feels so good – finally read to an audience last night. been 10 months since we read, 12 months since we’ve been with a babble of poets. this is the reason we’re moving to chicago – to be in the creative flow again.
this was at the publication party for issue #3 of The Delinquent. i recited these two from memory since i had no poetry with me:
. . .
Grease Your Grill
I’m an oven cleaner baby
Come to scrub your grill
Yes this oven loving man
Mean to steam your grill
Get the heat back baby
Flame ‘n fire the thrill
I’ll rub your rust off lady
Get your grid to shine
Rid this mood of maybe baby
Lady let me lick your lime
Make much meat that might be
Moistened by munching lightly
Juicy, prime
Gonna grease your grill
Put the heat back baby
Then send you the bill
. . .
Now Zen
It ain’t age.
It ain’t sex.
It ain’t race, religion, height,
gender, color, class or learning.
It’s path, progress and position.
The road not not taken.
Be here now.
Hear now
oh eyes unseeing
oh ears unearned.
We’re all perfect potential
cept maybe republicans, lawyers,
the true organized crime called police
the true whores called priests.
You can walk on water IF water wants.
Just ask.
Walk willing.
There ain’t no dark night’s ungentle light.
Ain’t nothing outside but lies.
But even lie true ain’t for you.
Walk within.
Don’t need no god.
No catholic pimp pushing blood feast.
My lie’s mine.
Walk my own walk.
Fuck the talk.
Grasshoppers gone wrong become ants.
Bad ants cry uncle, cry wolf, cry baby.
Goats goad sacrifice to sun.
Ritual requires repetition, release.
Nothing stays river’s run
but drought’s dry dirt
(and river still runs).
Rub your ears together.
Start a fire.
Flesh alarm.
Let gone go.
Lock lip.
Listen.
