For Willie Perdomo, with sincerest apologies for missing tonight's show. I just couldn't deal...

Be sure to pick up his new book, Smoking Lovely, and catch him at Acentos next month, November 11th.

latter-day saints
for Willie Perdomo and Imani Springer

I. 1996



-I am you. You are me.

-I am you. You are me.



perspective flipped

god taps me on my right shoulder

whispers in my left ear



-I am you. You are me. We the same.



his words communion wine

his voice      a deep, husky red



-I am you. You are me. We the same.

 Can't you feel our veins

   drinking the same blood?



i swallow deeply

inhale the scent

of prophecy



II. 1997



   he says

if it wasn't for her

i would be standing on the corner

thinking about the world

drinking blackberry brandy

keeping a cold hustler company

with stories from back in the days



and i know exactly what he means



if it wasn't for her

i'm not sure where i'd be now

but back then

when dreams becamse nightmares

you'd find me in a bar called botanica

borrowed pen in one hand

cold pint of stout in the other

american spirit hanging from my lip

     unable to change my world

     determined to change everyone else's



i wrote it all down

alternately angry

     drunk

     suicidal

     revolutionary

     drunk

     alone



despair is the muse of the blocked and 

i was prolific



III. 1998



where's he from

a nickel costs a dime



langston told him that



where i'm from

trees are few and

far between



leaves, like dreams of escape

wither, die, fall, float

in curbside streams to the sewers below



no one told me this exactly



but i could hear it in his voice

when he tells me what his mother said,

"Bueno, mijo, eso es la vida del pobre"

(Well, son, that is the life of the poor.)



when we finally met

on the other side of

our own books of Job

he stepped down

from the pedestal i'd placed him on

shook my hand

     god becoming man

     to save my soul



IV. 1999



a twelve-year old poet

asks me

why I do not write anything funny



eyes aglow with innocence and hope

i do not have the heart

to tell her that i lost my sense of humor

years ago

but my poems

have told her exactly that



she smiles at my hesitance

and i want to tell her about

every single thing

that has ever stolen my faith

wish there a way

to put it all in one poem

shove it down people's throats

make them choke on it - gag for air

beg for second chances

     to do things right



but i don't



in her eyes

is the hope i'd lost

and she offers it to me

no strings attached

     just a simple question

     and a smile



 V. 2000



of all the books

resting on my shelf

what i remember most are the voices

and the people they belong to



-I am you. You are me. We the same.



there is no poem

that can change

our worlds



only poets

who can change

our minds

For Columbus Day, from Eduardo Galeano's MEMORY OF FIRE: I. Genesis (W.W. Norton, 1998):

1506: Valladolid
The Fifth Voyage

Last night he dictated his last testament. This morning he asked if the king's messenger had arrived. Afterward, he slept. Nonsense mutterings and groans. He still breathes, but stertorously, as if battling against the air.

At court, no one has listened to his entreaties. He returned from the third voyage in chains, and on the fourth there was no one to pay attention to his titles and dignities.

Christopher Columbus is going out knowing that there is no passion or glory that does not lead to pain. On the other hand, he does not know that within a few years the banner that he stuck for the first time into the sands of the Carribbean will be waving over the empire of the Aztecs, in lands yet unknown, and over the kingdom of the Incas, under the unknown skies of the Southern Cross. He does not know that with all his lies, promises, and ravings, he has still fallen short. The supreme admiral of the ocean sea still believes he has reached Asia from the rear.

The ocean will not be called the Sea of Columbus; nor will the new world bear his name, but that of this Florentine friend Amerigo Vespucci, navigator and pilot master. But it was Columbus who found dazzling color that didn't exist in the European rainbow. Blind, he dies without seeing it.

Either Hollywood has been lying for years or Memorial High School's Class of 1993 has no sense of drama!


Saturday night was Salomé's 10 Year High School Reunion and I was fully expecting to enjoy some of the stereotypical dramatics I've seen in the movies. A redeeming fight between the jock and the geek; indiscretions in the bathroom; shocking revelations on the dance floor; long-lost love found in the parking lot. Something! Instead, it was a night of old friends and acquaintances, many of whom hadn't seen each other in a while, enjoying a rare night out together. I'm sure there were some intense moments being played out in the room but nothing that broke out into the public view.

Salomé and Andrea had a good time, while Frank and I kept the bartender busy, played photographer when needed and shook hands with people whose names I've mostly forgotten. It was a lot of fun - especially for the simple fact that it was a night out with adults, with no curfew, and the kids were safe at home with Grandpa and Abba - but it was a little anti-climactic. Damn you, John Hughes!

