For me, writing poetry is like taking a shit. I do it because I have to. I take in the world through my own experience, process it, decide what to use and what to throw away, then I take a dump, or in this case, write a poem. Some things in life might give certain poets a kind of literary diarrhea. Those plates of metaphorical Indian food sometimes carry the label of "muse". Hollywood is one of mine.
Since my poems are so much like poop, once I write them, I usually want little or nothing to do with them. Also applicable to this analogy (heh heh, anal-ogy) is the fact that most people are less bothered by their own stank, than the stink stank of others. That being said, I'm not going to pretend to be the best judge of my own work.
Yes, this is going somewhere. In anticipation of the up coming poetry event "Sparrows", at which I have 9 minutes on stage, I have started to comb through old poems in an effort to decide which (if any) to use during my set. I'm also involved in a program called "Troubadours" in which myself and other performers will go around to specified restaurants in Salida doing readings for individual tables etc. (kinda like the Mariachis at El Compadre), so not all of these will be read on the stage. Besides that, I hope to have a fair amount of new material to read as well.
In any case, I posted a bunch of poems I'm considering on a new blog you'll find on my profile page called "Poems". I know, that is one creative name, right? Or, if you're as lazy as I am, you can just click this. I am asking anyone reading this to please take the time to browse the poems there, and let me know which ones you like and/or dislike. If you're not really into poetry, it doesn't matter. I still value and want to know your opinion. After all, most people think poetry is something for geeks and art fags only, but they'd be wrong. Poetry is for everyone, and I hope there are no pretensions or stigmatisms like that attached to the poems I write. Like I said, to me, they aren't that far from steaming piles of shit. Now I'm asking you to smell the piles, and let me know which of them stink the least. If you're not one for posting comments, don't feel obligated, but do feel free to send me an email here: camel_disk_jockey@yahoo.com.
Wow... that was motivating, eh? Asking you to smell piles of shit? Yeah... some people call it a knack; I like to think of it as a calling. I have an innate ability to ruin any potentially nice idea with gross analogies and repulsive imagery.
Thanks for your help, and keep on rawking.
Kory
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Future Shock
The future. What will it be like? Why is it on everyone's mind? Is it really going to be as bleak as some people make it seem, or will it be a spiritually evolved utopia and constant telekinetic hug-fest?
The pessimistic view is that of a polluted, post apocalyptic ghetto where the last surviving humans fight against newly evolved, hyper intelligent cockroaches and revived dinosaurs for what little resources are left amongst the rubble of once proud cities. Or sometimes it's more of a totalitarian state, wherein "Big Brother" controls the people through technologically advanced mind control devices and computer generated fear mongering.
Less pessimistic, but still naive is the vision of the "Jetsons" future, where dad goes to work in a personal, compact spaceship, and there are robots built to do all the things that human moms used to do. The robots will do laundry the same way we used to, but the washing machines won't change much. It's the idea that everything will just get bigger and better, but society and culture will remain much the same.
Then there's the hippie, new-age vision. This is one in which the people become spiritually advanced and enlightened as a whole. People learn to live in nature without exploiting it, and everyone loves one another. With hardly a care in the world, we all go around talking to each other with our minds and getting our nourishment through photosynthesis, producing no waste.
I don't know what the future will be like, but I imagine if one were to take certain elements of all the popular views listed above, one might be more in line with a practical guess. I sometimes imagine a future where in big brother does gain ground, and the gap between the "Haves" and the "Have Nots" grows exponentially through rampant capitalism. That's not to say the world will be a police state while the people are kept in check through mind control and brutality, but that the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer will create a similar, though much less dramatic culture and system of government.
I also think that people will continue to evolve socially and spiritually. While I doubt there will be a utopia of love and universal respect, I think that people will start to get over some of the idiotic bone of contention we now make into huge social issues. Like gay marriage, for instance.... or racism, or any other silly issue people currently use to breed blind hatred. People will have to think of new things to hate about one another, as culture and skin color will not be considered legitimate excuses.
I also see technology moving foreword, and people becoming more environmentally aware. I do don't think this will be a peaceful, enlightened path wither, though. I think it will come out of necessity once enough people die for and use up natural resources like oil. The climate will change, the ozone will change, the Earth's natural resources will become depleted, but humans will think of different energy sources and other solutions to these problems. It will not be an easy realization, though.
