1) Good News today that one of my new poems will be published in a journal back east. More news on this later, November, when the physical issue is in hand. But I sent back the agreement today and felt very happy. Wow! this is working…

2) What’s not working: I’ve been attempting to get into this, um, dating thing people keep talking about. (Its all the Rage apparently). Earlier this week, around the time of the eclipse, I posted a personal ad. You would think as a writer this would be a cinch, but it ain’t. Its like a form letter; a cover letter or something. Apparently– like in job hunting– if you don’t use the proper language your application is separated and rejected.

I’ve heard companies use a digital product called Resumex. Wonder if women use something called Datex? “Get the Wackos Out”

Its a challenging project. I want to give up, yet I press forward. I want to give up because y sense of rejection is being activated (Read: I’m not getting warm responses or positive followups.)

Gradually, like on the job training, I am learning.

Thus far, any time I’ve used the word “poetry” in my responses or emails or in passing, all communication Stops.

Mental Note: DO NOT USE THE P-WORD!

I received two cool responses this week. The first, when I wrote back and sent a photo– I got no further communication. Ouch! I wasn’t naked or in bondage gear and didn’t think I was ugly, but… Well, to each his or her own. She was cute though. I at least wanted a conversation…

The second respondee was even more cute, but alas– a couple of emails and then nada.

Over the last few years I’ve come to terms with the fact I am a writer and poet and that’s my strongest gift. Its why I’m attempting dilligence and commitment with this blog and my poetry writing. Guess its something I’m proud of since I have little else going on and my job is just a job

But apparently– the P word is deadly. Subconsciously, I offer poems to folks to receive validation. Here: look at this awesome thing I can do.

But what’s poetry except carefully chosen words? If I was a woman, guess I’d also be like: hmph. What else you got? Can your poetry take me to Costco?

3) I’m not getting paid for that poem being published. Its just– published. whoopee.

I met with my friend after work and together we went to the center where I was on deck to read poetry.  Walking towards the venue, there were a group of women walking towards us.  The one I knew, also featuring, said: The door’s still locked. 

It was a half hour before the show was supposed to start.  We all about faced and went to the bar two blocks away and gulped beers in 10 minutes.  Me and a half dozen lesbians.  And my friend, who is himself gay. 

We came back and the room was already crowded.  Once I saw the venue, I was happy none of the people I invited showed.  There were no seats except for a bench against the wall.  There were rugs and throw pillows, so you had to remove your shoes.  The venue was a living room, no furnature, with beautifully painted walls.  I stood at the door.  The brother who invited me to read leaned his head out of the door, waving me in, but there was no in.  There were maybe 45 people inside, most already on the floor.  I stood at the entrance like a guard.

Four readers, boy-girl-boy-girl before the break.  Refences to the Karate Kid.  Porcelin dolls.  Talking with one’s child about kissing.   Interracial gay male sex.   (Not all in the same poem, though.  but if YOU weave them, damn!)  The readers were Sri Lankan, Indian, black.   On the center’s sandwich board outside was written in chalk: South Asian and African American Poets. 

The friend I came with was waiting to support me, but the 5 minute break creeped up to 15 and he had midnight tickets for Harry Potter with his daughter. 

He strolled away and I was the next reader.

I dont have a lot of rejoinders with the audience.  I’m bashful.  I want my time to be used for the poems, not my bullshit.   At the behest of another friend reading that night I changed up slightly and read something a little ghetto: Ordering a Pantoum Sammich In The Ghetto.  Turns out that piece and There Is Sun were the high water marks of my set.  The middle poem, For What Remains,  as pretty as it is, was overwhelmed by the pieces bookending it.   I like it, like reading it, but I don’t think it can follow There Is  Sun.  Not only is it a bit sad in comparison, but back to back, I’m asking the audience to endure the word Sun A LOT.

Mental Note: Never acknowledge that Sandwich poem as being a pantoum.  You won’t be able to explain that form in passing to someone who asks.

After I read and returned to my post by the door, one of the women i hit the bar with earlier, (the one whom, while standing with me outside, saw anotherwoman walking a burrito sized puppy with happy, flaming hair and said she felt like kicking it, and laughed) touched my arm, said: Your poetry is like my photography. 

I want to see your work, I said.

She took my number.

More readers after me; poems about church, Rastafarianism,  blackberries and the secret life of breasts.  The show concluded after 9:30.  I wanted to escape quickly.  I don’t know why.  After my friend left, I wanted to vanish midair.  But I didn’t get away fast enough.  The organizer leaned out of the door again: they want pictures of the poets!

A couple of people approached me with generous compliments about my poems.  I don’t know why I felt so closed and bashful.  I didn’t know what to say back.  I barely knew how to accept praise without feeling the need to immediately return it.  I felt foolish half-assedly explaining the forms behind Sun and the ghetto piece.  I stood there, allowing myself to be hosed with sugar, like a good sport, and left quietly and alone.