The night made me vaguely wistful about my own reunion. Well, maybe not wistful, as I likely wouldn't go if they had one, but it got me to wondering what happened to many of my own classmates. From both high schools. It's been 16 years (HOLY SHIT!) since I graduated from Lakeland High School - where I arrived against my will from Mt. Vernon High School in the last few months of my Junior year - and I've been in touch with all of two people in the past ten years, one from each school, maintaining the barest of contact with each. I don't have a yearbook from either school and doubt I'd even recognize anyone if I passed them on the street today. There's a handful I'd be curious about, how their lives turned out, whether or not they'd successfully pursued their teenage dreams, and in Mt. Vernon's case, whether they'd escaped being the statistics many of us were expected to be.

Thing is, I'd probably be happier just hearing about it secondhand than dealing with the awkward attempts at reconnecting to a mostly forgotten past. I'm pretty hardcore about "out of sight, out of mind" and, once enough time passes, just plain out of my life.

That's probably a bad thing but it's how it's played out every time there's a significant shift in my life. That whole "Started over more times barefoot than clothed" thing, I guess.

I get some of the most random emails from time to time. My favorites are the ones from high school and college students asking permission to use a poem of mine - usually Breathless - in their forensics competitions. A couple of times a week, I still get emails concerning the show at Bar 13 that I used to run on Monday nights. I always answer what I can while letting them know I no longer run the show and cc: the current curators so they can help them out further.

Earlier this week, I got one such email, a humorous query from someone looking for a certain poet that used to read at 13 a couple of years back. I say humorous because the poet in question was pretty awful (remember Fishy Smell?) but the guy that was looking for him thought he was the best thing ever. To each his own, I responded, respectfully disagreeing with his take on said poet, informing him that I no longer run the series at Bar 13 and cc:d the current curators.

One of them - who shall remain nameless, literally and figuratively, less to protect their identity than to keep myself from being anymore pissed off about the events of the past six months - responded to him directly. It wasn't until he responded to me that I saw the curator's typically curt response that included the following gem:

"Please note that while Guy Le Charles was at one time a host for our series, he's no longer, in any way, affiliated with the series or the louderARTS Project."

Revisionist history? Petty bullshit? You make the call.

Today's radio gig went well. Fish, Oscar, Rich, Ed and myself representing for Acentos on Louis Reyes Rivera's weekly WBAI show, Perspective.

Rivera is like the Yoda of poetry. Tiny old guy, his eyes practically drip wisdom, history clinging to his brown skin - he's the closest thing to an actual griot I've ever met. He even carries a crooked staff!

We each read a couple of poems, talked about Acentos, hinted at the coming of the LWA (aka, Latino/a Writers Alliance) and joked off-mike about how we were like the new Menudo. Or New Kids on el Bloque. Or, my favorite, En Cinco. Rich claimed Joey Fatone and I think Ed's the most likely Justin Timberlake (it's all about the hair). I'll have to claim JC Chasez as I refuse to be Lance or Chris!

Later, I'm meeting up with Daphne Gottlieb for a drink before her feature at Urbana - Acentos is considering bumrushing the slam! - and then hope to find an anti-Yankee bar to catch the end of game 2, hoping it's more Return of the Jedi than Empire Strikes Back.

NOTE: If you're wondering why you didn't know about the WBAI gig ahead of time, you must not be on my mailing list, and you're certainly not on the list! ;-)

Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Say it out loud a couple of times so you understand that it really happened.

Let it sink in.

Note the feeling, if any, in the pit of your stomach while you consider the potential ramifications of a political neophyte governing the largest state in the country, in charge of one of the largest economies in the world.

Identify the feeling you get from knowing such responsibility has been entrusted to someone whose positions on most issues are vague at best, and whose platform was that he'd go to Sacramento to "knock heads together" and "kick some serious butt."

Pause.

Now, ask yourself how much attention you've paid to the nine Democrats lined up for the blessing to take on President George W. Bush a year from now.

How much, if anything, do you know about each of them and how much of that knowledge came from your own research? Can you name them all? Do you know what they stand for, what they're advocating and how their past records jibe or conflict with what they're saying now? Did you know that one of them, Bob Graham, an early "top-tier" candidate, has already thrown in the towel thanks to lack of momentum in his campaign?

