:30pm. This is a free show, but please support this fantastic venue and purchase a drink or some chips!
Hydrogen Junkbox is a collective of poets and music makers in New York City. They have performed at the Brooklyn Wildlife Summer Festival, LaMama Experimental Theatre, Parkside Lounge, Stonewall Inn, and Dixon Place. Hydrogen Junkbox is David Lawton, Aimee Herman, Zita Zenda, and Starchilde.
Tidal Channel is the noise-poetry alliance of billy cancel (all words + vocals) and Genevieve Fernworthy (all music + instruments). Described by the New York Times as “sonic abrasiveness”, their work incorporates industrial synthpop, psychogeographical field recordings, and time-based performance. Two of their contributions appear on the “BC35: The 35 Year Anniversary of BC Studio” (2018, Bronson Recordings). More info at www.tidalchannel.com
Davey Patterson is a Canadian-born, New York City-based musician and songwriter. His credits are vast and varied, but these days, he lends his talents to TV’s “Late Show With Stephen Colbert”, “Late Night With Seth Meyers”, and musicians like Jon Batiste and Stay Human.
When I was younger, and someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I answered with:
veterinarian hair stylist pastry chef
There was a time I didn’t know how many words I had in me. (I still don’t)
There was a time I thought, tomorrow may never get to know me.
There was a time I thought, is this the last poem I will write?
For ten years, I worked on a story that turned into something longer and will soon be all folded and ISBN’d and (hopefully) on bookshelves. I’ve been reading novels for much of my life; I never thought I’d be able to say I wrote one!
Everything Grows is an epistolary story told all in letters written from the point of view of a teenager called Eleanor writing to her bully who has just committed suicide. But it’s not all darkness. In fact, there is quite a lot of light in this book. This is her coming out story (in more ways than one). Taking place in 1993 in New Jersey, Eleanor find friendship and love in interesting places, and starts to locate more places on the map of who she yearns to be.
I am so proud of these words and thankful to Three Rooms Press for publishing Everything Grows in April 2019. So……make some room on your bookshelf!!!
You measure out everything that circles. Like pills without the aftertaste side-effects medical coverage. You decide you have practiced long enough. You decide your local news feed could benefit from something like this. You decide not to swallow yet. Instead, you hold all these circles on the tip of your tongue, some guerrilla themselves down your throat. You have been searching for the cleanest options, you’ve made too much of a mess these days. You slide the tiniest questions behind your fingernails for them to find. You masturbate one last time using only toes and elbows. You briefly wonder what they will say, how they will pretend they knew you. You trace the expected size of their teardrops on your thighs, look at the oxidized moon one last time and become consumed.
After the divorce, they split everything in half: torso, curdled hazel, garden soil brown, knees, the scars you inherited, the scars you gave her, fourteen moles carefully severed, chapters forty-seven through fifty-two, books (you requested all the endings; she begged for the acknowledgments), the ghost of your uterus, the ghost of her sex drive, that time that time that time she gave you, that time that time that time you never got to, grid paper, the tags they used to tag the buildings they crawled inside, half a song (mostly chorus), cracked voice, swollen cartilage, library card, flint, James Baldwin, pile of uneaten hair, invisibility cloak (barely noticeable). They grew their arms long enough to carry, to carry. Walked six years in different directions. Dropped what they had when they could no longer speak footprints. And then, started over.
With every cut of skin,
a circus of blood–
drops trapezing off veins
juggling moles, sun blisters
elephant trunk disconnected
from its rest– an arm
abandoned bodies may also be called
museums, the kind that are abandoned too
and underneath, dancers dancing death
a glow-in-the-dark complaint letter
The moon is my pepper spray
These mountains, they climb me
I am floating over prairie dogs
I am tangled up in trees.