Last night I stood at the bus stop, anxious.  I had to get home, thaw out some chicken for lunch today– and also make sure those aforementioned 7 minutes of poetry will be packed with goodness for tonight. 

I took out my poems and went over them.  Like a nervous nut, I kept taking my cell phone out of my pocket– looking at the clock– then reholstering it to read.  Though I JUST looked at my phone, I take it out again– this time to verify the time.  Not that I knew when the bus was coming, but to also give myself an idea as how long i’d be waiting.  (I didn’t know.  Just wanted to look at the time again.)

I read through a poem then, for a third time, took my phone out of my pocket to judge how long it took to read it.  This time, my phone’s screen had a woman’s name, say Betty, and ‘connected.’

Ooops.  In being nervous, did i just phuck up?  Did I clumsy call someone???

Betty is a new friend, someone my cousin wanted me to meet.  We’d been having strange haiku conversations since July 4.  We talked less than 5 minutes and before I could really talk to her, she hung up– Gotta go!  Hmph.

No word from her for a week.  So this past Sunday I call back to check in.  Mind you, I’ve never met her– just had her number passed to me, which she gave permission.  I liked her voice, her laugh and was curious about her.  We hadn’t been able to talk and I wanted more time.  But our second conversation Sunday, she said: You know, I was just thinking of  calling you last night but it got too late.

You lying, I said.

No!  Seriously. 

Nonetheless she shuffled me off the phone again to go do her thing. 

So Sunday puts me here, at this bus stop, with her name on my phone.  I didn’t want to come off as a stalker or desperate, so when I saw her name, I blamed my clumsy fingers.  It hadn’t been enough time to process a call, had it?  I hung up and hoped her phone didn’t connect.

I reholstered it, picked up another poem, then my phone vibrated.

Something strange just happened, she said.  I just called you and the phone hung up.

Ooops!  She actually called ME!!

I told her what had happened, but didn’t tell her I was feeling guilty, off balance.  And uncomfortable! because I’m standing on a corner, wanting to engage a conversation with her, but I’m very distracted.  Anytime but Right Now!!!

Because I wanted to keep her on the phone this time, I said: hey!  I’m doing this reading tomorrow.  Would you mind if I rehearse something with you?

She sighs, heavy.  Poetry?  Go ahead.

Wow.  She’s defensive against poetry!!!  I’m not blaming her, I wouldn’t want anybody reading poetry to me either.  Especially from a bus stop.  And you know how much Bad poetry is out there…

I bite the bullet, take out There Is Sun and read it.  I flip stapled pages and brace them from the wind against the pole.

I don’t remember if she said (dismissively) that’s nice or (intrigued) that’s… beautiful.  She mentioned what she saw– how much the poem revealed to her. 

There Is Sun is about as close to a genuine love poem I’ve ever written, though there is no Love in it.  No eroticism.  But it encapsulates a feeling of peace and happiness and joy and contentment and light– she picked up on all this.  I held back what inspired it.  I held back the PS about how all the elements were based on found materials.  There really was a snake, a squirrel, a bright sun, and hope for love with a woman I was crushing on that week. 

But if you have to explain a poem, you’ve phucked up.  After the poem is written, it should be all there for the audience to unpack for themselves.  No one needs know what’s behind it.  It just IS.  And each person picks their own meaning from the words.   I swallowed my need/desire to footnote it so we could talk other things. 

I look up and see the bus turn the corner with her voice in my ear.  I shove the poem in my gym bag, then struggle to get my fare together.  The phone is so tiny and my head so big, I can’t get away with that shoulder-cradle thing.  But I manage and we talk during the bus ride.  I get a little more information out of her, a little more time.

In one neighborhood the signal drops out.  Calling back sec0nds later is too late.  Her cousin is on the other line.  She’ll call me back. 

Our third conversation– as strange as the other two.  Will I ever get to meet her in person is the question?  Will she ever forgive me for attempting to capture her attention with poetry?

The reading, how it was set up, was kinda shady.  I get an email from the Dude: hey!  July 14, reading with some South Asian poets, here’s the website.  See you then!

I appreciate letting me think for myself, being proactive.  I found the address on my own, at least.  But.  Ummm.  No flyer?  What time is the reading?  Did you organize this or are you a middle man?  Is this even for real??

I mean, that I’m not getting paid is one thing.  But good god.

Ordinarily I wouldn’t trip, but I was attempting to invite someone.  I realized in constructing the invite– I knew nothing, not even what time it was going to start.   I sent him a email tuesday asking more info and he wrote back– Good question!  I’m forwarding your email and hope to see you then!

Its the Virgo in me.  I want to know what I’m getting into before I get in. 

The most I’m empowered to do is prep my seven minutes.  Considering the number of poems I have, the new, the old, the crowd favorites, the ones I’d forgotten about, etc.  and considering this is a reading where I’ll be dropped in the middle of an audience I know nothing about, what do I read for seven minutes?