With that in mind, there was a great op-ed in last week's Cambridge Chronicle:

Dennis Kucinich, on the other hand, who is a more progressive choice than [Howard] Dean, has received very little recognition in the media. Why? It knows he's running. It should tell us who he is and what he stands for, and let us decide if we want to support him or not. It should tell us that Kucinich has been even more unwavering in his opposition to the Iraq war than has Dean, the supposed "anti-war" candidate. It should tell us that Kucinich proposes a plan for universal health care that would cover everyone, while Dean proposes a piecemeal plan that would still leave many Americans uninsured. It should tell us that Kucinich supports the environmental Kyoto treaty, while Dean opposes the treaty subject to stronger calls for emission reductions by developing nations (this even though the U.S. is by far the greatest contributor to, and developing nations largely victims of, such emissions). Instead, all we're really told about Kucinich is that he can't win. Some democracy we're in when the media decides for us who can or can't become our President!

The same media that gave Schwarzenegger an unprecedented amount of NATIONAL coverage and, the LA Times' last-ditch efforts notwithstanding, a relatively free ride that rivaled Bush's heyday in the weeks after 9/11.

Of course, this rant assumes that anyone reading it a) thinks things need to change, and b) believes things can change.

Sermon done.

PS: Look for my mayoral campaign to kick off sometime next summer. I'm going down to City Hall to kick some serious metaphors and knock some allegories around. Cowboy up!

Between the unpredictability of the football season and a particularly vibrant baseball playoffs, this is the most exciting time of the year in sports. The underlying drama of the playoffs is as compelling as any book or movie and as unpredictable as the best episodes of Survivor or the workings of the female mind.

I'm not a Yankee fan and love few things more than to root against them. It has less to do with their payroll (the Mets are just as guilty of throwing money around and gouging their fans, only for them it's usually towards a losing effort) than the simple fact that I love the underdog. I grew up a Yankee fan in the 70's - Graig Nettles was my hero! - but by the early 80's, when all my favorite players were gone, I became a Mets fan, remaining loyal to my native NY and suffering through the final years of George Foster and Dave Kingman before the great payoff of 1986!

This year's playoffs find me cheering for the team they beat that year, the Red Sox, hoping they stick it to the Yankees so bad, George Steinbrenner goes into permanent exile and that smug, overrated jerkoff, Joe Torre retires. I'm also rooting for a full seven games from the Cubs and Marlins because two great underdogs deserve no less. The Marlins practically raised their manager (and their season) from near-death and the Cubs...well the Cubs are the Cubs. Period.

Rooting for a team is something you either get or don't and I'm not really sure what the dividing line is. Some people dig competition, some don't, I guess. For me, there's few things as electric as sitting in a bar surrounded by friends and complete strangers, cheering on your favorite team. Or against your least favorite. And, of course, talking shit to rival fans, real or imagined. There's no intrusive thoughts about the fatal flaws of our capitalistic system - unless you're hating on the Yankees free-spending ways - just the pure and simple enjoyment of a game played at the highest level. It's the collective unconcious in it's most powerful form.

There's the human element, too. These are real people playing their hearts out and, especially in the playoffs, the best ones leave everything out on the field. Anyone that watched the Jackson-Damon collision last night and didn't feel it in the pit of their stomach is a heartless bastard. Two guys, playing their hearts out with no regard for their bodies, laying everything on the line. That's what it's all about.

"Cowboy up!" Go Red Sox!

This is my brain: _/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/

This is my brain after leaving too much work for the last minute and not having anything to eat all day: _________________

Admit it, you love the visuals. ;-)

I'd wonder why I leave these financial advertorials I have to write every month to the last minute but I already know why. My name is Guy LeProscratinator Gonzalez. That's why.

My level of proscratination fluctuates more than the stock market, though, and is just as arbitrary and subject to outside forces. When it comes to work - aka the employment that allows me to pay bills and buy comic books - it is greatly influenced by how much I like my job at any given moment.

Lately, I've been procrastinating a lot more than usual which isn't a good sign. To continue the analogy, it's kind of like the unemployment figures. From analogy to segue, I have no desire to undertake another job search and realize that much of my current discontent comes from the still-glitchy transition we recently had. The new boss is slowly finding her footing so hopefully things will improve.

Until then, things like the poetry_slam list remain tempting diversions, not unlike the pack of cigarettes still under the bed even though you've quit, which explains my earlier post.

Funniest moment in a long, tiring but fun weekend: My father telling my sister, without any apparent irony, "Oh, I didn't get the invitation," when she tells him she's at India's birthday party Saturday night. Not funny ha-ha, funny sad. [7:14pm: Not funny sad/boo-hoo, funny sad/it's a shame what people do to avoid accepting their age and/or responsibilities.]

