Tuesday, May 21, 2013
“Rich:” Beme The Rapper in Oakland (December 2010)
“Obesity is the only epidemic that you can cure
by keeping your mouth shut.”--Richard Berman,
The Center For Consumer Freedom
1: Genre Preference,
Prejudice, or Envy?
I was working the door {at our Oakland
warehouse space in San Pablo] one night when we had a last minute change in
plans. A show at The Stork Club, one of the few legal music venues left in
Oakland, had been double-booked apparently. The booker wanted to know if we
could combine it with our regularly scheduled show. It was a low-fi hip-hop
show (old school, just a DJ and 3 MCS), and we jumped on the chance to do it. I
was suspicious that the Stork Club was really double-booked, as the manager had
his share of white supremacist tendencies, and had already alienated much of
the black community in a recent incident), but their loss could be our gain.
When we told the already booked bands about it,
they got uptight. We reached a compromise; the rappers (Beme, Grl Abstrakt, and
Pill Kosby) could play, but only if they don’t get paid. BeMe said that was
fine with him, and I told him we’d book a show soon in which he could get paid.
Still, the already-booked white bands were less than thrilled. During the
first, very short, hip hop set, a guy from one of the bands came up to me with
blood in his eyes, “How the fuck are we supposed to follow that?!” I could’ve
regaled him with tales of Jerry Lee Lewis and Chuck Berry, to enjoin him to
take it as a challenge--but instead I just gave him a “dude, get over it” look
and went upstairs to get a more physically imposing doorman to back me up, just
in case….
Meanwhile, the women got the dancing going, and
many of us were won over by the low-budget beats of Pill Kozby and the charisma
of BeMe. Beme got progressively more comfortable as he performed, falling into
a touring band’s drum kit that had been set exactly between the stage area and
the audience. The tour-manager freaked out; she went up stairs and started
shouting, “this is unacceptable” and such. He certainly wasn’t trying to be
violent; it was more like moshing; besides, why did they chose that particular
spot to set up the drums?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tQmMwiwGSgw
We tried to calm her down; “it’s just like
punk” Matt & Evan reminded her, yet the night made it clear to me how much prejudice
and latent racism exists in “our” scene---not any more than at SMC, but not
really better either. Frankly, what Beme was doing was even more ‘punk’ than
what these bands were doing. No wonder they didn’t want to share the bill with
him. None of them got people dancing or even bobbing their heads as much as he
did. I got so swept up in the spectacle, and trying to dance with my bad leg,
that I had very little sense of his words (probably for the same reason I suck
at free-styling; I get distracted by the beat especially on first listen),[1]
aside from the chorus:
Five in my pocket just
spent two skinny jeans own the ain't new
I can't wait till I'm
rich rich Imma buy a whole lotta shit
When I posted the video and learned the song
was called “Rich,” I wondered if it was typical of most commercial hip hop in
glorifying consumerism and personal wealth,[2]
though later Paddy was pontificating about BeMe’s lyrics. “Oh, he’s conscious
hip hop. Only clueless folks who know nothing about rap are into that.” I was
just happy to be a part of the event. How important is the overplayed
difference between “conscious” and “gangsta” anyway? I am more than willing to
admit I’m clueless about today's hip hop in general, but when I finally heard all the
lyrics, they cut as deep as any page-based poet as well as any of the more
known ‘poetic’ white bands I’ve worked with.
A month or so later, we invited BeMe back to
the warehouse for what I had hoped would be a paying gig. My new band was
playing as was a new band featuring ex-members of The Cuts and Detroit’s The
Go, but there had been a big December rain storm and the slum-lord, one Mr.
Thomas Leung, had still failed to come through on his promise, and legal
obligation, to fix the leaks. I discovered the warehouse was flooded, puddles
everywhere. Wading in ankle-deep water with a flashlight, we discovered the PA
was destroyed.