Well.  My thought here– when in doubt, be pretty.  All angry poems are out.  I’m not feeling uptight, thankfully.  No Screaming.  No accusations, either.  So nothing about race.  Sunday I finished a solid, readable version of a poem I’ll leave unnamed here, but was inspired by a homeless woman outside a coffeeshop.  I know EXACTLY where to read that and maybe this week I will.  But not tomorrow for the Unknown.

There’s many variations I could do with this reading.   But what I’m thinking:

There Is Sun / A Prayer or At The Velvet Rope Outside Heaven / For What Remains

Maybe all four considering how short those middle poems are — probably less a minute each.

* * *

This past weekend I reunited with an old friend.  Someone for whom I realized is the only connection I have to my old house on Market St. and my former life.  He’d been going through a lot of drama lately.  We were able to talk for a long while Sunday.   At one point, he asked me to read him some poems.  I’d forgotten he too is a poet who recently branched off into visual art.  It was a spontaneous reading.  I took advantage and read a couple of poems I’ve not been able to run for an audience yet, and a couple that sound really cool.

He told me, my voice has changed & I now sound like the ghetto Walt Whitman.

A poem fits in your mouth differently than on the page.  While reading to him, I grabbed a pencil and made quick notes next to stanzas I realized needed to be lengthened.  In reading poetry, music, the beat, becomes essential.  The tongue has to land in a certain way while working through a poem. 

I listened both to myself and to how he was listening to me.  There’s a medium ground where you as a poet meet the listener (which is different, slightly, from meeting the reader) and the listener shows you their attention and interest and you can often feel where their attention wanes or where they can become confused.  More than anything else, I strive for clarity.  Like it or be indifferent, but I want the reader/listener to understand clearly what’s happening and where we are.  I write, first, for the listener.  Whether they sit at a reading or have a poem or read it aloud to themselves.  

The allignment of sounds must work first– then, the layout of the words on the page — where the white space surrounding the words work as a breath or pause for the eye.

Whatever I write, each piece becomes  something like a child.  A nurturable thing with its own personality, wants, voice, opinions.  It exists as it is in spite of my occassional desire to want it to be different, or better… or it remains in a state where I love it totally as it is.

Sometimes others agree with me.  Sometimes not.

Which is to say, this ‘poem’ is poetic, but doesn’t strike me as much a poem as it does a very short story.  Yet,  I always thought of poems as very short stories.

Many of my recent poems have come from the Truth and are based on what Actually Happened.  The poem here is the oddest hybrid I’ve ever done.  Its a poem, I guess, because I’m a poet and Want it to be a poem.  Yet its also a monologue; the opening paragraph to an unfinished story.  It is a small story.  It straddles two fences; fictional first person narrative and poem.

If you’re a  cynic, you could say its a short story I don’t want to finish.  That’s fair.  But for me, this is All i want to say about That.  Where it ends is where I wanted it to end.  The questions it leaves you with are questions I want you to wonder about.   I believe by not answering everything for you, it tell you everything you need to know.

But at the same time, there’s other ideas swirling in my imagination right now, demanding I do something different– a screenplay, a play, a story, a something.  And its possible this could get recycled.  But as it is, I don’t think this is a bad child.  If anything, he’s just Misunderstood.  Especially by me.

***

songs I played for your father

after my boy caught one

in the kitchen

heaven’s gate opened for me.

Ain’t got family left

 what’d give a fuck–

a mob of zombie-

eyed foster fathers, dicks turning

propellers of belts.

I touched ground

said what the fuck

& called the number

my cell mate’d
weep to himself at night

in something like prayer.

The serranade of digits

fall easy as dimes.  Seven.

Six. Five. I can’t stop. Nine.

Nine. Eight. Feel a country

fool doing it

but when a voice weeps:

Jerome, come home –

Its a sound I feel in my chest.

I know there are baby pictures I can’t match

but it would be a sin to say no to this

to say no to someone

who wants you.

Aint I been wanting

someone

to call me home for years?

this is for jerome

counting off constellations of

memories on our cracked ceiling.

add this one, homie.  the time

I went to your father’s house that night

over easy jesus & excuses smoked down to the ash

and tripped on how any of his stories

could have been my true fathers’

Your dad looked at me, eyes wet,

called his grandmomma’s name and Ain’t  
This and Uncle That.

family I know only through your tears.

I wanted laugh in his face: Nigga,

I know this game cause I’m playing it–

but felt like a double bitch caught up at the club

when I start weeping with him.

Your stories came through me easy as ballards

I played them for your father

so well that whenever a fight took, 

a cop shook,

or a broad got bent over a couch

he,

your father,

would grab me tight

press alcohol to my lips

like you’d give an easy woman a kiss

and say:  ‘you and me… we’re just alike.

father and son. to

be somebody.  to be family.  this is it. 

and it feels so lonesome.