city, it’s not you. it’s me.

8 06 2013

i’ve given you so many pet names,
adding determiners,
—(the city, my city)
toying with your phonemes,
—(madrizzle, the ‘driz)
wrapping tongue around the unruly curved softness of your end:
invitingly, erotically defiant
—(maDriD)

city,
remember that series of ink-soaked maps
torn to shreds in purse zippers,
in hasty folds, in klutzy wine,
dotted with apartment Xs, restaurant Os,
walking routes, scrawled numbers,
the secret chinese,
where to buy cilantro.

and what i brought to you –
city, did you ever read the List?
postcards (5)
letters (2)
glitter

origami paper
visa papers (incl. Apostille of the Hague)
garnier surf hair gel
nail polish (black, purple…… glitter)
Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
chipotle peppers, canned (3)

the times i’ve danced with you, city,
drunken, exuberant, desperate,
full of joy, chemicals, light and fear and uncertainty,
the way you whisked me up and away,
let me push myself too far,
always made me decide.

our secrets. train tracks from the hidden park.
yellowed photographic nightwalks. sambal oelek.
luchana terrace cherries. rioja antaño.
how many times i’ve painted my nails.
that time i made it all the way back home just to bust my lip wide open, blood raging, cut nerves raw to the air,
twenty-something channeling inner teenage punk.

how heavy my heart hangs, city.
we’ve always been open to plurality of loves,
dynamic organic expression! hippie-dippy-dom!
but never would i have guessed it weighed so much.
cracked myself open wide, said yes to absolutely everything,
spreading it much too thick and biting in recklessly,
gulping only the very strongest flavors,
neophilia addiction and willingness to wander leading to unexpected depth of connection.
you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you –

but i’ve already told you, city.
it’s not you, it’s–

performed at the 10th Mad Open Mic in Libreria Fuentetaja, May 22, 2013.

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9th MAD Open Mic: Captured Words

2 05 2012

MAD Open Mic swings ’round once more; again I toss together something last minute and perform it in high style, fingertips a-curl. Inspired by Anne Carson’s Short Talks, which I’ve loved for going on seven years now, plus signifi-quests and murky underwater imagery, whose slip and slime I can’t seem to shake, and so choose to embrace.

My introduction this round:
Janel Torkington is here for her third reading. She is currently studying the science of Being In The Right Place At The Right Time, with a creative minor in Living In The Here And Now.

[[October’s performance: modern romance.]]

short talk from the bottom of the sea.
currents ancient, softblack and slow smoky in their curls.
scant handfuls of things luminescent,
holloweyed hauntbeasts aglow with pale turquoise flame.
slithering multitudes of things undesirous of attention,
all Lurk and Loom and Lust,
biding (time)(secondshoursyears–
–expending no energy. they move not. they d r i f t,
currentbeings, currently seething,
stillquiet in the silent burning arias of the vents:
(the vents thevents)
fissures in the depth spewing steady hot song from molten rock
unseen.

perched, crouched, ready,
it’s here you’ll find Author,
tangled in rotten black weed,
creeping at you with oversize eyes.

only here will you find Voice,
long exiled from polished oysterpearl origins,
simmering salty now and scattered,
all in hide-n-seek bits, snatches,
grasping at eelstraw mists.

Meaning, the kraken.
doesn’t matter if you believe in sucker and slime,
in salient cutting shears jawbone beak.
Meaning slurps to and fro, slick and strong,
effortless ballet through swaths of impermeable ink.





8th MAD Open Mic: Captured Words

20 10 2011

English verbal creations of all variety swirl round the mirrored pillars of Café Concierto La Fídula at the 8th iteration of Marjorie Kanter’s MAD Open Mic. Multiple-voiced ghost stories and spontaneous maternal monologues, couplets dedicated to the micturating elderly and comic verse lamenting loss of love to 92 flavors of cheese. I’m not the only one who finds writing vital in this city.

This marks the second time I’ve signed myself up for the event without having written a damn thing, in the not unreasonable expectation that the best kind of inspiration is last minute panic. I read-perform a piece I’m provisionally and pretentiously calling modern romance. It’s designed with the intention of performance, but perhaps the stance in the photo will offer some glimpse of how it plays out on stage.

modern romance
so he video calls me from italy, a party.

me in my terra firma he in his,
connected by pixels and garbled partynoise.
fuzz, and then — focus.
colors flashing,
whirling the lens,
image blends:
long table full of mad revelry.
young people old people knickknacks wine,
international gewgaws:
african ambassador, chinese figurines,
ceramic german beer steins and costa rican beach tapestries,
jade and wood and molded plastic,
the atypical made typical:
mama nostra’s own ravioli steaming, screaming,
it’s a small world after all.

and—
extended arm and reflecting his face,
starkly,
spine shudders,
dirty little jolt that
it’s me by whom he aims to be seen.

unseen prior inhalation results in slow smoke emerging from cracked songwriter’s lips,
pursed out,
kissing filthy smoky airstreams,
softly forming smokeships drifting up and curling round extended finger,
and i know it’s me,
i know i am the uncoiled finger and
i know that this sootsnake has me encircled entwined entranced enraptured encaptured, and
his eyes on the lens
his eyes on the screen
his pixellated digital representation coolly seeking connection,
narrowed eyeslits sultry through smokescreen,
and finding me
in my buring racing retinas and
in my aching frantic heartbeat,
my insistantly pulsating bloodstream.

it is image and
it is a simularum and
it is constructed and
it is a construction and
it is a creation
unto me,
just for me,
only for me.





The best is when you rediscover.

12 10 2011

When you walk down a familiar street at an unfamiliar hour and the lightstreams flow orange like eels through the infinite columns.

When splashy new streetart wizards its way onto walls.

When a new bar transforms to an old bar, and they greet you with a shout and open arms and Rioja.

When a friend’s face illuminates at the first taste of jamón ibérico de bellota, and you remember yours and you smile big and you experience all over again.

When the cast turns over completely, when the script goes to shit, when you have to start it all over again, when you find yourself on the verge of what appears a terrifying void left by past loves and past support beams, past pyramids you were so proud to have placed together stone by precious weighty stone, feeling safety in stability and the known.

When you realize what plunging ankledeep waistdeep neckdeep into those shifting swirling sands means, that precise instant of cognizance where color shifts a degree this way or that and things start to rotate, buzzing excitedly.

When you’re told tales of your own enthusiasm, when your image is as a crackling electric ouroboros, when production takes a running leap and ends up keeping pace at consumption’s side.

When you give all of it, when you are seeking for the pleasure of seeking, when you spread far and wide, when you keep nothing for yourself.

When your unfurled tendrils meet the nourishment of the city in glorious chlorophyll feast, blossoming million-petaled-beauties everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.

Hola, year two. Vámonos.