Finally I'd like to go on the record as saying that when we reach the future, flying cars or no; hippie utopia or police state, one thing is certain. We will look back on the work of Dr. Dre in awe and wonder. We'll realize that he was one of the greatest producers of music in the late 20th and early 21st centuries. He will be compared to the likes of Quincy Jones and Duke Ellington, and it will be said that no one had similarily commanded and controlled popular music from the Western US before or since. And even old white people will listen to "The Chronic" and "Straight Outta Compton", wishing they were around to hear it when it was brand new.
Over and out.
The pessimistic view is that of a polluted, post apocalyptic ghetto where the last surviving humans fight against newly evolved, hyper intelligent cockroaches and revived dinosaurs for what little resources are left amongst the rubble of once proud cities. Or sometimes it's more of a totalitarian state, wherein "Big Brother" controls the people through technologically advanced mind control devices and computer generated fear mongering.
Less pessimistic, but still naive is the vision of the "Jetsons" future, where dad goes to work in a personal, compact spaceship, and there are robots built to do all the things that human moms used to do. The robots will do laundry the same way we used to, but the washing machines won't change much. It's the idea that everything will just get bigger and better, but society and culture will remain much the same.
Then there's the hippie, new-age vision. This is one in which the people become spiritually advanced and enlightened as a whole. People learn to live in nature without exploiting it, and everyone loves one another. With hardly a care in the world, we all go around talking to each other with our minds and getting our nourishment through photosynthesis, producing no waste.
I don't know what the future will be like, but I imagine if one were to take certain elements of all the popular views listed above, one might be more in line with a practical guess. I sometimes imagine a future where in big brother does gain ground, and the gap between the "Haves" and the "Have Nots" grows exponentially through rampant capitalism. That's not to say the world will be a police state while the people are kept in check through mind control and brutality, but that the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer will create a similar, though much less dramatic culture and system of government.
I also think that people will continue to evolve socially and spiritually. While I doubt there will be a utopia of love and universal respect, I think that people will start to get over some of the idiotic bone of contention we now make into huge social issues. Like gay marriage, for instance.... or racism, or any other silly issue people currently use to breed blind hatred. People will have to think of new things to hate about one another, as culture and skin color will not be considered legitimate excuses.
I also see technology moving foreword, and people becoming more environmentally aware. I do don't think this will be a peaceful, enlightened path wither, though. I think it will come out of necessity once enough people die for and use up natural resources like oil. The climate will change, the ozone will change, the Earth's natural resources will become depleted, but humans will think of different energy sources and other solutions to these problems. It will not be an easy realization, though.
Finally I'd like to go on the record as saying that when we reach the future, flying cars or no; hippie utopia or police state, one thing is certain. We will look back on the work of Dr. Dre in awe and wonder. We'll realize that he was one of the greatest producers of music in the late 20th and early 21st centuries. He will be compared to the likes of Quincy Jones and Duke Ellington, and it will be said that no one had similarily commanded and controlled popular music from the Western US before or since. And even old white people will listen to "The Chronic" and "Straight Outta Compton", wishing they were around to hear it when it was brand new.
Over and out.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
SADD kicking in again
My step mom Ellen is really a cool person. She's one of those people who are good at everything, and if she's not naturally inclined toward a certain skill or project, she works harder than everyone else to become good. It's remarkable. That being said, Ellen is easily the best orange peeler ever born. Her only competition would be Rasmus, the Norwegian singer who pretends to be an Italian singer named "Cream Puff", who happens to be her cousin (and is really no competition at all, except that he can also consistently peel an orange in one piece). When she peels an orange, it's as if the peel is denying it's inherent physical traits, and gently tearing itself along a spiraling, precisely perforated edge. Her peels leave nothing behind, and always come off in one piece. They are little Still Life works of art after the fact, as they stand alone, looking like the fruit is still inside the peel, and a skilled artist has painstakingly drawn a mathematically perfect spiral pinstripe with a fine black marker on the outside. I'm not exaggerating, either.
I'm no physicist, nor am I a mathematician, but I have heard of the Fibonacci Code. I understand this basic principal and pattern of adding the digits, and how they are applied to Ellen's orange peeling. Understanding it and actually applying it in the physical sense though, are two different things.
Ever since I first witnessed this (one of many) uncanny ability of my step mom's, I have tried in vain to duplicate it. Today at lunch though, I purchased an orange, and got as close as I'll probably ever come. See?:
Now, this is no doubt a sloppy peel in comparison, still I'm proud of myself for having removed an entire orange peel in only two pieces (the larger of which is shown here). This ain't no tangerine, baby.