Every person has free choice. Free to obey or disobey the Natural Laws. Your choice determines the consequences. Nobody ever did, or ever will, escape the consequences of his choices.
Alfred A. Montapert

PSI Basic Membership: $15

PSI Venue Certification: $45

PSI Poet Gallery Feature: $100 (Associate member, $35, or higher only)

iWPS Registration Fee: $100

NPS Registration Fee: $350

Buddy Wakefield questioning someone's contributions to PSI: PRICELESS!!!

In other news...

Judge overturns ruling on Redskins nickname

"There is no evidence in the record that addresses whether the use of the term 'redskin(s)' in the context of a football team and related entertainment services would be viewed by a substantial composite of Native Americans, in the relevant time frame, as disparaging," she wrote.

[U.S. District Judge Colleen] Kollar-Kotelly also found that the activists waited too long to make their claims -- 25 years after the Redskins first registered their trademarks.

"In 1967, the NFL was still a nascent industry," she wrote. "Had this suit been brought at that point, Pro-Football [Inc., the company that owns the Redskins,] may have acquiesced and changed the name. The 25-year delay, where Pro-Football has invested so heavily in the marks, has clearly resulted in economic prejudice."

First of all, this assumes that Native Americans had the kind of political leverage 25 years ago that they do today.

And economic prejudice? She places the almighty dollar ahead of common sense and decency, saying that there's too much money at stake at this point to justify making them change their clearly offensive name, and has the nerve to refer to it as economic prejudice!?!? That's like Big Poppa E's laughable claim that wussy boys are like minorities fighting for their civil rights!

What the hell is wrong with this country?!?!

Conscious self	Overall self

The Enneagram is a system which divides all human behavior into nine personality divisions. Your main type is whichever of those nine behaviors you use most, in your case Type 7. Your mean type, Type 6w7, is who you are on average, based on the sum influence of all nine behaviors.

Take Free Enneagram Test

Clark, Dean Urge Rush Limbaugh's Firing

I wasn't going to comment on this at all but after seeing the above headline, I just couldn't resist. Talk about some old-school, pandering bullshit!

First of all, I saw Limbaugh's comment live and in context and felt there was absolutely nothing racist about it, then or now. The guy's a victim of his reputation on this one - he's not Jimmy the Greek, not Sid Rosenberg, not even Howard Cosell (Remember "Look at that little monkey go?"). He simply contrasted the reality of McNabb's career-to-date (stellar at times, average to horrid many others) against the media's perception of him.

McNabb's arguably the third best black quarterback, behind McNair and Culpepper (fourth, if you believe Vick is the real deal), and yet he's the one the media dotes on the most, assigning him much of the credit for the Eagles' success over the past few years. Interestingly, no one's seen fit to point out how spectacularly well the Eagles played last year with their 2nd & 3rd-string quarterbacks, WHITE quarterbacks, while McNabb was injured. Never mind that pretty good defense they had, ranked 5th in the league!

That's all debatable and beside the point, though.

What really pisses me off is Dean and Clark's cynical opportunism, using this non-event to spout off, presumably showing how concerned and committed they are to...black issues, I guess? Come on now! I guess when you have no actual record to stand on, you grasp at whatever straws you can and spew trite rhetoric.

If either of these posers gets the Democratic nomination - or god forbid, end up running together! - it just might officially push me over the edge and into a third party. Some extreme shit, too, like the Socialist Workers Party.

Not to be all starstruck stupid or anything but how cool is it that Jessica Rydill, author of Children of the Shaman, not only read through my blog but dropped me a note in the guestbook?

It's VERY cool is what it is. :-)

Authors-on-your-shelf meme
(Meme: copy somebody else's list, delete the authors that aren't on your shelf, and add some authors you have - keeping the number at ten.)

Dawn Saylor's List:

Neil Gaiman
Michael Chabon
Jack McCarthy
Douglas Adams
Philip K. Dick
Sandra Cisneros
Lee Francis
Erica Jong
Jhumpa Lahiri
Jonathon Franzen

My List, in no particular order:

Lawrence Block
Carl Hiaasen
Matt Ruff
Ed Greenwood
Jessica Rydill
Howard Zinn
Gary Jennings
Eduardo Galeano
Willie Perdomo
Patricia Smith

Not a single bit of overlap! Unless you count comic books, in which case I can claim Gaiman via 1602. And I think Salomé has some Cisneros. And I used to have all four of Adams' Hitchhiker's Trilogy. Yeah, count 'em.

