Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Props? Clothes? No!

So after a pretty bad week of unemployment and stress thanks to a certain boy who will not be named, I really missed my slam people. I wanted to slam, but it was the Alt slam, in this case the "prop slam" and I had nothing to do for that, so I thought I'd just show up and hang out with some of the people I really like and watch some poetry.

Considering it was Thanksgiving Monday, not too many people showed up, and Spillious begged me to think of something as he had only 6 poets signed up. I told him I'd take a look through my journal (I hadn't even brought my poems) and see what I could come up with. Spillious had brought a leather suitcase, among a whole bunch of other things, and I have a poem about a case of the blues, so I thought I'd go with it.

I actually had a great time, fumbling with the big case, pretending it to be very heavy, and revealing it at the end to be completely empty, just like a case of the blues should be (awwwwww).

I did so well on that poems--9s and 10s! That I was bumped into the second round! Oh shit.

So I pulled up one from memory, called Bombardment, and picked up every prop I could find and continuously picked them up and dropped them until finally dropping everything, and taking off my scarf and sweater. Taking my clothes off landed me second place (and $25), just behind the legendary comic Richard Lett, who, I suppose, was charming enough to compete with my stripping routine.

This is why you should come to the slam, people.

The whole thing felt great. It really cheered me up, and I definitely got some stuff out onstage. Continuing to drink with aforementioned slam people really rounded off the night.

Anyway, here are the poems, if you're interested:

A case of the Blues
Sept 4

I got a case of the blues, baby.
I got a big ol’ sack of the sads
just waiting in the middle of my room
sitting on my very clean sheets
to be opened and fill the place with gloom.

This case of mine, well baby, it’s gorgeous.
Dark oak finish, big ugly latches,
and just as heavy as a case of blues should be, baby.

I wish it were full of tools, though, darling,
I wish it had wrenches and screwdrivers,
thing to help me build a house, a big one,
with a library full of books and old chairs you can sink down into.

I wish this case were full of glassware, honey, bottle openers and scotch whiskey
tools to build a bar where me and my friends
can drink and talk and feel at home.

I wish it were a sack full of love, sugar, full of hope and trust, or a trust fund,
whatever people need to build a family.

It could even be full of spirits, sweetness,
ghosts who just want to talk,
so I wouldn’t have to feel so alone.

It could be a case of reds and greens, purples and aquamarine, any colour but the blues weighing down those very clean sheets.

Or forget all that, baby.
I just wish it were a case of wine.

But for now,
the blues will have to do.


i’m being bombarded.
bombs of info are barding me
goading me, loading me up, linke some
information superhighway supersize me bucket of fries and lies.
explosions of knowledge go off in my frontal cortex
while my hypothalamus protests the barrage.

this rapid-fire world, these fast-traffic words,
the bodies and faces attempting to annex my brain—

violence in newspapers! sex on tv!
human drama and a middle of the afternoon beer and burger and beer and beer and beer
people and books just looking at me, waiting for
intuitive essays and analytical advice

my body disgruntles, it dis, and worse, it gruntles.
my fingertips echo, my thighs ask, my forearms want to know: what’s gone missing?

it’s your hands, you know.

that’s what they are all demanding, fingertips, thighs and forearms.
they are ganging up on me on behalf of my heart, which is just now
rallying against reading, objecting to noises, protesting distractions.
there is a revolution happening in my senses, and all they keep asking for is your hands.
your hands, and your mouth, your thoughts, your air, your chest, your words, your all.

but the bards keep on bombing. the dis keep on gruntling.

till i say, “just wait til those hands come back,” i say,
to bards and bombers and dis and dis gruntlers.
“just wait,” to the troops, the muscles in my ankles, the follicles of my skin, the enamel of my teeth.
just wait.
and the power will go out.


Anonymous said...

I like "bombardment" a lot. I like the idea that hands and touch could unify the parts of one's self that the rush and hustle of everyday living fractures. It's a very idealistic argument (I like poems that make an argument) but I don't think it's nieve. Romance is maybe nothing more than the belief that beauty can heal us completely.

drj said...

thank you.