We went through with the show, but even the
people who lived in the warehouse were so pissed off they had left to crash on
other people’s couches. Thus, there was no one to work the door, and hardly any
one came (I had largely become a shut-in). I felt terrible after what had
happened to BeMe at his first show, and started suspecting that the flood was
just an excuse for the other guys in out so-called “collective” to screw him
again---but I have no proof of that, as I tried to stay focused on the common
enemy, Mr. Leung and the City of Oakland’s crackdown on live local nightilfe
culture. All of the plans Nehemiah, Matt and me had for the warehouse seemed to
be going down in this flood.
Still, BeMe was much more into performing even
to the audience of 20 at best, even though he had found out his drum machine
wasn’t working. I asked him if he’d be up for us backing him up. We could do
one of our instrumental two chord jams and he could do one of his raps--what do
we have to lose? He was into it. It took a little arm-twisting; Jed was
intimidated and preferred to do the set we had rehearsed. Eric was into it, but
didn’t want Nick Allen to join us on guitar. I thought that would be amazing,
but I saw Eric’s point: BeMe’s raps and my piano playing are both rhythmic and
melodic, and it could be too busy with the guitarist on the fly, especially for
a bassist who doesn’t like being treated like “glue.” We could do it next time
(or so I thought...).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ILOuDLD7UmQ
BeMe chose to do the same song, “Rich,” he had
performed at the first show. The band was sloppy as hell, but grooving and fun.
Maybe it was all the adversity preceding this, but it was one of the best live
performances I’ve ever been a part of, so good that we decided to record it
with at The Creamery.
II.
“Eating Disorder” (Courtesy of Washington Lobbyists)
“Obesity is the only epidemic that you can cure
by keeping your mouth shut.”--Richard Berman,
The Center For Consumer Freedom
In the studio, I realized the song was
primarily about his eating disorder, and suggests a way out of both our
culture’s “obesity crisis” as well as the energy
crisis. Once I heard all the words, the chorus becomes deeper and more complex
than a mere ode to salvation through consumerism:
Grew up on the floor
wishing i had more\
Chillin with my sister
waiting by that door
Wishin bought something
from the liquor store
She threw down in the
kitchen "can i have more"
Maybe over did it got too
chubby cookies and cream ice cream was my buddy
One of the only way she
could show that she loved me
The first verse portrays inner-city ghetto
life, and even echoes Dickens’ Oliver Twist.[3]
The speaker has special powers, as his wishin’ can get him food, but
limited horizons. “She,” as we soon discover, is his mother. One of the hardest
things about being a parent is saying “No.” As a kid, my mom used to pour milk
and loads of sugar onto a bowl of strawberries. I loved it, or thought I did.
It took me years to realize that strawberries were actually sweet without all
that.
Though we didn’t have to rely on the liquor
store for food, we were also nutritionally challenged. “You look sad, you want
a sandwich?” Of course I did; it tastes good. You certainly aren’t going to
hear too many 5 year olds complaining that pizza is not a vegetable. He’s
sympathetic to his mom, and can’t blame her for living in a culture in which
“food” becomes the main way to show love. As post-industrial America became
increasingly alienated from the body; this was sold as “progress” to the first
generation under this new food regime, and increasingly the “norm” to Beme
& my mother’s generation.[4]
When I told Beme I could immediately relate to
the psychological truth here, he told me that as a teenager he had actually
been around 300 pounds. This admission blew me away, as one who has struggled
with food all my life, the fact that he was able to lose all this weight, and
write a song about it, was absolutely heroic to me. There just aren’t
that many songs in any genre these days with lyrics this blatant about dieting;
there are much more songs about hunger, whether viewed as desire or
need:
We couldn't go to Disney
land we was livin with Mickey's fam
Sometimes even seen
roaches
Thats the life that you
live when your po kids
Dreaming of the promise
land like Moses
But didn't make it
"sorry coaches"
