(no subject)
in sunlight and shadows
The 6th annual Slab City Slam happened at Arcosanti this weekend, and I’m still processing everything-from seeing my friends do a performance piece before pouring molten metal in the dark to hearing someone use my words by fire, not knowing that I was hearing my poems recycled with some sinister tongue. There were highs and lows, as I am hinting. More highs than the lows. Bill Campana makes me happy to be a poet and have shared a stage with him. Dan Seaman makes me happy to be the little bastard sister of this statewide poetry community. David Tabor makes me happy to have laughing muscles. Bob Nelson makes me happy because he’s all heart and amazing hugs and “How are you, sweetie?” Christpher Lane makes me happy for men who are tremendous fathers and human beings. Sammie from Essenza makes me happy for young poets with powerful, rich voices. Ira Murfin makes me happy period. He has that way about him. Most of all, meeting Christa Bell makes me happy. She’s this African goddess in a gypsy’s body, and having someone like that, look me in the face and say, “You’re beautiful” is almost too much for me to handle.
There’s a lot that I want to say. Planning an event is an arduous task, all activity and motion, and then, these lulls where I almost don’t know what to do with myself. Rushing and commotion and smeared make-up and underarm stains from the sweat and stress, and then, the wind in my hair, a grasshopper jumping onto my pant leg at a fortuitous moment, my roommate and friend whispering into the amphitheatre by foot to hear me perform, and sitting behind the folks from Tucson, who were amazing and talented and on the same page as Team Arco. Several times throughout the competition, the two groups commented on this and hugged each other and said, “You kick ass” and “No, you kick ass.” Having them come in, renegades of a sort like Team Arco was, made us feel better. Sometimes, Team Arco feels like Fat Albert’s junkyard band at these things. We’re blowing away on our radiator accordion things and playing a guitar made out of a shoebox. But shit, y'all, Parliament Funkadelic doesn't have anything on Fat Albert's Junykard Band.
Another triumph for Team Arco is that we didn’t come in last. Not only that, but by the end-of-second-round scores, we were only four points behind the Essenza poets. I realise that in a slam four points is a wide margin. For us, it wasn’t, considering the Essenza crew usually wins this damn thing. Team Arco is like the Bad News Bears of slam; we proved we could throw down, and I’ve very proud of my boys. It’s weird that once again, I’m amidst the boys, the queen of misfits. I live with three lovely boys, and slammed with three boys, too. I grew up in a house of brothers and I don’t know that I’d live anywhere that didn’t have a dog or a brother-type in it again. I love that masculine, wild-earth energy.
There will be more later. For now, words scrawled after waking up from being up half the night, listening to poems shouted at fires and hearing the way poems ignite in the chests of poets. Damn, it was a beautiful weekend.
* * *
People, O, my people, you are full moon, firm-flesh, soul baring animals. Real. Sometimes, I have to shut my eyes in the face of you because you radiate light and it’s like a solar eclipse retinal burn just to be near you, to gaze at the fluttering moths of your lashes and inkwell pupils. There are mountains moving in your muscles, sleeping lions coiled in your calves, and cut your hair into Mohawks, fashion wings of tattoos on your shoulder blades and summer scars of sunshine and skin. You are the pills and whiskey that my fingertips haunt, seeking form and solidity from air. You are the marks I leave when I press my fingertips too deep and swallow my palms in the belly of the whale. I comb my hair with a fishbone these days, string my hips with the skulls of sailors, drape seashells across my breasts, and breathe the whitecaps into the sea. The city’s become too scary and I’ve learned that nothing moves alone. You people will keep the lanterns lit with your tears and drape the night with necklaces of crystals and pearls. Wait for me to return. I might never see you again. Pull the hook from my lips and find out.
The 6th annual Slab City Slam happened at Arcosanti this weekend, and I’m still processing everything-from seeing my friends do a performance piece before pouring molten metal in the dark to hearing someone use my words by fire, not knowing that I was hearing my poems recycled with some sinister tongue. There were highs and lows, as I am hinting. More highs than the lows. Bill Campana makes me happy to be a poet and have shared a stage with him. Dan Seaman makes me happy to be the little bastard sister of this statewide poetry community. David Tabor makes me happy to have laughing muscles. Bob Nelson makes me happy because he’s all heart and amazing hugs and “How are you, sweetie?” Christpher Lane makes me happy for men who are tremendous fathers and human beings. Sammie from Essenza makes me happy for young poets with powerful, rich voices. Ira Murfin makes me happy period. He has that way about him. Most of all, meeting Christa Bell makes me happy. She’s this African goddess in a gypsy’s body, and having someone like that, look me in the face and say, “You’re beautiful” is almost too much for me to handle.
There’s a lot that I want to say. Planning an event is an arduous task, all activity and motion, and then, these lulls where I almost don’t know what to do with myself. Rushing and commotion and smeared make-up and underarm stains from the sweat and stress, and then, the wind in my hair, a grasshopper jumping onto my pant leg at a fortuitous moment, my roommate and friend whispering into the amphitheatre by foot to hear me perform, and sitting behind the folks from Tucson, who were amazing and talented and on the same page as Team Arco. Several times throughout the competition, the two groups commented on this and hugged each other and said, “You kick ass” and “No, you kick ass.” Having them come in, renegades of a sort like Team Arco was, made us feel better. Sometimes, Team Arco feels like Fat Albert’s junkyard band at these things. We’re blowing away on our radiator accordion things and playing a guitar made out of a shoebox. But shit, y'all, Parliament Funkadelic doesn't have anything on Fat Albert's Junykard Band.
Another triumph for Team Arco is that we didn’t come in last. Not only that, but by the end-of-second-round scores, we were only four points behind the Essenza poets. I realise that in a slam four points is a wide margin. For us, it wasn’t, considering the Essenza crew usually wins this damn thing. Team Arco is like the Bad News Bears of slam; we proved we could throw down, and I’ve very proud of my boys. It’s weird that once again, I’m amidst the boys, the queen of misfits. I live with three lovely boys, and slammed with three boys, too. I grew up in a house of brothers and I don’t know that I’d live anywhere that didn’t have a dog or a brother-type in it again. I love that masculine, wild-earth energy.
There will be more later. For now, words scrawled after waking up from being up half the night, listening to poems shouted at fires and hearing the way poems ignite in the chests of poets. Damn, it was a beautiful weekend.
* * *
People, O, my people, you are full moon, firm-flesh, soul baring animals. Real. Sometimes, I have to shut my eyes in the face of you because you radiate light and it’s like a solar eclipse retinal burn just to be near you, to gaze at the fluttering moths of your lashes and inkwell pupils. There are mountains moving in your muscles, sleeping lions coiled in your calves, and cut your hair into Mohawks, fashion wings of tattoos on your shoulder blades and summer scars of sunshine and skin. You are the pills and whiskey that my fingertips haunt, seeking form and solidity from air. You are the marks I leave when I press my fingertips too deep and swallow my palms in the belly of the whale. I comb my hair with a fishbone these days, string my hips with the skulls of sailors, drape seashells across my breasts, and breathe the whitecaps into the sea. The city’s become too scary and I’ve learned that nothing moves alone. You people will keep the lanterns lit with your tears and drape the night with necklaces of crystals and pearls. Wait for me to return. I might never see you again. Pull the hook from my lips and find out.