4/30: Orange Cascades

“In such an iconoclastic city, even the fine dining is

                Punk Rock.”

Diner rankings for the uninitiated,

                Splash dashed across
Pages, clickable meanings.

                An incisive piece of

Journalism on why we’ve yet to overtake

                Paris when it comes to omelettes.

                When I went on the “date” with the chef

From Michigan who was happy that Seattle was

                Finally Coming Up, I for a moment

Pictured myself in 24 hour sport coats, cutting small portions

                Into tiny ones, with a variety of serrated

Blades, laughing conversations about lesser airports

                of the world, all thick framed glasses and

the server’s white button down rolled up to

                Reveal their Black Flag tattoo and

Hip hop instrumentals swirling over every $200 plate.

               

The dueling concept of what food even means: “Has the art gone out of
Farm to table dining? Three top chefs chat about the dumbing down
Of artisan culture.”

“Five spots for lunch under $10.”

"Three cans of beans for a dollar-- coupon inside."

We went  on another date, and one aborted attempt at late night

                Paths crossing, her in her chef’s uniform,

I think our buses literally passed eachother. When she talked about

                Her plans for clams, I thought about the

Orange Soda in my fridge, and even brought it up. “What, you got it like a

                Joke? So inside. So Seattle.” Sure, I guess.

I was confused. She held her fork like an heiress.

              But on her profile all it said was Porn, Punk, and Pizza.

3/30: Everything Hurts For Good Work

Swing that hammer. Climb that tree. Get to that clubhouse. Break that back and selfie the bandages. So many tongues, so few hands. Clouds part to reveal more, darker clouds. A rain that insists on waiting while the garden dries.

There are so many logs and not enough arms to lift. Tie those shoes, laces for tennis, applied to loose boots in the mud.  Tether your throat to the dust in the air, the dust in the air becomes the mud in your shoes. As dilligence goes, this wasn’t due.

These lines even, dashed off like they are, wouldn’t meet criteria. Those flimsy walls you’re throwing up, that half-cooked patty, served up, that warm lager. So many starving, cold people, so many people starving cold people, a listening party for the full collapse. Fix the hair. Fix the nails. Fix the shoes.

Swing that hammer. Tie that knot. Get up that last flight of stairs. Wear out those knees and wonder who, what you have to show.

2/30: All Hail the Brilliant Comedian!

It was first rumored

in whispers, in

a youtube clip, of them eating

soup from a can, sitting on

a couch in an apartment.

The brilliant comedian

would return.

All hail  the brilliant comedian!

The brilliant comedian has been

gone too long, In the time before

The brilliant comedian told it like it was,

per haps now, they could tell it like it

                        Is.

The brilliant comedian is the first to admit
That the brilliant comedian isn’t always

Brilliant,

        And doesn’t really like the term “comedian.”

But does come from a proud tradition of Brilliant Comedians
Who tell, or have told, it like it is,  or was, or would eventually be.

The brilliant comedian slyly shuts down

Hecklers and holds the microphone like a magic

Wand. the brilliant comedian knows the exact

Height of mount everest and the mileage of

The great barrier reef, appropos to

Nothing.

The brilliant comedian is not perfect, they assure

You, and a tale of collegiate malfeasance emerges.

The brilliant comedian just moved to L.A. and L.A.

Is weird, they’re more used to
New York, but spent summers at their

Uncle’s place in Dayton, so they are a regular American

At heart. The brilliant comedian is just like you

                                                                                            Or me.

The brilliant comedian starts and ends their story

At the same yet opposite place,

You feel your mind blowing.

The brilliant comedian is glad there was no

Twitter in the ‘90s, because HOOO BOY.

The brilliant comedian skewers BOTH sides

Of the aisle, spent two whole specials mocking

The right and the left as craven idiot fart-liars and was flabbergasted

That the US elected Donald Trump.

The brilliant comedian addresses racism

By talking about the time they dated a Black Guy

And their ex got so jealous, by mocking rednecks

And adopting an exaggerated southern accent.

The brilliant comedian addresses homophobia

By saying that the idea of a God is stupid, have you

Seen traffic in this town? What God would allow that?

By mocking rednecks and adopting an exaggerated

Southern accent. The brilliant comedian is going to wait

A year or two more on the “trans thing”

After all, they wouldn’t want to have to change their jokes.

The brilliant comedian does not hate women, how could

You say that? Have you not heard their bit about eating pussy?

The brilliant comedian once or twice has said Terrible Things
In order to make a point, to a rapt and attentive audience

So now those Terrible Things are okay to say anywhere, to anyone
At any time, for any reason, even-- especially-- to strangers.  
It is hard to forgive the Brilliant Comedian for this.

But.
The brilliant comedian IS brilliant, phrases that were references
To their routines are now just part of language, ways of thinking
About complexities into everyday talk, and when you were
Counting the packets of ramen in the glorified flop house

Two hours from your part time job, the brilliant comedian’s

Wide eyed cynicism helped keep you tough, helped you think that

Maybe all the divvied up oatmeal and bad gut from frozen

Pizzas and poverty and struggle-- even at your age-- might not be a waste

And when you were heartbroken and ugly and no one

Loved you, the brilliant comedian

                    Made you laugh.