Mama said you gone buy me
a house boy
I'm still workin on it
mama no doubt boy
The verbs propel the song, as they chart a
progression from chillin’ to waitin’ to wishin’ and dreamin’ to workin.” As the nouns move from “more”
to “door” to “store,” to “poor,” his horizons expand; he becomes aware of the
stigma of poverty. But his horizons aren’t the only thing that’s expanding, as
he’s growing up, and out. It might have even been healthier
had he been eating “Mickey’s fam.” The speaker of this feels pressured
by love for his mother to lead her to the “promised land” as well, and
just as feeding him fattening junk food was how she showed love, making the
coach’s team would be a way for him to show this love; as sports is almost the
only legally sanctioned way to the succeed, or even survive, when you’re “po
kids.” As a chubby kid, it’s a lot harder to make the team, unless you’re an
O-Line or D-line type (but Beme’s more of an aerial attack kinda guy). When the
chorus returns, it now has deeper significance:
Five in my pocket just
spent two skinny jeans own they ain't new
I can't wait till I'm
rich rich Imma buy a whole lotta shit
He seems very happy that he’s still got $5
left, perhaps because he didn’t waste it on all that rich, fattening food, and
is wearing old clothes--skinny jeans.
The second verse offers a “before and after”
picture that helps make sense of the chorus. It starts with a list of the
food-like things he could be buying with that $5 in the skinny jeans--but if he
did, he would have no money to buy the Fat Pants he’d have to get. A “while
back” he was just a consumer, now he’s working his butt off, and loving it.
What you know about
dollar cup breakfast
3 dollar Loko's livin
reckless had that on my 7/11 checklist
Next to oatmeal raisin
cookies and chips
And next to that a sandwich
looking up at the owner like dude I'm famished
that was a while back...
Then a resolve:
Livin clean and sober
bout to get my money right
Working out daily bout to
get the honeys right
Did you see my video yeah
i got my tummy tight
Floyd Mayweather shit a
big money fight
Fightin for my life and i
don't fight fair
Nigga stand when i rap i
don't like chairs
How you actin bored and i
featured
How you actin poor and
you ain't paid to be here
It’s not just a song about spending less on
food now that you have to work for it. Clean and sober also means skinny,
getting his money right for the ladies--even if he has to get rich to do it.
The dream of getting rich may be quixotic, but certainly no more toxic than the
more ‘modest’ gratifications of junk food, as it embraces the emptiness rather
than trying to fill it with food. As he works out daily, he spends the fat, and realizes it can
actually buy him time to work on his
music, as he turns his focus like a sanctified preacher to address the worst
possible audience he can imagine: a sedentary
one.
Since I’m paid to be here, and you’re not, why
stand there bored dreaming of the Oatmeal Raisin and chips you’ll have when you
get home? When he performed at Copland [The unfortunate name of our Warehouse
space that's now Qilombo], many of the white guys were clearly acting
bored, in their defensive hipster coolness, neither would they pay him. The
girls weren’t acting bored, as he claimed space like a one-man army against The
Center For Consumer Freedom. He’s not singing for his supper as much as for a
video or a gym membership. These things cost money, but are much less than
expensive than inadequate health insurance: Beme the rapper is a transformative
factory, changing the shit you call
food into the food you call shit, the
shit:
Five in my pocket just
spent two skinny jeans on they ain't new
I can't wait till I'm
rich rich Imma buy a whole lotta shit…
And when its over give me
DVD's and a bad chick like eve
I big loft dolphins in
the pool i don't mean on the wall friends
Yeah yeah now thats cold
Steve Austin
A winter in Boston the
heart of a Slauson
You need more than $5 in the pocket so you can
buy some new skinny jeans, but
The song has it both ways, working toward a
better future (“I’m gonna”), but not at the expense of playing in the present:
the future is the excuse for the present, the contagious carpe diem catharsis of “I can’t wait.” He doesn’t want stills, but moving pictures. Enough
“pretty faces” and wire-mesh mothers that feed food, he wants animals, human
warmth, even if he has to get rich to get it.