Hey, button your lip, you. I can't be the only one who gets excited by achievements as trivial as this, am I? Am I?? Hello? Hello?! Great... I lost 'em.
I'm no physicist, nor am I a mathematician, but I have heard of the Fibonacci Code. I understand this basic principal and pattern of adding the digits, and how they are applied to Ellen's orange peeling. Understanding it and actually applying it in the physical sense though, are two different things.
Ever since I first witnessed this (one of many) uncanny ability of my step mom's, I have tried in vain to duplicate it. Today at lunch though, I purchased an orange, and got as close as I'll probably ever come. See?:
Now, this is no doubt a sloppy peel in comparison, still I'm proud of myself for having removed an entire orange peel in only two pieces (the larger of which is shown here). This ain't no tangerine, baby.
Hey, button your lip, you. I can't be the only one who gets excited by achievements as trivial as this, am I? Am I?? Hello? Hello?! Great... I lost 'em.
A quick side note. While surfing the web last night, I came across an article about the scariest research in science. It is a little bit janky, I'll admit, but one has to admit that it does sound an awful lot like the stuff of Hollywood Blockbusters. after reading this article, I felt like I could predict the next roles for Tome Cruise, Ewan MacGregor and Christian Bale. Leo's probably under Scorsese's thumb for '07 already. Besides, he never doesn't really do action or sci-fi, does he?
Anyway, you too can read the article here:
http://www.popsci.com/popsci/science/b142d534cba30110vgnvcm1000004eecbccdrcrd.html
Now you tell me that article couldn't pass as 7 screen play ideas instead of seven of science's scariest projects.
Right.
Carry on.
Anyway, you too can read the article here:
http://www.popsci.com/popsci/science/b142d534cba30110vgnvcm1000004eecbccdrcrd.html
Now you tell me that article couldn't pass as 7 screen play ideas instead of seven of science's scariest projects.
Right.
Carry on.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
My SADD Story, and how I got through it
Ever since I was a wee lad, large crowds would make me physically ill. In fact, I still have a bit of trouble with them, though they never make me puke anymore. Unfortunately for me, as a youngster, I did a bit of growing up amongst my mom's family, she being the eldest of 10 children born to my own gradny-paw. A big crowd of people, even when they're family, is still a big crowd of people, so I did my share of barfing as a kid.
Some time in my teenage years, I misdiagnosed the problem as some kind of social anxiety (an angsty, 13 year old hobbledehoy, I would at times seriously consider the idea that I was perhaps retarded, but no one had ever bothered to tell me, like the grocery bagger with down syndrome at the supermarket). At this point though, it didn't fuckin' matter, because I had also discovered girls, and girls did not, by any means, consort with any boys who might be called "Socially Awkward".
I immediately abandoned Weird Al for NWA. I traded my Chemistry set for some Z. Cavericcis. Instead of taking extra classes at school, I tried my hand at a fistfight or two, and skipping school entirely. I wasn't sure why, but somehow my discovering girls - and girls discovering the omnipotent powers of their own two breasts - directly coincided with an unforeseen, insurmountable necessity in my world to... well... be, uh... cool?
What the hell is cool?! There was no way to know. I had to look around. See what other kids were doing. How were they getting along? Was being "cool" about being smart? About clothes? Music? Boobs? Sports? I never did find out what cool was, despite a solid ten years of searching. I did learn something in my valiant, hard fought efforts to fit in though. I learned that one can get a big crowd of people to say, do or believe just about anything they want. I learned how to be a part of a crowd. How to appreciate it, how to get drunk and laid in it, and how to like it like that (you like it like that?). But even so, my inner outcast was always there. Along with nerd in the closet, the artist under the rug, and the drunkard beneath the bed. I felt like my life was spiraling out of control and into "a true story of seven strangers picked to live in a house, work together and have their lives taped, to find out what happens, when people stopped being polite, and started getting real." I had hit rock bottom, but that's when everything changed.
I suppose these days I'm more "open" about my SADD - or Socially Awkward Dork/Dickwad/Douche/Dritsac Disorder. That's right SADD. It's caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain triggering fits of terribly nerdiness, followed by deep self loathing and the subsequent feeling of urgency to be cool about it. I know that now, thanks to the work of Dr. Whogives Afhatshit PhD, and his new book entitled, "Quit being a douche you SADD mother fucker". In it he discusses techniques on everything from not giving a hot whiskey piss about what other people think; to liking and disliking concepts and ideas strictly on one's own accord. Finally, Dr. Afhatshit reveals the path to thinking (that's right, thinking) all by one's self in an eight... uh, eighty, no, sorry - eighty eight step, easy to use program.