Oh, yeah!

I've tweaked loudpoet.com somewhat over the past couple of weeks, among other things, improving navigation between it and this journal - check it out over on the right. I'm still too lazy to figure out how to post this thing directly into my web site and kind of like the blogspot address.

I've also added some new content to the words section, primarily essays, including my review of It's A Wonderful Life that originally appeared in my zine, zuzu's petals. In short stories, a life in progress is the first chapter of the never-completed novelization of the ill-fated screenplay that drew me into the slams at the Nuyorican back in the day.

Still recovering from a long weekend...

-> My new favorite song: Harder to Breathe, Maroon 5. Also, I bought the Nappy Roots' new CD, Wooden Leather, and, after the first listen, it sounds like another winner.

-> Taylor's Teacher, Teacher was a lot of fun. A little unfocused and uneven in its tone but I think it stakes out interesting ground for him and has a lot of potential. Not as self-indulgent as some other one-person shows I've seen and has a couple of really powerful moments. He's got rights-of first-refusal on further commentary.

-> Kids and pictures are a tough combination. We went to Picture People yesterday to get Isaac and India's birthday pictures taken - she turns 1 on Saturday; Isaac, 3 on 10/24 - and between Isaac's reluctance to smile (must get that from me) and India's refusal to sit still, it was a crazy experience. Salomé and I jumping up and down behind the camera trying to get their attention, yelling and waving props and generally acting like fools. The things you do for your kids! Ended up with great pictures of Isaac and the two of them together but India's solo shots weren't so good.

-> When growth is the goal, change is inevitable. You can't have your cake and eat it, too. PSI needs to decide whether they have to shit, pee or just fart, and then do so or get off the pot. It might help for them to realize that their continued existence has little bearing on the future of poetry and focus on the one thing they can influence and nurture: the slam COMMUNITY.

-> Brooks Bollinger. Paging Brooks Bollinger. I mean, really. Why the hell not?

It's felt like an unusually long week and I'm tired as hell. Might have something to do with letting myself get dragged back onto the poetry_slam listserve yet again! Grrrrr...

Went to Urbana last night for Cristin's surprise tribute and send-off to Australia for her six-week trip. Hadn't been there in a while and it turned out to be a lot of fun. I lost count of how many of us read but we took over the open mic and each chose a poem of Cristin's to share - except for Orion who did his usual whacked-out Orion thing. I read Mother, my all-time favorite of Cristin's. Cristin was alternately blushing, laughing her ass off and hanging her head in shame as we covered everything from Hard Bargain to Funny Poetry Isn't Poetry? George McKibbens is a trip and Regie Cabico...well, Regie is Regie!

I was conflicted earlier in the day when I found out there was a Neruda tribute happening at the same time in midtown at the CUNY-Graduate Center for only $5! I kept flip-flopping on whether I'd ditch Urbana (especially since I had no interest in the features or the slam) to catch it. I stuck with Cristin in the end and was glad I did as I had a good time and bumped into Ed (who had the same Neruda conflict) and Eric. Eric and I bailed when the open mic ended and wandered over to the dive bar on 7th Street where I'd hung out with Phil West a couple of weeks ago. We killed off two pitchers of Magic Hat #9, plus a couple of mugs, and talked shit like we hadn't in a long time. It was particularly refreshing that the majority of our conversation had nothing to do with poetry or the scene in general.

Earlier this week, on Tuesday, Acentos had one of their best shows yet, both in terms of turnout (yay, Sarah Lawrence!) and content. Jorge Monterosa was quite impressive, delivering 16 tight, well-crafted poems - 15 of them on page - that had the audience in sheer rapture. The kid was good, plain and simple. After the show, the Acentos Cabal got together to talk and make some plans that I think are going to make this next year extremely exciting. I feel like I did back in the early days of a little bit louder, when it was all about developing and community and sincerity and making a difference. I like that feeling.

Going to catch Taylor's Teacher, Teacher performance tomorrow which will make this one of the fulllest weeks of poetry I've had in a long time. Throw in my trip to Oneonta from last week and I'm beat!

Thought for the day:

Early in life I had to choose between honest arrogance and hypocritical humility. I chose honest arrogance and have seen no occasion to change.
-Frank Lloyd Wright

I have something of a reputation for being both stubborn and contentious.

While it's true that I will debate most anything with a passion - no matter how right or wrong I may be - just for the hell of it, I will only fight for the things I truly believe in. Contrary to popular belief, however, it is not impossible to change my mind on something I believe in, but it is most certainly a difficult, sometimes daunting task.