The funny thing about this 3rd verse
is that you don’t really have to be all that rich to get DVDS or “even a bad chick like Eve,” if “she wants my
honey not my money” (as David Bowie puts it in “Hang On To Yourself”). A big
if, perhaps, and dolphins in a pool can be pretty damn expensive, and they’re
not really happy unless they’re free. But you don’t have to buy the ocean if
you can live on the beach.[5]
For Beme, mere bling is but a head on the wall, he wants the hunting, and
“Rich” enacts the hunting, as the scope of this rhyme stretches from the
coldest northern high-rent white supremacist town to the heart of South
Central, and beyond.
Cause i shit talk give me
ex-lax deeps a fine chick he's got the best tracks\
Excuse me deep I'm bout
to shit on these
These rappers bowin down
cause they Can't shit on me
III.
“There’d Be Fewer Guns If Drums Weren’t Machines” (Food/Shit Dualism)
Beme’s defense of the right to shit, and to
shit talk, is one with his war against mere salvation-through-consumerism in
“Rich.” In the Bay Area culture, where self-proclaimed “foodies” have a large
voice, there’s a lot of denial over the fact that there never was a foodie who
wasn’t also a shitty, but shit
produces, gives back, and can get you off the floor that too much food put you
on. As the Oakland graffiti puts it, “stop
buying/ shit, shit shit.”[6]
Shit, at least human shit, is largely outside commodity, and buying shit is
like buying animals rather than buying food
Yet Beme’s rap goes beyond the mere food/shit
dichotomy. Beme’s “shit talk” is also music; the body is not a bank, but the
music is rooted in the breath, the free improvisatory flow of words that are
also tethered to the formalism of rhyme. Talk is ex-lax; rap betters the
talking cure. It, too, is a work out that can make you less hungry. As a mural
from the Oakland-based Community Rejuvenation Project suggests: there’d be less
eating disorders and drug addictions if people were allowed to talk more, if
word-jazz and singing were more acceptable. In this sense, Richard Berman is
wrong: it’s harder to solve the obesity crisis by keeping your mouth closed.
The extra energy you get from dieting has to go somewhere.
Only a decade earlier, in NYC at least, it was
common to see guys rapping and doing the dozens on the streets and subways.
This may be a matter of both time and place, as the Bay Area has a smaller
black population and is less music-friendly and more repressed than both NYC in
1999 and Philly in 1989. It’s not really a coincidence that the rise in
black-on-black crime and drug use as well as obesity in the last 30 years
parallels the loss of street-music culture and the increased tension of silence in the streets. There would be
fewer guns if drums weren’t machines, but that’s not said too much. They’ve
also been trying to take away the drums since Congo Square, and courtesy of
Exxon, developer of Autotunes, have succeeded more than ever. In fact,
Autotunes hates black people more than George W. Bush ever did.[7] Beme’s
rap this song may not be as “universal” as songs about love and death, but for
me it’s a kind of anthem!
People as talented and prolific as Beme usually
leave Oakland, but Beme has stayed here, trying to make something happen
against terrible odds. Luckily, he told me he met his girlfriend at that show.
After the warehouse went down in the flood, and KUSF got taken off the air by
Entercom, I also felt that I had to get the fuck out of this town if there’s
any hope of continuing to play music, but Beme gives me hope, and even a reason
to try to make something happen here. He gets the Gil Scott Heron and Baraka
thing, as well as the post-gangsta thing. He is at home working the crowd as he
is when leading the discussion in my class at Laney.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4YhUJLlHkek
So make a movie about him, and release his
singles! If we can ever get the loan for the radio station, or the
MFA-In-Non-Poetry going, I’d offer him a job in either, or both, capacities,
and hopefully we can make music again.
