Tattooing In The Land Of Antiquity

It always makes me feel good to see tattooing unfold its inky wings across new parts of the globe, or in this case, return to parts where it's long been missed. In May, on the 30th anniversary of the first Athenian tattoo shop to legally open its doors to the public in 2000 years, the 1st International Athens Tattoo Convention commenced for three long, hot days of great artists, buzzing needles, and friendly competition at the Technopolis of the City of Athens; an industrial warehouse-type building whose giant brick smoke stacks blinked their red lights in the night. A metal and grunge show took place next door and only a chain link fence stood between the world recognized tattoo artists and loud head banging musicians. With an unprecedented heat wave hitting Greece (foreshadowing the recent fires that have swept two-thirds of the country), the 1st International Athens Tattoo Convention looked intelligently designed to be a sweaty, bloody ride.


In 2002, the Athens Summer Olympics caused a city-wide restoration, boosting the city’s pride and inculcating the belief that a new dawn is coming. Since two-thirds of Greece’s entire population reside in Athens, this zeitgeist is paramount. The emerging respect for personal freedom and acceptance of tattooing is certainly a big step forward. For me, the extraordinary age of the city compared with the seemingly “new” emergence of tattoo art seemed stunning. I was excited see my Athenian friend, an apprentice at local tattoo shop AMAZ-ink, and discuss the situation. But first I had to find her.


When first entering the packed convention, I was greeted by Greek shops Tommy Tattoo, Takis-Tsan, and Spartan Tattoos, offering a taste of home town pride. The organizer of the convention was Mike aka The Athens, appropriately. His stand was swamped from beginning to end of the convention. I found him side by side with Neil Ahern and Jondix, both of Spain and all good friends. These three might be said to be sharing a path. Inspired by the relationship of tattoos and spirituality, their work is a tradition of evolution, using Native American symbols, Hindu and Zen figures, and beautifully subtle color. They turn up the volume so that their tattoos scream what the Dalai Lama only whispered: Learn the rules so you know how to break them properly.


Mike’s affinity for tradition was shared by most of the artists at the convention. Two shops over I met Pili Mo’o, a master of the Pelonesian art of tattooing and self-described “last of the kind in Europe”. He uses a round stick about a foot long with a needles on the end to create his tattoos. On the second day of the convention, the spectacle of his art drew a crowd so large I could barely get a glimpse. When asked where he is from, he answered, “the world”, and his demeanor agreed with him. He treated everyone as family. The philosophy behind Pelonesian tattooing is that the tattoo must represent social standing within a community. It is determined and designed by the tattoo artist, not the tattooed, and more is added as the recipient’s social status grows, whether by gaining prestige, wealth, a good job, or a family and kids.



I met a little known Greek artist, Payloy Mela, who, tattooing “on a mountain outside of Sparta”, likewise prefers traditional tattooing methods. He uses just a single needle. “My tattoos look like they just came off an unearthed vase,” he remarked. They are also prototypes of the uniquely Greek designs found all over the world, such as the Greek key and the Spartan Warrior. It was very interesting to listen to his ancient philosophies while hardcore-techno blasted from a Red Bull sponsored all-terrain vehicle just a few feet away.



Finally, I found my friend Jenny Skalkos toward the back of the convention with AMAZ-ink shop head, Marios. She’d arrived that morning at nine o’clock, three hours before opening to the public, and before anyone else. With the convention running until midnight each day, it was a long weekend to be an apprentice. “But the inspiration is priceless,” she said, “so many great artists in one place, there is no better way to learn.” When I asked her about Greek tattooing in the past she lay out a complicated picture for me that I could only partially grasp. What I understood was that originally, tattooing had been practice by nomadic Scythian warriors who once inhabited Greece prior to even Socrates and Aristotle. As proof that the long arm of the law cannot reach everywhere, living examples of that tradition can still be found in the northern Píndhos Mountains in Greece. Fittingly, tattoos were later used to brand criminals, and then fell into religious disdain as the Romans, and Christianity, spread across the globe. But the story is much more complicated than that, and no one book has fully pieced it together.