Rightfully so, I think.

If you truly believe in something, I believe you should be willing to fight for it. I would expect no less from anyone else and have no respect for anything less.

This isn't because I don't respect other people's opinions or think that I know everything or that I'm always right. It's because I hate wishy-washiness. I hate passive-aggressiveness. I hate indecision.

You may have to take me to the mat to get me on your side but, if you succeed, it will be because your own passion was strong enough to make me consider your take on things. Accomplish that and you not only win my respect, you gain a tenacious ally who will go to the mat for you.

Otherwise, if you come at me with faulty logic or disingenuous arguments, I will eat you alive. As my toughest nemesis once said about himself, "I am formidable and relentless."

Now THAT was some arrogant shit! And words to live by.

PS: The guestbook is working again.

Tonight is Acentos and the cluttered attic that is my brain has been toying with an idea that Rich Villar mentioned last month, a couple of weeks after their show with Louis Reyes Rivera.

When I heard they had a disappointing turnout for it - including my stupid hungover ass among the missing! - I was extremely surprised. Not even the scenesters made the short hike to the Bronx for what was, by all accounts, an amazing experience. At the following Acentos, Rich and I talked about it and some interesting ideas he was considering.

In a seemingly unrelated moment, while preparing for the Oneonta show last week, I was putting together a list of poetry resources for the audience and was dismayed to realize that I had nothing representing Latinos! Spent a while on Google looking for an equivalent to the Asian American Writer's Workshop or Cave Canem and came up empty.

Nada!

All of this got me thinking about the significant gap that exists between the generation of poets that founded the Nuyorican Poets Café back in the '70s and my own generation of relatively unpolished but well-intentioned newcomers, echoing the concerns Rich had raised a few weeks earlier.

In my mind, the Café no longer represents what it did back in its early days, having morphed into a multi-cultural tourist attraction promoting starry-eyed wannabes with no real understanding or appreciation of what came before them, like some bizarre version of the American Idol auditions. Not necessarily a bad thing in and of itself but, reading Aloud and renting Piñero just isn't enough to call yourself a poet, much less a Nuyorican!

Rich and I, along with Fish and Oscar are going to brainstorm to figure out ways to address this problem. Oscar's already suggested convening a barbeque-summit which I think is a great idea! Stay tuned.

PS: During my search, I did come across an interesting magazine I'd never heard of before, US Latino Review, but I can't tell if they're still publishing as it doesn't seem to have been updated since last year and I can't find ANY information on the Hispanic Dialogue Press, its non-profit publisher. Going to try a find a copy at the bookstore today at lunch and see if there's any info in it.

Also, today I came across a pretty good list of writers at lasculturas.com and links to relevant sites.

From the Things I never thought I'd say file:

1. I like Rush Limbaugh.

Of course, I'm referring to the Rush Limbaugh currently appearing on ESPN's NFL Countdown and ONLY in that context! His input on the show - "Rush Challenge" - has been refreshing and provocative, forcing the regular commentators to dig a little deeper in their analysis and sometimes revealing their inherent biases as former players. What I like most is that he's obviously done his homework and speaks intelligently about the game, even when offering opinion over analysis, and his presence on the show is more substantial than spectacle. Certainly beats the weather bimbo Fox added to their broadcast a year or two.

Where I used to switch over to FOX or CBS at Noon when their broadcasts started, I now stay with ESPN to the start of the game because it stays fresh for the full two hours.

2. I hope the Patriots beat the Jets.

Sacrilege, though it is, I can't bear the thought of them bouncing back this week and Vinny Testaverde getting any more undeserved accolades. The guy's 9th on the all-time passing yardage list, a decent game or two away from Johnny Unitas?!?! WTF? He's a career has-been who would have been put out to pasture years ago if not for the admittedly amazing season he and the Jets had in '98. Unfortunately, that one season allowed him to linger and let his overachieving mediocrity seep into the entire team.

The saddest part about his lameness is that it could lead to Curtis Martin leaving the Jets in an undignified way. Defenses don't need to respect Vinny so they key in on Martin who doesn't have the kind of support up front he needs to make things happen anymore. Lamont Jordan's knocking on the door and Vinny's helping open it sooner than it should be.

You are The Cap'n!

