Park Avenue Poetry Society; Winter Session
transcript for my performance at the PAPS this last Saturday
The Society
I am not a poet. I sort of dislike it, to be honest, though for no particular reason. The punctuation drives me crazy, and I never got the line spacing. I also get frustrated when people say things without saying them, but that’s a ridiculous deflection since most things people say aren’t said at all. Worse, my fiction has been described (forgive me here) as rather poetic. Something about the self-seriousness of it rubs me the wrong way, but I wrote a four-hundred page book, and there’s an easy argument to be made for that being way more “self-serious” than a brief couple of stanzas about a wind-blown branch. The fact is, I love words. I love them even more than I like stories. You’d think that’s the only requirement for a fan of poetry.
Anyways, once every three months there is a gathering of poets here in Charleston, and I’ve started anticipating these readings very eagerly. There is some incredible talent in town, and despite not writing poetry, I always make sure to spend a few days leading up to the event working on something to present. As a writer, I am envious of my musician friends who get to display their talent and their work to a live audience. Without that, it’s magnitudes more difficult to gauge personal growth and public reception.
At the winter session of the Park Avenue Poetry Society there were thirty people gathered to listen to the work of eight poets. The readings were about ten minutes each, and below you can find the transcript for my performance. I have a tough time writing poetry without rhymes in it— I never know where to end a line, and my “prose poems” end up being, well, four-hundred page novels. More or less.
So I hope you like sonnets.
Laces
I’m sorry
it’s true
I’ve eaten the shoe.
You said don’t do it,
and that was true.
But now it’s in my poo.
The laces are like dildos
in reverse
so what they say is true:
If you don’t get it comin in,
you’ll get it goin through.
Twenty-Seven Just Yesterday
Twenty-seven just yesterday, the peak of my stupidity.
And today just one notch still, wiser, if not legitimately.
If the day before I forgot my joy and just took note of woe,
in finer morrow’s morning mist I’d purely be bestowed.
If in the wake of Night-time’s death I’d summon up with glee,
his final breath upon his chest he’d bemoan tragedy.
Though if cotton on the quay could quake encrusted snow on stairs,
so too might future Beauty fear Hope’s butchered lifeless stare.
Twenty-seven plus one day more— the pyre of my dreams.
A funeral flame against my cheek as faith succumbs to screams.
[george zither solo]
Instead of writing that, how’s this?
not proctoring exams
Hows about I tell a joke
about two mans named Sam(s)?
Says Sams to Sam
“Say Sam,” “Hey man,”
said Sam to Sams’ ‘say Sam.’
“Say Sam,” says Sams,
“if Sams I am, then tell me who’d you be?”
Says Sam to Sams,
“Say, Sam I am,”
says Sams “so you’d be me?”
Another joke about this bloke goes a goose walks in a bar.
Barkeep goes, “I’d seen you Goose, coming from afar!”
Or a barkeep walks into Goose and goes, “I think I missed my turn!”
The goose goes “fuck!” then lights a Bic and sets it to an urn.
Urn goes, “Goose!” and then falls loose
to forever miss his turn.
“His turn for what?” says Sams to Sam,
but second-Sam was gone.
He’d took his keys and bust his knees,
and left him in the lawn.
Certainty
With certainty,
certain peas
might fit into a pod.
And certainly,
these certain knees
do buckle at that thought.
Of certain trees,
a certain breeze,
lost astride the sky,
I’m certain these
curtain beads
wouldn’t cover why
Like pillowcases
or hobo’s faces
which neglected might grow cold
I’m billowed traces
of poison spaces
a pigeon up mid-flight
I’m straight no chases
and bad at facing
the cruelty of night.
I’ve covered bases
was not dealt aces
but bluffed at least a pair
And at those prices
with those odds
winning’s kinda rare
This Poem is called Sicily
There’s no rhyme or meter, I swear.
Even though on every line
is it’s line before forebear.
I’d been lying just this time.
A Real Barn-Burner
On harvest day, 1804, a lass of ten-and-five
Set fire to a hay-filled burn before the law arrived
She yoked a mule and set off west, tarnish to her name
She cleaned saloons of all good deeds and became Lady Jane
With pistols cocked she fired loose, striking all with fear,
then sat to sip on honey whisk fore moving on to beer
When Lady Jane came to the coast she found it all not clear
She planted shop and bartered well the days of her career
But tho be kind and tho shoot straight, what Jane found all too true
Was that well-worn deeds of yester-year will surely come haunt you
In the wicked western way they came, a cavalry of doom
The hangman’s son, the lawyer Joe, the head of the dragoon
So Jane and Joe came duel-to-duel, a standoff in the streets,
tho when last they glanced these fateful eyes they’d tangled in the sheets.