Folks, I'm a real live success story. I can now walk around without worrying about having SADD outbreak, because I give neither fat nor flying fucks about certain social norms. Good thing I've learned how to like and/or dislike something, then use the eighty eight, easy to remember steps to thinking it over. I know for instance that when walking down the street, a proper distance at which to acknowledge the presence of someone you recognize is approximately eight feet. Any longer, and your waving hands, goonish smile and "hello there" noises become nothing but plain buffoonery. Not giving the afore mentioned pisses, shits, or fucks is what allows me to react loudly at distances of up to twenty feet, at which point an individual is hardly recognizable. Most of the time, it's not even the person I thought it was. Man that's funny!
I guess I was kind of a douche for all those years, but now I realize that there's more to it than that. While I did consistently act like a complete dickwad, I know now that the real me was here all along, and the real you is right there too. Right now. The fear of being our true selves is the real douche, not you and I.
The power to get over having SADD is in you, little dingleberry, so call today. I can still hear Dr. Afhatshit saying, in a thick, mad-scientist accent, "Besht karate still unt ze inshide!" while standing with his arm around a life size cut-out of Mr. Miyagi. I don't know why he said that, but he was probably right.
Some time in my teenage years, I misdiagnosed the problem as some kind of social anxiety (an angsty, 13 year old hobbledehoy, I would at times seriously consider the idea that I was perhaps retarded, but no one had ever bothered to tell me, like the grocery bagger with down syndrome at the supermarket). At this point though, it didn't fuckin' matter, because I had also discovered girls, and girls did not, by any means, consort with any boys who might be called "Socially Awkward".
I immediately abandoned Weird Al for NWA. I traded my Chemistry set for some Z. Cavericcis. Instead of taking extra classes at school, I tried my hand at a fistfight or two, and skipping school entirely. I wasn't sure why, but somehow my discovering girls - and girls discovering the omnipotent powers of their own two breasts - directly coincided with an unforeseen, insurmountable necessity in my world to... well... be, uh... cool?
What the hell is cool?! There was no way to know. I had to look around. See what other kids were doing. How were they getting along? Was being "cool" about being smart? About clothes? Music? Boobs? Sports? I never did find out what cool was, despite a solid ten years of searching. I did learn something in my valiant, hard fought efforts to fit in though. I learned that one can get a big crowd of people to say, do or believe just about anything they want. I learned how to be a part of a crowd. How to appreciate it, how to get drunk and laid in it, and how to like it like that (you like it like that?). But even so, my inner outcast was always there. Along with nerd in the closet, the artist under the rug, and the drunkard beneath the bed. I felt like my life was spiraling out of control and into "a true story of seven strangers picked to live in a house, work together and have their lives taped, to find out what happens, when people stopped being polite, and started getting real." I had hit rock bottom, but that's when everything changed.
I suppose these days I'm more "open" about my SADD - or Socially Awkward Dork/Dickwad/Douche/Dritsac Disorder. That's right SADD. It's caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain triggering fits of terribly nerdiness, followed by deep self loathing and the subsequent feeling of urgency to be cool about it. I know that now, thanks to the work of Dr. Whogives Afhatshit PhD, and his new book entitled, "Quit being a douche you SADD mother fucker". In it he discusses techniques on everything from not giving a hot whiskey piss about what other people think; to liking and disliking concepts and ideas strictly on one's own accord. Finally, Dr. Afhatshit reveals the path to thinking (that's right, thinking) all by one's self in an eight... uh, eighty, no, sorry - eighty eight step, easy to use program.
Folks, I'm a real live success story. I can now walk around without worrying about having SADD outbreak, because I give neither fat nor flying fucks about certain social norms. Good thing I've learned how to like and/or dislike something, then use the eighty eight, easy to remember steps to thinking it over. I know for instance that when walking down the street, a proper distance at which to acknowledge the presence of someone you recognize is approximately eight feet. Any longer, and your waving hands, goonish smile and "hello there" noises become nothing but plain buffoonery. Not giving the afore mentioned pisses, shits, or fucks is what allows me to react loudly at distances of up to twenty feet, at which point an individual is hardly recognizable. Most of the time, it's not even the person I thought it was. Man that's funny!