Some men are born great, some achieve greatness and some slit the throats of any man that stands between them and the mantle of power. You never met a man you couldn't eviscerate. Not that mindless violence is the only avenue open to you - but why take an avenue when you have complete freeway access? You are the definitive Man of Action. You are James Bond in a blousy shirt and drawstring-fly pants. Your swash was buckled long ago and you have never been so sure of anything in your life as in your ability to bend everyone to your will. You will call anyone out and cut off their head if they show any sign of taking you on or backing down. You cannot be saddled with tedious underlings, but if one of your lieutenants shows an overly developed sense of ambition he may find more suitable accommodations in Davy Jones' locker. That is, of course, IF you notice him. You tend to be self absorbed - a weakness that may keep you from seeing enemies where they are and imagining them where they are not.

What's Yer Inner Pirate?
brought to you by The Official Talk Like A Pirate Web Site. Arrrrr!

Just wanted to elaborate on a little something I touched on in the previous entry which was initially sparked by a discussion on Phil West's LiveJournal earlier this week: the question of emotion vs. polish or, a bit more esoterically, authentic vs. reflexive.

In the simpler of the two debates, emotion vs. polish, I typically lean towards preferring emotion. Polish - especially taken in the context of whom Phil was having the initial discussion with - is often used as a euphemism for "better," with the inherent implication that emotional work is less-polished and, as a result not as good.

Staying within those simplistic black-and-white parameters, I've often found the contrary, that work that was too polished lacked the necessary emotion to make an honest connection. Poetry, for me, is not simply about the craft. There needs to be some functionality in there, too. If the way you say what you say strikes me as more impressive than what you have to say, it's the page equivalent of a great performance of average material.

American Beauty is a great example of trite material taken up a notch by strong performances. Much of Saul Williams' work strikes me the same way. Patricia Smith, on the other hand, is a perfect example of polished emotion, making the connection without sacrificing the craft or letting it overshadow the content.

For me, 33-1/3, is pure emotion - written out of frustration back in late-1997 and revised more times than any other poem of mine - with just enough craft to make it viable. I have a love-hate thing with the poem, partly because I can't seem to escape it. It's one of my few inherently high-energy pieces and it definitely has an audience that appreciates what it says.

Ironically, despite my preference for emotion, the majority of my own work seems to lack it, at least on the performance side. In slam, I would draw my energy from the competition, channeling it into my performances. Nowadays, being far removed from the need to compete and even further removed from the anger that inspired and drove much of my earlier work, I find myself looking for new ways to present a poem on the stage. With most of it being more narrative than inflammatory, I seem to be drifting into storyteller territory, one eye on connecting with the audience, the other on connecting with the underlying metaphors in the poem. I look to Willie Perdomo for inspiration there, the way he can sit on a chair reading from his book and do things with his voice that knocks the shuck-and-jive antics of the average slam poet out of the water.

Perception is also key, too, as my using "schuck-and-jive" to describe the more performance-oriented antics of some poets suggests a conflicting bias with my supposed preference, and certainly describes how I feel whenever I pull out 33-1/3 at a show. Weird.

Side note: Patricia's new children's book is out - Janna and the Kings, and Willie's new book of poetry, Smoking Lovely, should be hitting shelves any second now.

Oneonta turned out to be a lot of fun. It was weird in the beginning as I realized about 20 minutes before the show started that it was my first solo college appearance and I was all alone! Other than Robb Thibault, who was busy getting things organized, I had no one there with me. The nerves were a'jangling!

They had a great turnout for their first show of the year - 180 people, the most ever! (Coincidentally, it was their 13th show overall!) After a brief open mic, I went up for a 30-minute set, dropping Reality, Manifesto, The Long Walk Home, Prodigal Son, The View From Airplanes and Other Leaps of Faith, Mozer, Betha and I, and Breathless. After the slam, Robb brought me back for one more piece so I went with the energy and did 33-1/3 Revolutions Per Minute (Post 9/11 Remix).

While the whole night went well, it was that last piece that got the best response, driving home a point I'd come to accept long ago. People appreciate the well-written narrative stuff but they love the high-energy, easy-to-grasp, pop culture stuff the most. Even when it's antagonistic and self-critical, like 33-1/3.

The trick is to be able to give them both, kind of like slipping the medicine in with the ice cream.

Something else interesting was the difference in the interaction when you've been invited by students versus faculty. The college shows the '98 Nuyorican team used to do - always sponsored by a collection of vibrant student groups - were high-energy affairs with after-parties full of alcohol-fueled debate and discussion and the slightest tinge of star-fucking mentality to it all. This time, there was a very cool - literally - feel to things where I felt like the adult at school on career day. The students that talked to me - beyond the ones already active on the college slam circuit - were almost annoyingly respectful, coming just short of calling me "Mr. Gonzalez."