That law and law-out should never meet was soon to confirm true,
Yet Jane and Joe and their two little boys were a meeting overdue.
Joe said the word and Jane let loose, her olden ways revived
And after all the blood was shed it was Jane and Joe survived
He saddled her up and dragged her east, to his homestead in Alabam,
To see their fam no longer a-lamb, tho Jane didn’t give a damn.
Back at the farm where Jane raised hell the sons soon became men
And Joe got kicked by a bitter mare who’d fallen for a hen
Thirty years she held the line and dug the finest dykes
til for burnin barns and breakin hearts they drove her into spikes.
Laces, pt. 2
If love were like laces, it’d taste like shit.
But it’s not, it’s like lace.
Gossamer and prone to shroud,
and shattered at the face.
If love were hopeless I’d be better off,
my soul as light as feathers.
But it isn’t, and I’m not.
To the ground: securely tethered.
If love had ankles and achilles heel,
I’d be the soccer cleat.
And you the shin-pad, slightly off,
so warm with sweat, so sweet.
If love were a balloon, I’d be a needle,
and you a latex heap.
It would never float, would not pop off,
wouldn’t make a peep.
If love had me I hadn’t noticed,
head buried in the clouds.
Struggling to hear the streets
above me in the ground.
See, if I were to fill all of these pages
with musings laid to you
I’d be in a pickle with the other two-hundred,
knowing just what to do.
This is the last verse, or at least the last poem,
written about two
As the world to me lately is just the one,
and I’m working on a stew.
Florida
Apple bottom jeans (jeans)
Boots with the fur (with the fur)
A crumbling empire with insurmountable turmoil and no feasible solution to misery (oh)
We hit the floor (we hit the floor)
Next thing you know
Spirits were low low low low low low low low
Gaudy fits and cancelers with the redacted boom-claps (ay)
We turned around and gave our duty up for scraps (oh)
We hit the floor (we hit the floor)
Next thing you know
Humanity blows blows blows blows blows blows blows blows
ego
Books on my shelf: the visual display of quantitative information; Clarice Lispector’s completed stories; Cornford’s end of dreams; journals of Thoreau
People in my dreams: that Lebanese gentleman who guides me by the arm; the woman whose name is a clumsy protmanteau
Apples I’ve eaten: macintosh; empire; golden delicious; etc.
Rugs I have: three
Headbands: zero
Gum I chew: extra; ice-breaker
People at this poetry reading who didn’t say Happy Birthday: four
Blogs: one
Jobs: several
Careers: tbd
Success: n/a
Money: dnf
Bedtime: ten to three
Radiators: three
Chap stick: Burt’s bees
Cigarettes: seven a day
Friends on TV: three or four, but fewer by the day
Hats: five
Shoes: twelve, that’s six pairs six-times-two
Instruments: two kalimbas, violin, kazoo
Friends: plenty
Foes: some
Perks: comes with balcony
Living room: smells like smoke, windows open please.
Car: one, but not last week
Thoughts: happen after speech
Sofa: thrift
Desk: too big
Lamps: three with one bulb each
Obituary: his life was an 80s ski comedy. he is survived by but his wit
Ashes: scattered over tyranny on a sunrise softly lit
Bed frame: zilch
but Mattress: yes, gifted by a friend
Letters: received often, some marked “return to send”
One thing I should note: is that I can enjoy a change of scenery like a dead dog needs a prostate exam.
It doesn’t much make a difference, but go ahead if that’s your thing.
Another thing: is that the A/C unit still sits in my window and probably will til spring.
I tend to prefer freshness over comfort.
When I see a poem in a movie: I think, “hey that’s private,”
and When I see a movie in a poem: I think, “Well that guy just got lazy.”
I’ve never read the Iliad, or Joyce’s Ulysses, but Penelope I get.
I started knitting a scarf ten years ago and haven’t finished either.
One last thing that I should note: before we start reminiscing,
is that my brown felt slippers
have recently gone missing
To whoever has them I daresay fine,
so long as what’s yours is mine
A wayward rhyme or sip of wine,
my slippers, in due time
I drove tonight three friends of mine,
who surely need a ride
We’re lucky it’s so close,
Too bad it’s the West Side
One more thing: and this a riot, see,
I say with all due piety,
Is shit’s never garden variety,
at the Park Av Poetry society
So may all your slippers appear by morn,
and none of your trysts be forlorn
And the last thing I’ll say from these pages torn
and on this page be forewarned
I’m sorry.
But it’s true.
I’ve eaten the shoe.
And now it’s in my poo.
The laces are like dildos
in reverse
so what they say is true
If you don’t get it
comin in
you’ll get it goin through