[1] Even
now, hearing “La La” by Lil Wayne (Bislo and Busta rhymes), I just don’t hear
the words. I focus on the beautiful fusion of rhythm with the toddler “La la”
melody with no need for auto-tunes, but my housemates are in some ways hearing
a totally different song.
[2] As
in this critique of contemporary hip hop, “We don’t need Marx to see that the
result of selling the world ghetto raps was not an improvement in conditions
for those living in the ghetto, but instead, a means of production was
developed to sell the condition of the ghetto by simultaneously sustaining
those conditions....” (Rapublicans).
[4] When TV came out in the 50s, my grandmother war warned
by a friend: “it might make you fat!” so she decided to start smoking to
prevent that, after all she was a working mother
[5] Someone
told me that she makes much more money in America than she ever did when she
lived in the Caribbean, but even though she was poor before she moved her, she
lived on the beach and ate lobster whenever she wanted. As the old adage goes,
if you can’t be happy while your poor, you won’t be happy when you’re rich.
[6] The line break suggests the deeper truth, that shitting
is the opposite of buying, and what is needed in a culture that has eaten more
than it can digest (Ezra Pound; Percy Byssh Shelley)
[7] Both
the Media and The Government are simply two forms of Dispersants used by BP to
hide behind. In 2009, the use of Auto-Tune to create melodies from the audio in
video newscasts was popularized by Brooklyn musician Michael Gregory and later
the band The Gregory Brothers.
The Gregory Brothers digitally manipulated recorded voices of politicians, news
anchors and political pundits to conform to a melody, making the figures appear
to sing.[15][16]
The group achieved mainstream success with their Bed Intruder Song
video which became the most-watched YouTube video of 2010. Even Jay Z disses auto tune.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Shakespeare Essay in The Impercipient Lecture Series (ed. Jennifer Moxley & Steven Evans)
I always loved the look of the Impercipient Lecture Series. Jennifer Moxley and Steve Evans were two of the best editors I ever had. This essay, an excerpt from a much longer chapter, on Much Ado About Nothing, was later republished in my book, Spin Cycle. But this is how it originally looked with the sidebars and footnotes, in 1997.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Death of a Ladies Man (excerpt from a piece on Leonard Cohen): for Sylvie Simmons
“I Left A Woman
Waiting,” from Death of a Ladies Man:
Leonard Cohen (and Phil Spector)----for
Sylvie Simmons
After I recorded the “Famous Blue Raincoat” video for
PianoVan.Com, I started revisiting the Death
of a Ladies’ Man album again for the first time since I performed it with
The Greg Ashley Band at Big Sur for Sylvie Simmons’ book party on Leonard
Cohen’s 78th birthday. I find myself especially drawn to “I Left A
Woman Waiting.”
Of all the tracks on this Cohen album, “I Left A Woman
Waiting” is the closest to a gentle love song, especially a middle-aged,
“mature” love between weather-beaten veterans of “the war between a man and a
woman” (as a song on New Skin For The Old
Ceremony puts it). While it’s not as emotionally deep as the one song on
the album that makes me cry liberating tears on this record, “Paper-Thin
Hotel,” it takes the idealist static constancy of “True Love Leaves No Traces”
and puts it in time just enough to
make it more convincing to older lovers, or at least to me.
While many of he lyrics of “True Love Leaves No Traces,” had
been published as a poem in his early book, The
Spice Box Of The Earth (when Cohen was still in his 20s and had not yet
released any albums), an earlier version of “I Left A Woman Waiting,” had
appeared in Cohen’s 1972 book, The Energy
Of Slaves:
I left a woman waiting
I met her sometime later
She said, Your eyes are dead
What happened to you, lover
And since she spoke the truth to me
I tried to answer truly
Whatever happened to my eyes
Happened to your beauty
O go to sleep my faithful wife
I told her rather cruelly
Whatever happened to my eyes
Happened to your beauty
The dynamic is typically “sexist” in the sense that the male
is judged on his “eyes” (his desire and lust) while the woman is judged by her
“beauty” (when of course, it could go the other way as well). In the Death of A Ladies Man version, however,
the third verse and its self-proclaimed cruel speaker disappear and the battle
of the sexes in the first two verses becomes a nearly symmetrical tender moment
of foreplay. The first verse and second verse go together like plastic surgery, Lasik Surgery, contact
lenses and Viagra.
