{big news in my world}

{we are the champions, my friends...}

New addition to my list of proud accomplishments: SOCK PUPPET SLAM CHAMPION, 2005. Oh yes, indeed. Champion. My sock puppet outscored my usual slam self by an embarassingly large margin. The show would have been more fun if more of our regulars competed, I think -- folks seemed to have showed up with strange voices and skits prepared, so it did draggggg in places. Anyone else considering holding one of these should make sure to encourage people to just do their regular poems -- and line up a few known folks.

For me, it was, well, a hoot. The fact that everyone was shocked that I was signing up for it means that I have become (at least perceived as) FAR too serious. I could barely get through the poems, I was laughing so hard. I had no idea there were so many hand references in my work. It was good to be ridiculous for a minute.

Plus, shushing people while wearing a sock puppet is a treat.

I shall attempt to utilize what I have been taught by my sock-alter-ego Betty in all future performances. Indeed.

*

{revision, revision}

lies about wanting

train brakes are only a lament in translation
and you are not going to die any more

than the digital clock will begin to tick;
it’s a small comfort, but a real one.

your ribcage leans out toward the baby,
each bone a finger, skin a thin balloon

the mouse in your belly racing the tide,
the sweet acid churning, a small ocean

lean back. the child grips his mother’s neck
like an empty bottle, no letter, what you’d call

a lost cause. desire fermenting, your bad apple status
never so much in jeopardy, what’s going on.

there are five types of fog. you move
as the train moves, the metal cool

in your palm. say it. advection.
radiation. frontal, upslope, sea. nothing

in your history suggests a destination
that will not also involve both hunger

and cloud. the knife in your bag itches
to hack a hole and crawl through, a deal

between the plexiglass and your not so
collapsible bones, an uneven trade

for the good air waiting.

*

{only a test}

they've been testing the fire alarms on my floor all morning. splendid. in related news, the last post was a test to see if anyone would point out the flaw in the pantoum. sadly, no luck. here's the correct version:

pantoum for the found
(or: a good feminist wouldn't watch so much Law & Order: Special Victim's Unit)

flatbacked against the wall, her hands curl into birds
registering the embodiment of the problem set
a circled wagon, torn lingerie, holocaust gaze
refusing to perform the magic of the fetish.

registering the embodiment of the problem set
misdemeanor of the body, owing everything,
refusing to perform the magic of the fetish
she turns, becomes the wall, eats her way in.

misdemeanor of the body, owing everything
to a jaundiced mirror, a funhouse moon,
she turns, becomes the wall, eats her way in.
all this, for you, the last critic, the peeled eye.

to a jaundiced mirror, a funhouse moon
declaring its own artifice, her psychic decentering
: all this for you, the last critic, the peeled eye
suturing the distance between body and the wall it reiterates.

declaring its own artifice, her psychic decentering
begs and begs the look, posits formlessness in subjectivity,
suturing the distance between body and the wall it reiterates.
pin the frog's bellyflesh back; this is a study.

begs and begs the look, posits formlessness in subjectivity,
the geometrical point of origin, her ruined fists
pin the frog's bellyflesh back; this is a study
in not-death, in evisceration without incision, look.

the geometrical point of origin, her ruined fists
talons, declawed, defanged, is she aggressive
in not-death, in evisceration without incision, look
she's asking for it, she is the wall, and what's a wall for.

talons, declawed, defanged, is she aggressive
enough for you? plaster and drywall, breakfast,
she's asking for it, she is the wall, and what's a wall for
if not to feed the eye, the master's gaze, don't look away.

enough for you, plaster and drywall, breakfast,
an unladylike hunger, specimens don't exist
if not to feed the eye, the master's gaze, don't look away
out of aesthetic or feminist theoretical concerns.

an unladylike hunger, specimens don't exist
(circled wagon, torn lingerie, holocaust gaze)
outside of aesthetic or feminist theoretical concerns.
flatbacked against the wall, her hands curl into birds.

