TinyTall 2.0

Ninjas attacked. Seven stitches in right hand index finger. Nicked tendon. Typing with one hand for another week The one time I kind of wish I were a horny net geek guy who had developed that skill.

Holdover: another slam poem: The Cure

Tonight it is with trepidation
That I approach the stage
The microphone
The audience
The words
The truth
Shaking like an addict

Because the reality is
That I am not good at this
I cower in the face of power
And you’re holding all the cards

At your first glance
I’ve got confidence
I take the chance

But you’re the ones judging
ones scoring
ones with a stopwatch
ones that decide
In seven freaking seconds
or less
If you’ll even listen

It’s the radio
Without hiding behind the microphone
I’m so afraid you will be
Tuning out of this
Poetry station

Because my creation
Is full of trepidation
And says too much
About my aspiration
To avoid stagnation
And get better at flirtation

Because it’s all manipulation
Of the words that are my
Intoxication

My vocal vibration
The summation
Of your expectation
Your score the incarceration
Of my liberation

And yet I come back
I’m the one writing
With a pen
That decides
In seven freaking hours
Or more
What the hell I’ll even say

At my first glance
You’re hostile
And I cower in the face
Of your power

But words are drugs
Poetry the syringe
That fills our veins
With syllable chasers
And meter munchies
That are impossible to resist

There’s a reason
It’s called
A slam

Like vodka burning
The delicate tissues
Of your throat
Someone’s words
Will burn into your soul
If not tonight
Then tomorrow

Because words are drugs
And I failed DARE

This microphone
Is the birthstone
Of so many words
scattered and sewn
And a few words
Planted and grown
I’ve listened to you
And I’ve decided that

These words are irresistible
And incurable
They’re impossible
Incomprehensible
Incompatible
Infallible
And despicable

Yet, with the door open,
I am caught
And refuse to escape
Or leave this birthstone alone
I must stand, shaking like an addict

In front of the ones judging
scoring
with a stopwatches
that decide
In three freaking minutes
or less
If these words are worth it

The reality is
That I cower in the face of power
And you’re holding all the cards
But words are drugs
And lest I implode
I need my hit

Despite judgment
or Advancement
or Argument
This is my ailment

And I hope they never find
A fucking cure

Written for the Speak-In poetry slam last night – where I did NOT make friends with some of my comments (both in this poem and out) but I also did not make too many enemies… sometimes 8 years of debate trains you too well.

You stand up here
Speaking of revolution
Of those that died
For misbegotten beliefs
In God, Country, and War

You stand up here
Telling me that we’ve got it wrong
That we messed it all up
And all that’s left to do
Is mourn and recall

Mourn and Recall
That day when the towers fell
That our soldiers were deployed
That the world turned upside down

You stand up here
Mourning the lives that are lost
Recalling liberties yanked away
Speaking of revolution

So I ask you
The affected, the teary-eyed
The revolutionaries
The believers in country
Or in conspiracy

Who do you mourn?
Who did you
Who do you know
That you would have,
Should have,
Could have,
Kissed goodbye

Now, standing up here, respectfully
I ask you to recall
Not a president’s blunders
Or the lack of planning
Not the fear of reprisal
Or your political sway

But recall why it is
A Revolution around which you rally
A Revolution for which you mourn
Is it freedoms denied?
Or the hapless, hopeless, senseless deaths?

And I ask you to recall
How much freedom there is
Surrounded in the stifling black
And lost self
Of an unwanted burqua

And I ask you to recall
How many hapless
Hopeless
Senseless deaths
Hidden in mass graves
Came to the Kurds
At the hands of chemical tests

And I ask you to mourn
For the on-mass killings
Of innocents
Bystanders
And the unlucky
Those caught in the crossfire
Of powerful dictators
And their desires

I am not standing up here
To tell you that we are right
That the world operates
On black and white

I simply ask you to recall
That though WMDs are MIA
Our reasons were not
And are not
Quite all that simple
Mourn for those that die
On all sides
And realize

That jihad means personal struggle
Not death
And destruction
That jihad is a holy word
For believers in Country,
God, and Conspiracy all

And we are a world
In a very public expression
Of personal moral jihad

So I ask you
The affected
What is your struggle
The world is not black and white
And we all live
In a world of gray

A world where words
Mean what we are told
And now how they are intended
Where questioning “truth”
A “questionable activity”

Recalling the world
As it used to be
I am forced to mourn
Openness in thought
And inquisitive natures
Willing to ask

Because when you ask yourself
Which direction to go
Or what you believe
THAT is jihad, a revolution in thought
Not a violent, outward
Explosion of emotion
But the slow burn
Of an internal struggle

Where there is no easy
No right answer
Where both sides are right
And all sides are wrong

By ripping away freedom
To restore expression
And soaking in blood
To save an entire people
We are mourning the days
When life was more clear-cut
And recalling the days
When we were not much better

Our world lives in gray
And struggle
The inevitable conclusion
Jihad is the pain of growth
And something good
Trying to happen

So I am standing up here
Waiting for that bright dawn
I stand here
Speaking of the revolutionary mourning
That will allow us all to recall

Yes, in fact, there is a “sport” known as extreme Ironing.

And they make a calendar. All I can say is wow.

By request, I’m posting more photos.

Rachel sending bubbles out into the sunset.

Green tiled wall in Portland.

Local musician Jacob Butcher during a performance.

Of course, you can always find more by Clicking the flickr

Two days ago, after the stress of the move and plenty of relaxing at the beach the night before, I decided to take CG up on her offer of a henna tattoo. I had figured it would be something similar to what I’d gotten in Portland, a small design that took up about half of one hand. Two-ish hours later…

I even managed to sleep that night without scraping off too much of the henna, and the stains are beautiful! I’ve gotten all kinds of questions at work about what her hourly rate is. A third career for CG, perhaps?

The next evening was the usual Wednesday night – Anarchy poetry slam followed by karaoke. Of course, what we’d thought would be the usual open-mic slam was actually a “haiku throwdown” where it was on-the-spot haikus. Talk about scary and fun – fun when this cute girl got up and read a haiku that started with “henna-handed girl”… I was literally blown away. Then I perhaps got a bit too into it, but did come up with a few that I think are worth keeping.

For your reading enjoyment, a haiku triplet:

This is a duet
Meant entirely for three
Quantum physics works

Swirling our red souls
With trials, tribulations
Into cosmic pulp

To make paper with
That we all write haiku on
To find our lost souls