In many ways, the song is the opposite of that, and presents
an alternative to plastic surgery and
contact lenses (or even leaving your “faithful wife” for a younger woman).
The revised third verse gets at this better:
We took ourselves to someone’s room
And there we fell together
Quick as dogs and truly dear were we
And free as running water, free as running
water
Free as running water, free as you and me
That’s the way it’s got to be, lover
That’s the way it’s got to be, my lover
This does not feel like mere suspension of tensions to me, a
mere brief truce in a war that will never end, but points at a way for both men
and women to be honest about what happens when both the burning male (female)
youthful lust & beauty fades away: for better and worse, it’s an intimacy
song, the most intimate song on Death of
A Ladies Man. Spector’s musical setting, with the economical contrast
between the talky chorus and the pretty, almost lullaby-like chorus (the
musical setting of the now absent words ‘go to sleep’) transforms the poem into
a moment of transcendence that sounds like it might be much better sex than one
could ever have with a younger lover.
I don’t know if Spector built the melody around the
pre-existing poem, or Cohen “set” his poem to a melody Spector was looking for,
but as Sylvie Simmons points out in her biography, there was an interesting
symbiosis in Cohen and Spector’s collaboration during their fairly harmonious songwriting stage (before Spector went
nuts in the recording studio), As Cohen himself puts it in an interview: “When
it was just the two of us, it was a really agreeable time” (I’m Your Man, Simmons, pg. 308).
Whatever else one may say about this song (it’s certainly
not one of Cohen’s “major compositions”), it’s not a song about loss like so
many of his best ones are, and since I have enough of those—whether my own or
covers---in my own repertoire, I’m looking for something different; though
“Paper Thin Hotel” and “Alexandra Leaving” (with Sharon Robinson) are songs I
may want to include in my solo set in the future.
++++
Image(s)
My interest in Death
of A Ladies Man was always more in the companion book, Death of a Lady’s Man—which is even more of a lost classic than the
album. For Greg (Ashley), it was the image of “Dirty Old (or at least
middle-aged) Man,” that attracted him to this Leonard Cohen album in
particular; for me, it was the structured confusion of the book---but maybe the
two aren’t all that different. It occurred to me that the horror I feel on seeing
my “Famous Blue Raincoat” video (even though I’m happy with the audio
performance, as a tribute to Philly band Ruin’s cover of the song) and being
aware that to some I am perceived as the “dirty old man,” or hippy or punk
(compounded by my homelessness) may not be all that different from the horror that Cohen himself felt almost
immediately after recording Death Of A
Ladies Man. In fact, that’s one of the reasons he scrambled to rewrite the
book---to save him from the album whose image he had let get away from him.
As Cohen puts it, “I think it’s too loud, too aggressive.
The arrangements got in my way. I wasn’t able to convey the meaning of the
songs” (Simmons, 307). And, more tellingly, “It was just one of those periods
where my chops were impaired and I wasn’t in the right kind of condition to
resist Phil’s very strong influence on the record and eventual takeover of the record.
I’d lost control of my family, of my work and life, and it was a very, very,
dark period. I was flipped out at the time and [Spector] was certainly flipped
out.” (Simmons, 303). Of course, this may also be the reason why one of the
best songs on the album is about learning that “love was beyond [his] control,”
and even why the album has become a favorite among many.
As Steven Machat says, “The record was two drunks being no
different than any other boys, making an album about picking up girls and getting
laid. It was the most honest album Leonard Cohen has ever made.”
