Saturday, October 13, 2007

My Thoughts At The Irish Poets Reading

  • Holee shit, the microphone looks like the tip of a finger on a black cord. Or a penis.
  • The emcee says "MmmmmmMmm" instead of "ahem".
  • What if I laugh? I won't stop. Why drunk. Oh god why forty minutes of being drunk.
  • He speaks so quickly, so fast, so so fucking fast. Hilarious, he stumbles once but so fast. Too fast. Can I handle this?
  • I have to read read or keep writing because I might loose it. He's only the first reader, Can I do this? Let's pay attention and see? Or am I too scared? Of course, drunken laughter. Watch out.
  • My breath is dead. So stale in my mouth.
  • Oh dad, I'm dancing. No, no, I'm dancing.
  • Outside is really black. Really, being trully, or truly or the spelling of that. But not the spelling of that. We know spelling doesn't matter-- comprehension remains without spelling and what matters when the sillhouette of trees shines, or the window lighted up behind the trees shines on their silhouette. Is the reason for the shadows and I -- in the lighted room across.
  • I have to pee.
  • I have to brush my teeth.
  • Can I keep this up for another hour? I might run out of ink. Out of paper. Out of words. I might die.
  • Cameron writes sense. I know he can handle, can pay attention, to this. He looks, avid, absorbed, ignoring, biting nails. I write feverishly. I lick my lips to wet them. Breathe to clean my breath. He knows how good the last/the first poet was/is. I applaud. I write nonsense.
  • A new poet. I have to pee.
  • He has funny hair. It's dryness pulls it up, off his high forehead like he pulled up with his fingers and it froze there. Floating, in vertical planes off his head.
  • Can I listen? I will listen.
  • BLÁH BLÁH, BLÁH BLÁH, BLÁH BLÀH.
  • One word, one word, some words.
  • I may die. I may pee my pants.
  • Black moth, white butterfly, oh, form a cup, that I may pee freely.
  • His poetry is too slow for my thoughts to flow. And the pressure in my bladder is growing so that it becomes more difficult to think and write, as I focus on the fullness behind my belly
  • Can I read? I may read or reread.
  • When he's finished, I will go. Slowly walk to the door, exit, quiet, go through the stone hallways, find the wooden door, sit down after unbuttoning my pants, and pee blissfully pee. Yes, it's like a treasure.
  • To Cameron:

I have to pee, I'm going.

When he's finished, I'm going.

  • I did it. The women's restroom was breathless and eerie. Eerie and breathless.
  • She, this one, is Norwegian, and plays the fiddle. I can listen. I am light.
  • No, no, no. The man, the hair is talking explaining again. I grow tired. There are deliberate pauses. I may still, loose my composure. Silence, what are you thinking? Does Cameron care? He breathes a laugh. If he looses it -- I am done. Oh done. I may be done already. You are interesting man, this poetry, this crazy pause. I do not know what you are doing.
  • What are you doing?
  • Shhh, I will bring you in my home, lay you down. Do not talk. I will cover you with a blanket. I will cover your face with a blanket. Do not talk anymore. Lay, with this blue softness over you. Blue that will look black in the dark. Your children of slaves, of hard labor, put them to rest. I will cover you. Will take your breath.
  • I am captured by my physical sensations. I want food.
  • Tear. It's not the tear. It's the hot, swelling, burning behind your eyes. Or that sour fire in your stomach that threatens your throat with madness.
  • Be still and play the fiddle.
  • Her voice is so heavy, so full of 's'.
  • We're almost done. My breath is hot. The air outside, cold.
  • If this chair lost the strength, to hold my weight. I would fall back, and lay there, until it was time to get up.
  • This poetry reading. The beer. Your birthday. Happy Birthday.
  • I heard it too -- that secret sound that mimicked his snap. It is why I love you.
    Go-ing, looks like going, like goying!
  • Going. It is over. We are going. (I have to pee again. It's been ten minutes. No more.) I like his poetry, the first one, the last one.

Red.

Bones.

1 comment:

[n]Evan said...

Plainly the tender embrace of frenzied caterwauling plays lightly on your needtopee patience.

Makes me miss the intrepid verbage walkabouts of localized and befriended poets of urban bent at college.