I guess I was kind of a douche for all those years, but now I realize that there's more to it than that. While I did consistently act like a complete dickwad, I know now that the real me was here all along, and the real you is right there too. Right now. The fear of being our true selves is the real douche, not you and I.
The power to get over having SADD is in you, little dingleberry, so call today. I can still hear Dr. Afhatshit saying, in a thick, mad-scientist accent, "Besht karate still unt ze inshide!" while standing with his arm around a life size cut-out of Mr. Miyagi. I don't know why he said that, but he was probably right.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Right now, I'm going to set itunes to random and list the ten arbitrary selections. I promise not to cheat. OK, go.
1) Vivaldi - "4 Seasons" (Spring Concerto). Duh. Ben likes it.
2) Clarence Clearwater - "Slip Away". Because it rawks, yo.
3) John Lennon - "It's Real". Weird. Lennon whistles a happy song and plucks a guit-box for just longer than one minute. Yoko recently released this acoustic version (2005?).
4) Gilberto - "Girl From Ipanema". I know, I rule.
5) Unknown Artist(s) from something I got on Lime Wire called "Irish Drinking Songs". It's called "Fuck You, I'm Drunk". And while I always appreciate a hilarious racial stereo type (drunken Irishmen... though sadly, the song says nothing of potatoes); I also appreciate hundred year old Sea Shanties with verse as profound as, "I'm going to stay drunk / 'till the next time I'm drunk!"
6) Calexico - "The Ride Part II". It has it's artistic merits, but it's inescapably hipster crap. Aury and Thomas (Or "The Frenchies" as they're sometimes called) gave it to me. I burned 'em a shitload of Jimmie Rogers in return. Welcome to America, fellas - De-yo-deh-leigh-he-he!
7) Johnny Cash - "Personal Jesus". Yup. And it's great, too (in case you don't already know). J.R. made a whole CD steeped in his own pending demise. He could see the end of the line as soon as June passed, and thought he'd say "So long" to all o' us fans. Thanks John.
8) Pearl Bailey with Cootie Williams and his Orchestra - "Tess's Torch Song". It's dope, dude. But then again, if your name is "Cootie", you're automatically knighted in the League of Awesomeness.
9) Otis Redding - "Dreams to Remember". I know, I know. It was on some shitty, 80's, coming-of-age-teeny-bopper dung heap of a movie, but Otis is the man, and the song is great.
10) Bill Monroe - "Going Down the Road Feeling Bad". Just an old bluergrass hillbilly who once had his mandolin smashed to bits, painstakingly repaired and recently purchased for well over a million clams. He's that good.
So here's the deal. If you've read this far, you must now post ten random selections from your itunes library. Where should you post it? Hmmm... the comments section of this very entry seems as good a spot as any. Don't cheat and skip a song just because you don't like it, or it's something your douche bag ex roommate downloaded. You don't have to feel obligated to explain, but if the need strikes you, please elaborate.
Over.
1) Vivaldi - "4 Seasons" (Spring Concerto). Duh. Ben likes it.
2) Clarence Clearwater - "Slip Away". Because it rawks, yo.
3) John Lennon - "It's Real". Weird. Lennon whistles a happy song and plucks a guit-box for just longer than one minute. Yoko recently released this acoustic version (2005?).
4) Gilberto - "Girl From Ipanema". I know, I rule.
5) Unknown Artist(s) from something I got on Lime Wire called "Irish Drinking Songs". It's called "Fuck You, I'm Drunk". And while I always appreciate a hilarious racial stereo type (drunken Irishmen... though sadly, the song says nothing of potatoes); I also appreciate hundred year old Sea Shanties with verse as profound as, "I'm going to stay drunk / 'till the next time I'm drunk!"
6) Calexico - "The Ride Part II". It has it's artistic merits, but it's inescapably hipster crap. Aury and Thomas (Or "The Frenchies" as they're sometimes called) gave it to me. I burned 'em a shitload of Jimmie Rogers in return. Welcome to America, fellas - De-yo-deh-leigh-he-he!
7) Johnny Cash - "Personal Jesus". Yup. And it's great, too (in case you don't already know). J.R. made a whole CD steeped in his own pending demise. He could see the end of the line as soon as June passed, and thought he'd say "So long" to all o' us fans. Thanks John.
8) Pearl Bailey with Cootie Williams and his Orchestra - "Tess's Torch Song". It's dope, dude. But then again, if your name is "Cootie", you're automatically knighted in the League of Awesomeness.