Ultimately, it was this feeling of self-loathing that
spurred Cohen on more than Phil Spector’s disrespect to him as a person and
artist. Cohen knew he really had no one to blame for letting his image get away
from his own carefully guarded (some would say, “control freak”) artistic
tendencies. He, too, was going through a time in his life where he felt he lost
everything, and the book Death of a
Lady’s Man tried to bring some of this back. While I find the book a
tremendous success, and maybe his best book, it certainly, like the album,
didn’t win over new fans at the time.
He took certain tendencies that had been in the early work
as far as they could go for him in the book and album, and maybe that’s the
only consolation. That’s certainly the only consolation I can take from my
“Famous Blue Raincoat” video; creating the record of that moment may allow me
to never do it again. That might be the main point of “keeping some kind of
record anyway,”—to exteriorize something, and hate (or even love) what you see,
and move on.
It’s no excuse that in Leonard Cohen’s next book, Book Of Mercy, he moves beyond what
David Berman would call “the lawless rooms where you finally lost your health,”
to a desperate confessional collection of prayers and devotions to a God who is
one with the Law. While I wouldn’t call Book
Of Mercy nearly the aesthetic triumph Death
of a Lady’s Man is, and at times even the speaker doesn’t seem convinced
that the Law he is praying devotions to is really anything more than an “empty
signifier,” at least it allows him to still his mind a little, and out of this
came perhaps his most celebrated song, “Hallelujah.”
As for me, I still haven’t entirely given up on the idea of
recording and performing a “psychedelic swirly-edgy funk punk dance trance”
musical setting (VU, Neu, Flipper, Fall, for instance) to the “prose poem”
pieces in Leonard Cohen’s book. This
idea occurred before Greg told me he wanted to record the album, and I thought
it would be a perfect complement to it, as well my “Leonard Cohen As Moshpit”
chapter—but it’s not the burning priority it was when I was rehearsing these
pieces with a band featuring bassist Rachel Thoele (Flipper, Frightwig) that
could pull this stuff off in 2009/2010.
In the meantime, here’s some videos of Cohen covers:
“Don’t Go Home With Your Hard On,”
Greg Ashley Band @ Big Sur, September 21, 2012
“Iodine” & “Paper-Thin Hotel,” (excerpts)
Greg Ashley & Chris Stroffolino @ Hotel Utah; July 7,
2012:
“Famous Blue Raincoat”
Chris Stroffolino/Piano Van @ Griffith Park, LA (March
2013):
"Don't Go Home With Your Hard-On," Greg Ashley Band (Leonard Cohen cover)
“Old home movie footage underlines how much this contrasts with the life Leonard gave up for poetry.” Sylvie Simmons, I'm Your Man: new Leonard Cohen bio (2012)
Saturday, May 4, 2013
My First National Poetry "Hit" (1990) (for Maxine Chernoff & Paul Hoover)
To Keep Meaning From Emerging From The Mesh
We meet like shoelaces
Knotted by a need that likes to act nonchalant
Staring its object straight in the threat I mean face…
Work and play, too, become
Another dualism abstracted from a unified sum
Like digging beneath the tulip
To find its roots in rain…
Work’s like sunglasses
Somebody punched a lens out of:
We see both ways simultaneously.
The parallel lines my double vision saw
Have finally met in a blur…
Some day’s work’s hell
But I’d have to deal with people anyway
The way desire dogs me around
And meaning’s some scummy moralist, witty alien,
Poking his head out from the marriage bed
Charming us to keep our mind off his dissection.
Living, or dying?
Just ‘cause we know the sand’s
Being poured down the drain
Doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel
immense,
And cannot, like running, be run away from.
So whether or not you get the job
Has much to do with romance
And whether or not you get to seduce
Depends on whether a job’s the excuse.
New American Writing, 1990; republished in Oops (Pavement Saw Press, 1994)
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Wednesday, May 1, 2013
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