Which is why you still need the brilliant comedian,

And resent that they refuse to keep growing, or that
Their wounded hope has turned to casual callous.

The brilliant comedian may or may not justify
Your love, eventually, again, or not, either way

They’ll get a mountain for their memoirs,

After all, they’re brilliant.

1/30: April First Death Dodger Roulette

911 phone lines
jammed for the
pranksters with the
alien invasions
and escaped zoo
animals running rampage
at the preschool.

Pray the bizarre tragic never
finds you on this calendar day.
Pray the demons in the back of
your grey stuff don't ooze their way
forward on this calendar day.
Pray that nuclear monsters don't
rise from the ocean, roaring
and thrashing, on this day,
with the Coast Guard on high alert
for pranks and faked
footage.

Don't waste your sympathy.
Keep your empathy sealed in Tupperware.
Don't believe everything you read
on the internet.

"Please, this is serious. My friend is crushed under an overturned
popcorn truck. Kernels are everywhere, and there's a terrible
loss of blood. Send help as soon as you can! This isn't a joke,
we don't have much time left."

The danzig in this coffeeshop

. .  . is not as soothing as intended. A woman who looks like Judy Greer just got into a car. It stopped raining, something that disappoints me, in a sense, though it's probably for the best, as these boots aren't as waterproof as I thought. I owe a man poem feedback that won't be as complete as either of us want, I owe another man a black and white drawing for inclusion in a zine and I'm not sure when I'll be doing either thing, only that like everything, it'll happen somehow, or not.

now it's Meat Puppets covering John Denver. Its like, the guy from the Meat Puppets fronting a band that sounds like Bad Religion. It is perhaps the least important thing I could be thinking about and yet it --- oh no. It's a whole CD OF PUNK COVERS OF SONGS THAT AREN'T PUNK I don't usually feel lots of sympathy for R. Kelly, but what's happening to "I Believe I Can Fly" right now ain't right.

Oh. It's Me First and the Gimme Gimmes. OF COURSE. GLAD THIS IS CLEARED UP.

Things like this wreak havoc on any sort of health-tracking I try to do, because now all I want is to driiiiink.
(I am not going to do that right before I go into work. adulthood is the process of realizing that anything you say can and will be held against you, taken seriously and out of context)

Purely Medicinal (2)

A bit late to the post on this one, but still worth sharing. The first weekend of this month was Medicine Ball. One thing I was struck by this time around was just how good the directors and actors were in interpreting the poetry. This is something that's become more evident as years have gone on. We have many actors and directors who return year after year to be part of this project. I had multiple poets approach me post-show with a "holy shit" look on their face, and we already have a cadre of poets who want to write for it again.
An example:


This was just one of the pieces that I thought the actors and director (Dan Tarker) interacted and interpreted in a way that transcended what a poet reading their own work would be able to do.
We'll be doing this again next week, all likelihood.

Between now and then I plan to curate exactly zero literary events.

When I'm not working, I'm working: Three New Roughs.

these are all recent musings I may work with more in the future. The second is from a prompt by Lindsey Walker, the third from a prompt by Ryan Johnson.

daily mundane #425

in a bleachstained black shirt
i work in due to unseasonable
february sun, the snapdown impractical.

bills go out, bills come in.
the smiles and swinging arms
down fourth avenue come
earlier every year, turn
to dust. I should buy

new clothes for work for money
to buy new clothes to work in so I can
get money that I use to pay for clothes
that are appropriate for--

you get the picture. the barista
dances to the Beatles in his
fedora and somehow I am not
annoyed.

_____________________

Transiberian Express

(the prompt was to write about a place I'd never been) 

Frozen in place and loaded onto a train
leaving from the last city at the edge of the
world, a whole greyscale cliffscape of others

frozen in place, and you begin the thaw.
The next nine days, split between the soup

and the shiver, the ice crawls up your
legs at the moment of sleep, the snow
rushing past years of punishment-wilderness,
a place whose name itself evoked terror,

starvation, disappearance. By the time you
get to Moscow, you'e frozen and thawed
and frozen again, a lifetime of gruel in
your veins. Step out into the first city
at the edge of two worlds and hold cap
but don't lose it. You'll need it. You'll need it.

_____________________________

Trump Plaza

At the end of Napoleon, there was a drawn out sigh. This much I know from genghis khan international airport. The longer it goes, atrocities are forgotten, only glory remains. I'm eating an eclair. Watching one building fall to be danced on by another. The glass warbles and so many coiffed handbags. Despite my classy pastry, I am especially ugly today, as Stalin must have looked to those he was sentencing. I have done all my sentencing already, just waiting for the execution. Frosting gets on my cheek.

Do buildings fantasize about power? The power wielded in them? Stay up late thinking about orders given? Of course not, don't be silly. They just wish they were fields or vineyards. The crowd becomes too much. I leave, the frosting on my cheek.