"Let's just try to get through Christmas."

an escalation of violence in several southeast neighborhoods

and you are big, ish, tall, ish,
lumber like something tough or clumsy.

but no fights since fourteen
or one joke-out-of-hand-with-your-cousin
that had to stop --
bartenders.

and there's nothing you've got that anyone
could fence for much,
and if it's all so co-ordinated
or just conveniently along every transit hub
you've lived in, well you are big, ish,
and your coat is torn and bad shoes and

you have a beard so
no reason to fuck with you

but somehow, an evening walk
just seems out of the question,
and you are big, ish, tall, ish, can
run

but if you wait too long, then it's too late
and you are fast, ish, but if you start
too soon, then chase becomes inevitable

and the cops post bulletins advising people
to walk shivering and terrified in groups of three
or more, bereft of books or money or music
or all things that made the transit
work as a second home and you are smart, ish,

but

growth/entropy/roath/centipede/statshots.

claustrophobia went well saturday. watch the videos here. Tomorrow I read at Northwest Playwrights Alliance's Literary Salon. Right now I am at NSCC, printing out some poem copies which I will doubtlessly just fucking wow audiences with. Friday I'm doing the same sort of thing, but at a giant Christmas Light Event where I used to work. Then the next day I am going to read at Elyse Brownell's (you can find her poetic works online or in links above) going away party.



I just deleted a whole bit I was going to post that was just going to read too much like, well, someone's personal blog. There is drinking for such things.

"There was a lone 'woo-oo' out there that sounded really weird."

*) waiting at Empire Espresso to hear from Marty, who will have heard from Vicky, about when to get the keys to the NEW PLACE IN RAINIER BEACH.

**) over the last couple of days, Not Drugs and I went up and pestered Jake Tucker in Vancouver, BC. Vancouver, population-wise, is slightly smaller than Seattle, but the whole vibe of it is a lot more "LOOK AT US. WE ARE VANCOUVER. WE ARE A BIG BIG CITY WITH LOTS OF TALLNESSES!"
This makes sense, I guess, since they are a lot closer to the top of the cultural food chain in Canada than Seattle is in the U.S.A., coming in somewhere after Winnipeg, Toronto, Montreal, etc. I dug the more metro-vibe, though I think it'd take longer to get accustomed to navigating the downtown; I'm perpetually used to everything ending at the water. Not there being a WHOLE 'NOTHER SIDE OF TOWN after the water (shutup, West Seattle.)
The National kicked ass, in a way that is consistent with The National. Which is to say, greater energy, more screaming (no joke), but still a sense of the serious, melancholy and ornate. The Alligator and Boxer tracks took me RIGHT BACK to Wales, which, in that dark, rainy time, is when I got into the band. Broken by Matt's jokes about penis-nicknames, which managed to not be as incongruous as it sounds.

***) I have all these ideas, but first, it is time for a Panini.

Thanks!*

For: the northwest, and how even when it feels like you're going to die from sprawl (hello, smokey point) the light bursts and you're out in the Middle of Nowhere, in the best way possible. And that my folks live out here, instead of at some enclave on the edge of Kirkland, so they can be close to a megachurch.
that I've got a new place to live. that i've got good enough friends that the last months have been punctuated by stress headaches, rather than been one constant panic attack or a filthy sleep closet in the ID.
not drugs.
the fam.
creative pursuits and the support they've (already) been shown by Seattle's poetry community.

speaking of Creative Efforts. The now-internet-elusive Wood is marketing the following: OK, so this is me self-promoting. The plan is to get my irresponsible, stupid, violent, sexy and ultimately marketable novel finished, and to get funded to do it, so I'm crowdsourcing, with the aim of getting it sorted this week. You can read more about it here.
Pay it forward, people. While I'm sure he's embarked on more "literary" efforts (i've read some, they're good), Wood also chronically underrates his own work, so it's great to see him getting ambitious.

*I know that being Grateful should be a constant concern, and that the History of Thanksgiving is Wrought and Fraught, but that doesn't mean we can't all use a good reminder now and then. Most folks reading blogs, even those in dire straits, have it better than huge chunks of the world. I believe the reaction to that shouldn't be guilt, but gratitude.

Involuntaries

clings to the rail
then
skirts the edge,
sine-waving all over the sidewalk.

shudder. spasm.

clung-clung-clang on thin bridges
torso wants the ground
hair wants the five feet,
fifteen,
twenty,
fifty

arms want to clothesline strangers, teeth to dig into faces of nearleaning friends, legs the radials of 18 wheelers, throat clearing constant in libraries, the fuck-thefuck-thefuck, even reading a book, full-on engaged, hands reach for low hanging powerlines

intentions irrelevant
steps clipped
he begins to lean

. . . or a joke about cat slaughter.

Things heat up at Claustrophobia Central. Monday will be the second of the series, and I look forward to seeing how it plays at an outside venue.

Speaking of, I'll be making my way south again-- Marty and I will be sharing a two bedroom spot in Rainier Beach for even cheaper than one would guess a two bedroom spot in Rainier Beach would be. Right near the light rail, groceries, etc.

This has been largely perfunctory. I have been thinking about switching to a blog that doesn't have a title about fucking corpses, but that's probably just a sign of aging.