day 6: poems out loud.

Here are two poems I read at Parkside Lounge at an evening celebrating the great poet, John Sinclair.

Several years ago, a poet said to me: Write the poem that will get you in trouble. So, I immediately thought about the first time. Freshman year of high school. I was still practicing Sylvia Plath’s name on my tongue. I was falling in love with Bob Dylan and Lou Reed and I had enough sadness to melt the sun into a puddle of tears. I read a poem of mine in front of a room full of strangers during a school assembly. Teachers who did not know me started worrying for my life. The guidance counselor called me in. Everyone worried about me and my safety. Do you want to hurt yourself? Do you have a plan?

I had no idea the power of words until that moment. I didn’t exactly get in trouble, but I did get noticed.

There was that time I thought I hated men, so I wrote a poem that would taint my breath for years. It was one of the first poems I ever read at an open mic. Strangers called me angry.

The one I wrote about the only boy I ever loved. It didn’t get me in trouble, but those words haunted my palms for years.

I’ve written poems that have outed my sexuality, my identity, various jobs I’ve accrued that I’ve left off resumes. I was never looking to get into trouble. Instead, I just wanted to feel heard. Like that first time at the assembly when finally people started to see me.

Words clarify the blurriness of our existence.

I smuggle poems all the time: in my pocket, against my hips, stuck to my cracked heels. I’ve swallowed so many that I have a permanent ache in my gut. I’m not looking to harass anyone’s eyes or brains. I’m only looking to cause a commotion with your one-way thoughts. I want to twist your mind into questioning what you think has only one answer to.

OK, maybe I am looking into getting in just a little bit of trouble.

a bit of poetry. perhaps a uke. and letters.

 

 

great weather meets the Bay Ridge Poetry Society

Tonight: great weather for MEDIA invades the Bay Ridge Poet’s Society @ The Owl’s Head wine bar@  479 74th St. Brooklyn from 7:00 pm – 9:00 pm

Featured readers: Eric Alter, Todd Anderson, John Clinton, Thomas Henry, Aimee Herman,  and Matthew Hupert

There’s a terrific open mic too – so come along and join us!

 

blue mind [ or ] perforated gender on a leaky night

Dear Lidia.

It is dark here, but I sit at a bar gulping a happy hour pint of local ferment reading a book about gender. Human beside me is burning her retina on the superpower glow of handheld lover. Does anyone read off paper anymore? I just need to poem tonight. My body is engulfed in the flames of syllables itching their way off of me. I’ve got my ukelele, but that seems to be for fire escapes and benches; stages are too daunting to stroke and sing on. But just in case, I swallow final sip, and pinch my hips through narrow doorway toward evening open mic.

Lidia, one thing to mention is my lens. I notice certain things that others may not. We write stories as we live them and in this room, I felt overpowered by men. Perhaps I have been thinking a lot about this gender quite a bit lately. The scent of their limbs and the way this particular pack seemed overthrown with aggression. At one point in the night, one actually had a tantrum on stage. 

Before it was my turn to perform, I decided to leave. My friend and I walked through the dark and dank, back into the evening which dripped sky through tiny petals of rain. I wanted to ask him what it was like to be a man. We need to ask this of each because no experience is the same. My gender is perforated and spotty. Far different than the one(s) beside me who may look similarly. Our experiences are our own.

When I arrive at my temporary home, I open up the bedroom window and climb out on the black-painted fire escape. Months ago, I would have been so fearful of this height. Now, I climb and sit, staring down at the life below me.

Lidia, there is revolution in our souls. We are revolving/evolving. I am not the same as I was yesterday or the week before. I am loving/I am in love/I am loved. I write to you because I need to feel read right now. I need to feel like these letters are being gathered. I am thinking about jumping. Not down, but toward.

 

Sunday stage stumble

After my bike ride to nearby cafe, where I straddle NY Times, cafe au lait and sun.

After Prospect Park love affair with grass and toes.

After some poeming.

This is where I will be performing on Sunday, May 26th between 4-6pm (perhaps  perhaps   with my ukelele named Pancetta Bruscetta):

great weather for MEDIA‘s Sunday open mic @ The Parkside Lounge

317 E. Houston St. NYC

$2 donation to this fantastic local press (They do this EVERY SUNDAY!). Two drink minimum (any drink–with or w/o booze attached)Open mic first. Bring your poems, your dissected words!I’m featured alongside Terri Muuss, who is the author of Over Exposed and former host of the Manhattan poetry series Poetry at the Pulse. As a motivational speaker, life coach and social worker, Muuss specializes in the use of the arts as a healing mechanism for trauma. Should be a great Sunday!!!