gratitude
for Foercia Molloy

to be both-legged, spry. pleased
to know plaid from damask. laughing
a little at the ad for sugarwater and cognac,
the train tunnel smelling entirely of sweat
and fish. give us this day. thirsty for metal,
the face which is the face you've earned.
both-armed, releasing. to kiss until the kissing’s a cavern
you can paint your name in, light a small fire and sleep.
to spring rhythm in nightclubs and defer all advances.
to whistle at streetlights until they flicker
with recognition / it is all body. it is all body.
to give yourself Christmas on consecutive Saturday mornings
to be certain enough about one thing to be hated / you have
no stones. your glass house is a temple built entirely
of acrylic where you worship the medium-sized gods
governing the quotidian, just enough toothpaste, a new
camouflage t-shirt, dust. to be dumb lucky enough to have
enough. to be molecularly sound but know nothing
of neutrinos though they skim through your bones and the Empire State
with equal alacrity. to know only vaguely that dark matter not only
surrounds us but proves all currently accepted principles of physics
wrong. to trust gravity regardless to rope you to the planet
like a couch to the roof of a Chevy or a toddler flat asleep
on the shoulder of a woman leaving the train late
on a Tuesday / to be sighted, even if bifocal. to be touched
awake, to be hectored into believing touch is more
than mythology pretending to skin, to grieve. to paint mustaches
on the monsters in the closets in your dreams, to swear
that noise is only the building settling around you like skirts
and not today’s newsprint front page / to be alone. often.
feeling your breath blossom like fog over the pier
as the sun drowns to rise again like a saviour in a fable
to have work, be it the breeding of penguins or sewing the last bow
on every kite-tail in the factory / to know the number of seconds
between thunder drop and lightning approximates its distance
and hold to that / wounded and rebounded as we all live, to beat
vivid, to know refuge, rush of asphalt and you steady headed towards it.

I was going to take a night off from 13 last night, and probably should have. this cold was kicking around in my chest something miserable, and it was a good thing I was holed up in the DJ booth because I couldn't handle more than one person at a time. so apologies to anyone I snapped at who reads this -- trying to get through without antibiotics (ugh antibiotics) or having a doctor say "well yes, you appear to have a cold. drink lots of fluids and get some rest. you can pay the nurse on your way out" can lead to some cranky moments.

and DJing blind -- meaning using CDs with no track lists and simply hitting "play" and seeing what comes out -- while at times entertaining, is also a little crazy-making. insert deep sigh for the perils of trying to schedule artists here.

on the bright side, Stephen Dunn and Laure-Anne Bosselaar are reading in the city Sunday night. bliss! joy!

Stephen Dunn, Laure-Anne Bosselaar and Ben Lerner
May 1 at 5 p.m.
Speakeasy Reading Series

The Bitter End
147 Bleecker Street
(between Thompson and LaGuardia in the West Village)

{rescued & re-written, perhaps resurrected}

the walk
for Piper Jane

never having tasted battery acid
I can't say for sure it's what your mouth
fills with, remembering

you won't forget it, though it'll burn less,
your bile overtaking his breath – every bald man
in Nikes will stop being him

in twenty years you'll dream
of running, holding your two-
year-old brother, wake up
feeling safe

we all ask what kind of man
offers a nine-year-old five dollars
to suck his dick, read the newspapers
clinging to our ability to be appalled
like a priest to faith
after hearing his own confession

what kind of sidewalk wouldn't swallow
such a man whole

what unholy preparation is this

blame the pavement. blame the unloving mother, the bus driver
who took the long way home, the bully. what we pass on
defines us more absolutely than what we carry

or so we can hope –

there are reasons I won't go into
I can't stand whistling when I can't see
the mouth / welcome, girly girl. it's an ugly club
but we all belong.

from now, unwrap your hands
in your pockets like so much meat,
carry keys between. go for the eyes
the groin the dip at the base of the throat

walk like the cleaver in your mother's purse,
winking in its velvet sheath.

if you loved me you'd buy me this.

{Metro North poem}

I'd blame this on Westchester County, but I wrote nothing so creepy in my two years in residence there.

lies about the moon

the criminal who is half you rests
on a bed of flies. they flutter,
convulse, tickle his scapula
like a lover uninterested in sleep

rush to him. lick his eyelids
down, sweet paste / run your thumb
along the slack of his lip, the mole
on his jaw, twitching

the flies flatten out of jealousy, spreading
their bodies into the grease
of old angels, wings in black, the hundred
hundred eyes

press your nipples to his, remember the dream
where you played the killer telling lies
about the moon to girls
over tequila, how sore
your wrists were on waking

the criminal who is half you loves
your ass, your hesitation at stoplights,
the fact you pay taxes / the least
you can do is give it once more

with feeling, one more wink
over SoCo, one more heart
of the kitten so tasty with burgundy,
lemon and basil.

I'm actually nervous about tonight's semi-finals. why? I wasn't even going to slam this year (yes, yes, the cry of the addict: just once more.) so here, to calm my nerves and put the energy where it belongs.

slammer’s credo

to perform for the poem and not for the self
to offer the poems not out of fear / envy / spite / competition, but from love
to select each poem based on its place in the throat/heart/spine
to love the audience – judges and non – regardless
to love the poems more
to do the poems justice, and leave the rest behind.

here we go. I should get there early enough to actually time some of the options. and potentially implement the suggestions I received yesterday over that late-afternoon brunch. timing, folks. timing.

hug your favorite book for me. here we go.

The anniversary show was stupendous, magnificent, lovely. I am utterly drained. Plan to sleep about 11 hours tonight.

Onward and upward -- tomorrow night I'm performing at Symphonics -- details below.

Oh, and I'm in the semi-final slam at Bar 13 on April 11, along with Rachel McKibbens, Roger Bonair-Agard, Carlos Gomez, and Bonafide. With feature Bekah Dinnerstein, teen poet extraordinaire. details below below.

Symphonics * Wednesday, April 6* 8 p.m. * The Bowery Poetry Club (308 Bowery between Bleecker & Houston) * $7 ($5 with student ID) * Featuring: Sharahn McClung, Christine Hatch, Jesse Adelman, Marty McConnell, Mikel Paris, Shawn Randall and more!

Slam Semi-Finals #2 * 13 Bar/Lounge * 35 E. 13th St., Union Square* 7 p.m. * $5 ($4 with student ID) * 2-for-1 drinks all night

{if train A travels 4 mph and train B is full of bees}

had I known grant writing involved story problems I'd have tried harder to remain a full-time poet.

question: how many cents does your organization spend for every private dollar it brings in?

answer: how do we determine how much has been spent on the different types of fundraising? by private dollar do we mean individuals only, or private foundations as well? once private dollars have been separated from the larger gross income, how do we figure out how many cents that is on the dollar?

the sad part is, bad as I am at math, I nearly got it right the first time. what felled me of course was a basic division error.

on top of all this, it is roughly 3:30, the low point in my biorhythm cycle which means I really should be napping and not attempting mathematical gymnastics.

did I mention that the anniversary show is Monday night? four days prior is about when I start worrying that no one will show. so that's right about... now.

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