*

(Lines 2, 4, 14, 16, 18, 22, and 36 are taken wholly or in part from "Francesca Woodman's Interruption" by Kaira Marie Cabañas, published in Critical Matrix, volume 13, number 1, 2002.)

{Saturday joy at Stain}

Fully embracing my creature-of-habit-ness, I carry myself and Roger's laptop down the street to Stain the bar/coffeeshop where last Saturday I spent hours and hours and got much done, including the Joan/hooker poem. Aside from an inadequate quantity of fans and complete lack of air conditioning, it's a fabulous little spot and with a few hours and three cups of tea, poems seem to come here. Exciting. And Rebecca and I are going to put together a show to do here relatively soon.

Roger's show is tonight so I should get back and try to be a useful lifemate and stage manager before I go get a haircut.

Here is today's Stain poem:

pantoum for the found
(or: a good feminist wouldn’t watch so much Law & Order: Special Victim’s Unit)

flatbacked against the wall, her hands curl into birds
registering the embodiment of the problem set
a circled wagon, torn lingerie, holocaust gaze
refusing to perform the magic of the fetish.

registering the embodiment of the problem set
misdemeanor of the body, owing everything,
refusing to perform the magic of the fetish
she turns, becomes the wall, eats her way in.

misdemeanor of the body, owing everything
to a jaundiced mirror, a funhouse moon,
she turns, becomes the wall, eats her way in.
all this, for you, the last critic, the peeled eye.

to a jaundiced mirror, a funhouse moon
declaring its own artifice, her psychic decentering
: all this for you, the last critic, the peeled eye
suturing the distance between body and the wall it reiterates.

declaring its own artifice, her psychic decentering
begs and begs the look, posits formlessness in subjectivity.
all this for you, the last critic, the peeled eye
pinning the frog’s bellyflesh back; this is a study.

begs and begs the look, posits formlessness in subjectivity,
the geometrical point of origin, her ruined fists
pinning the frog’s bellyflesh back; this is a study
in not-death, in evisceration without incision, look.

the geometrical point of origin, her ruined fists
talons, declawed, defanged, is she aggressive
in not-death, in evisceration without incision, look
she’s asking for it, she is the wall, and what’s a wall for.

talons, declawed, defanged, is she aggressive
enough for you? plaster and drywall, breakfast,
she’s asking for it, she is the wall, and what’s a wall for
if not to feed the eye, the master’s gaze, don’t look away.

enough for you, plaster and drywall, breakfast,
an unladylike hunger, specimens don’t exist
if not to feed the eye, the master’s gaze, don’t look away
out of aesthetic or feminist theoretical concerns.

an unladylike hunger, specimens don’t exist
(circled wagon, torn lingerie, holocaust gaze)
outside of aesthetic or feminist theoretical concerns.
flatbacked against the wall, her hands curl into birds.

*

(Lines 2, 4, 14, 16, 18, 22, 36 are taken wholly or in part from “Francesca Woodman’s Interruption” by Kaira Marie Cabañas, published in Critical Matrix, volume 13, number 1, 2002.)

Joan of Arc to the $2,000-an-hour woman

Jason would be saying, “Natalia is the greatest escort in the history of the world, as good as Cleopatra or Joan of Arc,” and I’d be like, “Jason! Joan of Arc was not an escort, she was a religious martyr."
-- New York Magazine, July 18, 2005

at least your pimp has a name, a neck
you could put your two good hands around.
he loves you like all men love
what they sell, what comes back
in gold. make no mistake, my God
was a man. men with their mouths
at the entrance to the cave, whispering,
men dripping hallucinogens into the milk,
men insisting lead us, lead us, have this horse
this sword this sentence this pyre. men naked
under their robes, their armor, their teeth
bartering my skin for their country, a cause
I would have sworn was mine.