9) Otis Redding - "Dreams to Remember". I know, I know. It was on some shitty, 80's, coming-of-age-teeny-bopper dung heap of a movie, but Otis is the man, and the song is great.
10) Bill Monroe - "Going Down the Road Feeling Bad". Just an old bluergrass hillbilly who once had his mandolin smashed to bits, painstakingly repaired and recently purchased for well over a million clams. He's that good.
So here's the deal. If you've read this far, you must now post ten random selections from your itunes library. Where should you post it? Hmmm... the comments section of this very entry seems as good a spot as any. Don't cheat and skip a song just because you don't like it, or it's something your douche bag ex roommate downloaded. You don't have to feel obligated to explain, but if the need strikes you, please elaborate.
Over.
Sparrows is coming up. It's a poetry festival in Salida, Co (which, if I understand correctly, is in the mountains West of Colorado Springs?). They have a good variety of poets this year, young and old, and of all walks of life. I've got 9 minuets on Saturday night, March 3rd. Rawk. I've also been invited to join a travelling band of poets to do some freestyle readings around town before the festival, but I'm not sure of the details of that yet.
The theme this year is "Wage Poetry". Kinda like make love, not war, you know? The cool thing is though, they sent out a news letter to those performing saying that a lot of the submissions they were getting were dark and cynical, and they were looking for more upbeat and funny stuff. They don't want to focus on the negative. Now, say what you may about poets, but I thought that was pretty cool. Discourage the "Oh Woe is Me" aspect of poetry, and let's rock the house with some real shit. Besides that, I believe that for most literary folks, positively themed poems are harder to write, especially when dealing with a heavy subject like war.
Me... I can't write about the current conflict (or any war, really) without getting a little worked up, so my submission for the "Wage Poetry" theme had a different twist. I put together a performance piece about a serpentine LA lawyer ordering David Beckham for $250 million at a cafe, then swallowing him whole with a side of fries and leaving without tipping. It's called "Minimum Wage Poetry". I won't put it up here though, 'cause I want it to premier at the festival. Word up, yo. I'm hardcore like that son! I got jokes.
If'n y'all know anyone who might be able to make it out to Salida on or around March 1st through the 3rd, make sure you tell 'em about the festival. Don't worry, it's not going to be a bunch of squares reciting shitty limericks about butterflies drinking the tears of sleeping birds (which is true, by the way; entomologists recently observed a species displaying this behaviour). There should be plenty of debauchery, as the guys and gals who put this together are a good lot of old hippies, some of whom have been around long enough to have hung out with Kerouac, Cassidy, Ginsberg and the like. So it should be cool. Anyway, for more info, you can go here: www.sparrowspoetry.com. There's also a blog link in my side bar, but it doesn't go to the home site.
'Bout it, I guess. Sorry for being boring today. I'm gonna go punch myself.
The theme this year is "Wage Poetry". Kinda like make love, not war, you know? The cool thing is though, they sent out a news letter to those performing saying that a lot of the submissions they were getting were dark and cynical, and they were looking for more upbeat and funny stuff. They don't want to focus on the negative. Now, say what you may about poets, but I thought that was pretty cool. Discourage the "Oh Woe is Me" aspect of poetry, and let's rock the house with some real shit. Besides that, I believe that for most literary folks, positively themed poems are harder to write, especially when dealing with a heavy subject like war.
Me... I can't write about the current conflict (or any war, really) without getting a little worked up, so my submission for the "Wage Poetry" theme had a different twist. I put together a performance piece about a serpentine LA lawyer ordering David Beckham for $250 million at a cafe, then swallowing him whole with a side of fries and leaving without tipping. It's called "Minimum Wage Poetry". I won't put it up here though, 'cause I want it to premier at the festival. Word up, yo. I'm hardcore like that son! I got jokes.
If'n y'all know anyone who might be able to make it out to Salida on or around March 1st through the 3rd, make sure you tell 'em about the festival. Don't worry, it's not going to be a bunch of squares reciting shitty limericks about butterflies drinking the tears of sleeping birds (which is true, by the way; entomologists recently observed a species displaying this behaviour). There should be plenty of debauchery, as the guys and gals who put this together are a good lot of old hippies, some of whom have been around long enough to have hung out with Kerouac, Cassidy, Ginsberg and the like. So it should be cool. Anyway, for more info, you can go here: www.sparrowspoetry.com. There's also a blog link in my side bar, but it doesn't go to the home site.
'Bout it, I guess. Sorry for being boring today. I'm gonna go punch myself.
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