I shall drink rust
Luna's on Thursday night. The epicenter of the poetry scene in Sacramento. Tonight's feature, a sister-duo, wasn't what drew me out. Instead, it was business with an erotic poet (NOT eroticist) with contemplations on Phallus in Wonderland. But Gene Bloom was out; it being his birthday (Happy 23rd you old letch!) and I settled into a procession of Guiness pints and the pleasure of clucking with friends within the applaused segues between open-mic poets.
Open-Mic, Part I
Open-mic is a hit-or-miss animal: you never know what you're going to get on any given night. Joy and agony are often the intermingled result. Tonight was a hit. Arron Clive and Josh Hernandez made good use of their five minutes at the mic stand to get things started right. Michael R. Gorman's The Mountain Climb, an erotic poem crafted with the challenge of concealing its erotic qualities, was exquisitely set up and delivered. Up this tower / This minaret / This monument / Obelisk / Pillar / Column / Steeple / Spire / I worship / With eyes rolled upward / With tongue lapping silent prayers / I worship / I worship / Up / Up / And over / The crest / The ridge
frank andrick. frank andrick. frank andrick. The evening's host, King of phosphorus, he conspired successfully to field nine poets from the audience (they're everywhere apparently) to join him in a reading Pablo Picasso, a poem by Guillaume Apollinaire. The beauty of the poem, and andrick's inspired presentation, is that it can be read from at any point, beginning, middle, end; wherever the eyes find "a hook."
Catch hold of the pink spiders / on the swin / Regrets for invisible snares.
The original version, andrick explains, was written around cut outs from a photograph, which give the poem an archipelago-like appearance; disjointed clusters of text amid a sea of white.
This veined sapphire/ King of phosphorus / The dance of the ten / The blue frame
Jeffery, quiet and in the shadows, always unassuming until he takes the stage and unwinds. Before he begins to recite his poem, off the top of his skull -- I shall drink rust / and call it my blood -- we are informed that he will relieve Barbara Noble of her duties as a Luna's/poetryUnplugged/host come June.
Feature
Your maiden rays seek out ... another Guiness. Working in tandem, the sisters were disorganized and uninteresting. Only when the youngest was given the stage to herself did things improve. Open letter to the mouse carcass rotting in my wall was hilarious and introspective. I have a superstitious trust in you carcass. Written in letter form, it ends Happy Rotting / Bre Pruett. I thought the guitar work and singing overall were a mixed bag. But my friend, an impressive singer/songwriter in his own right, thought she did a bang up job. I'll conceed. But some of her work did suffer from the poetry-as-therapy solemnity. Even as I was writing in my notes "Another Broken Poet" and "cracked vessel," she delivered this line herself: "a wounded songbird." Her set ended surprisingly well with a well-received audience participation song that repeated the chorus / mantra where is my electric car?
Open-Mic, Part II
Again, more joy than agony, like before the feature. Pablo, a philipino poet from San Francisco, in town and visiting old haunts, delivers a string of memorized poems worthy of a feature. His last, an incredible homage to rice, as a staple, as a symbol. A perfect ending.
Open-Mic, Part I
Open-mic is a hit-or-miss animal: you never know what you're going to get on any given night. Joy and agony are often the intermingled result. Tonight was a hit. Arron Clive and Josh Hernandez made good use of their five minutes at the mic stand to get things started right. Michael R. Gorman's The Mountain Climb, an erotic poem crafted with the challenge of concealing its erotic qualities, was exquisitely set up and delivered. Up this tower / This minaret / This monument / Obelisk / Pillar / Column / Steeple / Spire / I worship / With eyes rolled upward / With tongue lapping silent prayers / I worship / I worship / Up / Up / And over / The crest / The ridge
frank andrick. frank andrick. frank andrick. The evening's host, King of phosphorus, he conspired successfully to field nine poets from the audience (they're everywhere apparently) to join him in a reading Pablo Picasso, a poem by Guillaume Apollinaire. The beauty of the poem, and andrick's inspired presentation, is that it can be read from at any point, beginning, middle, end; wherever the eyes find "a hook."
Catch hold of the pink spiders / on the swin / Regrets for invisible snares.
The original version, andrick explains, was written around cut outs from a photograph, which give the poem an archipelago-like appearance; disjointed clusters of text amid a sea of white.
This veined sapphire/ King of phosphorus / The dance of the ten / The blue frame
Jeffery, quiet and in the shadows, always unassuming until he takes the stage and unwinds. Before he begins to recite his poem, off the top of his skull -- I shall drink rust / and call it my blood -- we are informed that he will relieve Barbara Noble of her duties as a Luna's/poetryUnplugged/host come June.
Feature
Your maiden rays seek out ... another Guiness. Working in tandem, the sisters were disorganized and uninteresting. Only when the youngest was given the stage to herself did things improve. Open letter to the mouse carcass rotting in my wall was hilarious and introspective. I have a superstitious trust in you carcass. Written in letter form, it ends Happy Rotting / Bre Pruett. I thought the guitar work and singing overall were a mixed bag. But my friend, an impressive singer/songwriter in his own right, thought she did a bang up job. I'll conceed. But some of her work did suffer from the poetry-as-therapy solemnity. Even as I was writing in my notes "Another Broken Poet" and "cracked vessel," she delivered this line herself: "a wounded songbird." Her set ended surprisingly well with a well-received audience participation song that repeated the chorus / mantra where is my electric car?
Open-Mic, Part II
Again, more joy than agony, like before the feature. Pablo, a philipino poet from San Francisco, in town and visiting old haunts, delivers a string of memorized poems worthy of a feature. His last, an incredible homage to rice, as a staple, as a symbol. A perfect ending.
posted by Richard Hansen at
11:59 PM
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