Cleo and I place bets on women like you.
from this distance, your dance looks like ours.
and Vashti’s, and Salome’s, and Helen’s,
and you’re acquainted with the Magdalene.
our mythical knees locked or spread,
bringing men to theirs and us to the gallows
the tower the stake / turn your corset in for a habit
and they’ll hate you all the same: whatever cannot
be possessed is poison. the body is never bought
but rented which is why he wants your heart, bound
like feet, dancing only for him.

let me tell you something about possession. never
let a man dictate your wingspan or your footwear.
there’s a god on every corner and not one
would have you mortgage your given body
for this man with his fur-lined tongue. don’t think
I don’t know about love; more goes unreported
in history than in myth. sell your story, Natalia,
before they scrape it from under your fingernails
as evidence / cut your hair. buy a building
in Brooklyn. lay down on a bed of teeth, alone.
peel back the fingerprints one by one, each incision
the hot face of a god, unfolding.

*

lies about wanting

I am an old woman, named after my mother
My old man is another child that's grown old
If dreams were thunder, lightning was desire
This old house would have burnt down
a long time ago

train brakes are only a lament in translation
and you are not going to die any more

than the digital clock will begin to tick;
it’s a small comfort, but a real one.

your ribcage leans out toward the baby,
each bone a finger, skin a thin balloon

the mouse in your belly racing the tide,
the sweet acid churning, a small ocean

lean back. the child grips his mother’s neck
like an empty bottle, no letter, what you’d call

a lost cause. desire fermenting, your bad apple status
never so much in jeopardy, what’s going on.

there are five types of fog. its dissipation
the result of sunlight filtering

through the stratus layer. you move
as the train moves, the metal cool

in your palm. say it. advection.
radiation. frontal, upslope, sea.

Make me an angel that flies from Montgom'ry
Make me a poster of an old rodeo
Just give me one thing that I can hold on to
To believe in this living is just a hard way to go

To believe in this living
is just a hard way to go.



(italicized lines are from “Angel from Montgomery” by John Prine)

Early warning system! 2005-2006 is shaping up to be a banner year for the louderMONDAYS series at Bar 13. If you're outside NYC, start planning your pilgrimages now. If you're in NYC, don't miss a Monday!

A few highlights:
August 15: AIMEE NETZHUKUMATATHIL
October 17: AMIRI BARAKA
December 12: MARK DOTY
April 3: KIMIKO HAHN

Stay tuned for updates, and check www.louderARTS.com for all the details.

A quick summer summary:
July 11: Ragan Fox + the Queer Slam
July 18: Sou MacMillan + Kelly Tsai
July 25: Tony Brown + Cynthia French + the Sock Puppet Slam
August 1: Aaron Smith + Regional Slam
August 8: Arisa White + Robert Karimi + Poets' Auction

louderMONDAYS
every Monday at 13 Bar/Lounge
35 E. 13th St., Union Square, NYC
$5 ($4 with student ID)
7 p.m.
2-for-1 drinks all night

always an open mic and featured poet, often a slam

www.louderARTS.com

{greatest hits before the album comes out}

so since I have no idea what happened to the originals or really any copy of the chapbook that had "instructions for a body" in it, and since thanks to its airing on Def Jam I've gotten requests for a book that contains that poem, I'm putting together a new "selected" chapbook. seems that folks have resonated to the affirming nature of the poem (chopped down though it was, and far from brilliantly performed), so I decided to scope out my poetic inventory for a good variety of pieces that vibrate on a similar frequency. or something. in any case, given how bizarre and dark the poems have been of late, it's interesting to put together a little collection like this. I actually like it.

here's the table of contents:

instructions for a body
survival poem #17
when Willie says shit
what the beat knows
the impossibility of February
Laci Peterson’s body, late March
what Red learned from the wolf
Barbie series
after all of this, fire
spell toward leaving
the walk (for Piper Jane)
to be kissed
incantation for the hard road

so there it is. fun stuff. back to work.