Earthquake Weather

flameon
Mood: Funky
Drinking: Water

Earthquake Weather

And in that moment I knew
what my choice would be.
What, indeed, it already was,
as if all my life I had been
waiting for someone
just to ask the right question.

A question of love, yes,
and a question of lust, too,
but when you lay back
the skin of the thing
and find fire pulsing
in its core, then
you need only review
the essence of flame
to reach your answer.

If you want to burn
without getting burned
you must either
carry ice in your veins
or flame out before morning.

I have always been afraid of fire.
When playing with matches,
I am careful to singe only
fingertips.
Caution serves one well
in earthquake weather.

Now I can’t sleep
until you come home.
Last night I lay in bed
and wished the neighbor
would turn out his light.
And in that moment I knew
what my choice would be.

Without you here to cool me
I begin a slow burn.
When morning comes,
you will find only ashes
between the sheets.

There is no such thing
as one true love
so pick your number
wisely.

I know you’ll be awhile figuring that one out. I’m still working on it, myself. So here’s some fun new things to distract you.

My favorite Wicker Kid has been writing again. I highly suggest you read his new posts over at The Wicker Chronicles.

A lovely lady from the UK named Melissa contacted me over the weekend to ask if she could add some cinepoetry to her website. And that’s how Bored Now and Slow Roast came to be a part of Beat the Dust TV. Check it out.

-Lo, who thinks the last stanza, though possibly misplaced, is the key.

This, That and the Other

seventy6
Mood: Spaced
Drinking: Tea

Wicker Kid is writing again. I couldn’t be more delighted. Go read his latest, and you’ll be delighted too.

The Swell Season is in town, and Boy and I and a bunch of our friends are going to go see Glen and Marketa in person tonight. I’m tingling with anticipation. I expect it to be beautiful. After Once, how could it not!?

This weekend, in addition to being a birthday weekend for yours truly, is also Poppy Jasper Film Festival weekend down in Morgan Hill, CA.

Slippery Shiny Feathery Things, the same cinepoem collection that won the Best of Festival Arts award at Berkeley, is screening at Poppy Jasper on November 10 at 9pm and November 11 at 3pm.

Check the schedule if you’re in the area and want to stop by the festival for some big screen action.

That’s all for now, but it’s quite enough to keep you busy, yes?

-Lo, who’s ready for some fresh ink.

Never, Ever

Mood: Cloudy with chances of rain
Drinking: Yes

How much is enough?

Really. When does the resting come, with accompanying laurels? When do the questions cease? The nagging needle-teeth of doubt. When does silence finally reign supreme in heads, in beating hearts?

Never. I think that is the answer. Never, ever.

The rule is that you’re only as good as your Last Big Thing. And if your Thing happened in, say, 2005, and the calendar has rolled over to 2006, well, you are old news. You are yesterday’s leftover. You are a rerun.

And if all your work and sweat and toil is cloaked in obscurity, if your fan club numbers in the single digits, if you have no agent, no studio, no publisher and no papparazzi, who then is there to look over your shoulder? Who sends the has-been alert? Who pushes you to go faster, swim further, climb higher?

I do not think I’m alone when I say that I am my harshest critic, worst enemy, loudest heckler, creepiest stalker, fiercest competitor. Everyone who attempts art does so with the fear of failure breathing down their neck. Even though said “failure” is all in your own head. Even if you are the only one to pronounce all your efforts null.

So no matter what my word count is, no matter how many cinepoems created or poems recited, the answer is never. Never enough.

There is always the next one, the next line, the next project, the next concept, the next shoot. And before that’s even over, start planning for the next one. Because the next one will be better.

There are just some of us who will never be satisfied with what we create. With what we have. With what we know. Because you find the answer to a question, you find the line that finally rhymes, you find the stick to scratch the itch, and in the next breath you wonder why. Questions lead to more questions. And, really, that’s the way we like it.

To quote my friend G’s Wicker Chronicles: “Sweet spot? Comfort zone? Boring. Where’s the sour spot? The salty spot? What happens if I set the spot on fire?”

What happens, indeed. The fire burns and your skin sizzles and inspiration flies, phoenix-like, from the flames, and for one brief moment, for one tiny second, your breath comes easy and you watch it all gloriously burn.

But the moment passes and it’s on to the next one. Time to set another fire.

-Lo, whose next “fire” involves following a white rabbit.

The Wicker Chronicles

Mood: Too early to tell
Drinking: Caffeinated beverage

After spending some time reading and re-reading some work by my friend G, I am more convinced than ever that more people should know who he is. Everyone, in fact, should know. There should be shiny hardback volumes with his name imprinted on their spines.

G and I met in the minefield of mid-twenties suburban mega-religion and established a bond over our mutual affection for poetry, snarkiness and the lost wonders of DeKalb.

Upon meeting G, it doesn’t take long to discover that he is a genius. And once he began to share his writing with me, I elevated him to capital GENIUS status. He really is amazing. And although I’m here now and he’s there, he fills my inbox with intrigue every single week, without fail.

This is one of his poems, “Storm”…

“in the sanctuary
hundreds of people open
their good books
and it’s the sound of leaves
rustling in the tops of trees
and all I can think of
is wind and storm,
violence
not love.

the whisper of prayers from
a thousand lips is
a mushroomcloud of moths fluttering
the silver dust from their wings
falling like ash.

the clap of a hundred raised hands
is the distant clatter
of mortars exploding,
all the killing done in
the name of Whatever
flavor of the week
we’re worshipping.

and all the words they use
are bruised and faded,
bleached of worth;
He is hiding in the subtext,
behind tongues,
before birth.

who can hope to understand
the complex mess we’ve made
of earth?

not the books and not the lips
and not the hands

for He is hiding
and is deaf to our demands,

beyond tongues,
beyond death,
such amazing love
to let us live,
breath by labored breath?”

Get more here.

-Lo, who’s getting more G herself very soon. Right, my friend? Dinner. Monday. Downtown.