After the show, I hung out with Robb and some of the faculty and had a good time - not to mention an early night - but the difference was glaring. Made me feel a little old, but not really in a bad way.

Slept in the next morning and finished reading Children of the Shaman before I hit the road back home, skipping a side trip to Cooperstown. Shaman's ending was a bit abrupt and rather brazenly sets up for a sequel, something that seems to be the norm in the fantasy genre. The drive home gave me a lot of time to think about my own project, fleshing out characters and backstory. There's a pretty standard formula to the fantasy-adventure genre but there's so much room to play within that formula.

Rydill's strong suit in Shaman is her characterization, so even when events slip from the fantastic to the unbelievable, she doesn't lose you because the characters are so strong. That ability to create an entire world and populate it with characters that you care about is what most appeals to me about the genre. There's still a couple of other books I want to read (currently: Cormyr, by Ed Greenwood and Jeff Grubb) before I actually start writing mine but the juices are definitely flowing.

Mr. Lawnge's remix of Queen's Flash Gordon Theme is playing on my Launch station as I start writing this. :-)

A busy week ahead as I'm taking two days off work to head up to SUNY-Oneonta for a feature on Wednesday night. Robb Thibault - Fargo, 1998 - runs the Student Union and invited me to open their slam season. Have a full 30-40 minutes so I'm looking forward to stretching my legs and doing some pieces I haven't done in awhile. Getting paid nicely, too, which is always a good thing!

Hung out with Phil West on Friday night, in town for some marketing shenanigans involving him dressed as a tomato that apparently looks more like an angry pumpkin. Pictures to come. Dinner at Holy Basil and drinks at a cool little dive bar on 7th Street that serves Magic Hat #9! It's funny the relationships I've maintained on the slam scene over the years, and those that have faded, for various reasons. Phil's not someone I'd have ever thought to be in touch with, this far removed from the height of my involvement in PSI. Once you move beyond the competition and fade into the background of the community at large, it takes more than being a fellow poet to connect. Had a good time talking about poetry and parenting and life in general. If I'd have known he was going to beat me in fantasy football this weekend (79-74), I'd have made him buy me a drink!

Speaking of football, the real thing, the Jets stunk it up again, scoring only 10 points even though Vinny had almost 400 yards passing, keeping alive the debate on whether it's Vinny's fault or offensive coordinator Paul Hackett's. Pennington saved Hackett's job last year but, if he can't adjust the gameplan for Vinny, this will be another lost season. That their running game has completely disappeared doesn't help things. I feel sorry for Herm Edwards, though I can't imagine his job is in any jeopardy at this point. You never know, though. Black coaches aren't usually given as much rope as white coaches are.

In other news, my research into the world of fantasy (writing, not sports) has led me to the delightful discovery of Jessica Rydill's Children of the Shaman. One of my favorite things in the world is to spend an hour or two in a bookstore in search of a writer I've never heard of, especially when I'm looking into a new genre. Matt Ruff's Fool on the Hill, Daniel Evan Weiss' The Roaches Have No King and Lawrence Block's When the Sacred Ginmill Closes were all random discoveries that still rank amongst my favorite books ever. (In Block's case, Ginmill was actually the second of his books I'd read but was much better than Eight Million Ways to Die which is the one I'd first stumbled upon.)

So far, a little more than halfway through it, Shaman is exactly what I was looking for: a strong fantasy novel, set in it's own world, grounded enough in reality to not be silly or derivative. Rydill has a strong sense of character development and the world she's created takes elements of our own reality and refashions them into an intriguing blend that both fascinates and provokes, exactly what I'm hoping to do with my own work.

Where she uses Judaism and old Europe as her foundation, I'm planning on using Taino myths and "New World" history for mine. The beauty of this is that it allows me to research Taino history for my own edification while providing fertile ground to create my own fantasy world. And for anyone that's wondering what happened to the comic books, it is less of a leap than one would think. The structure of most comic book stories - at least the ones I enjoy - are excellent models for concise storytelling, the poetry of fiction, if you will.

That's all I'll say for now. Don't want to jinx myself.

Finally, today's NY Times has an article about the surprising turn of events that has found Stephen King being awarded the National Book Awards annual medal for distinguished contribution to American letters! Harold Bloom is in rare form with the expected hateration. Kudos, Mr. King. Your work was an early and frequent inspiration for me - and millions of others, I'd willingly bet - and I thank you for it.

As I finish, Tito Puente's Take Five is playing. Today's going to be a good one.