As each day came and passed several different contests took place to display the best ink at the convention, whether completely healed or still bleeding. On Saturday, the tattoo work of Paolo Acuna, owner of Divinity Tattoo & Body Piercing, out of Scottsdale, Arizona, won the Best Color Tattoo Contest for a stunning sleeve of pink and orange roses. The winning piece was on his wife. “I’ve only been touched by him”, Annette said. Things were going well for the couple, Paolo was tattooing Ganesha, the Hindu elephant-god, on the hand of a man who’d waited three years for him to come to Athens. “We visited Skiathos before arriving here,” Annette said, “it was amazingly beautiful.” Most everyone from abroad arrived a couple days early or left a few days late, the draw of the lush and hedonistic Greek islands too strong to resist. Since then, Skiathos has been completely evacuated due to the fires.




On Sunday, the last day of the convention, I spoke with Eiland Hogan, of Forever Tattoo in Sacramento, and organizer of All American Tattoo Festival that took place in June. I asked him about his stay in Athens. “We’ve had a wild time. The place next to our hotel was on fire and a shooting took place just around the corner.” I guess he stayed in a section of Athens still awaiting gentrification. “But the people are great here, and food is awesome.” Pili Mo’o came over and they talked like old friends. Soon everyone, the artists and the attendees, were chillin’ and enjoying the last moments of the convention. The talk then shifted to meeting in Spain, meeting in Milan - and eventually came around to more pressing matters, where to hold that night’s party.

A Swift Kick In The Bells

How often will San Francisco bear witness to a line up like this year’s Rock The Bells? Think: EPMD, Public Enemy, all eight remaining members of Wu-Tang, and seven-year-retired Rage Against the Machine. Bands that we thought we’d never see perform again. On top of that, add veterans Cypress Hill, Mos Def, The Roots, MF Doom, and Pharoah Monch--the 40,000 tickets were sold out long in advance.

Arriving at noon, the ticket line extended along the shore almost to the Bay Bridge. The water-side venue (without a view of the water) was the parking lot for AT&T Park. Newly emerging and viscously political lyricist Immortal Technique was scheduled for 12:50pm, but there was no way most ticket holders were going to get a chance to see him. The day was unusually hot and there was no shade, just pavement. The fans who’d made it inside looked confused by the lack of seating and ate deep fried hot dogs to ground themselves. From the distance, the Main Stage hurled its thunderous beats. Near the entrance the Paid Dues Stage, the smaller of the two stages, greeted the audience. Billed as an “independent rap” festival, the Paid Dues tour originated in 2006 and already boasted some of the best lyricists out to date, before teaming up with Rock The Bells this year. Now artists like Murs 3:16, Sage Francis, The Coup, and reclusive MF Doom were greeting eight times larger audiences. At 1:30, Immortal Technique left the stage, his lyrics trailing behind him like smoke behind a Scud.

At the Main Stage the crowd was thick, and left-wing politics were flying. A man stepped up after Mos Def and Talib Kweli’s set and yelled the names of men awaiting state execution, after which the crowd yelled “free them!”. Then the mic cut out and was not turned on again until Razhel’s awesome solo beat-boxing came through, followed by The Roots, who kicked into swing with an impressively complicated rhythm scheme. Captain Kirk on guitar and the dancin’ man with the sousaphone gave a great performance. Next up were Public Enemy’s Chuck D and Flava Flave, who burst on stage with an energy that unfortunately soon subsided. Even the brilliant red beard of Anthrax’s Scott Ian couldn’t maintain, since his road-beaten guitar was inaudible. However, it was Public Enemy.

As the sun began to sink, Cypress Hill lit up the night. Their set was incredible. A couple songs in, Sen Dog asked B-Real if it might be time for a chronic break. Getting the appropriate response from the crowd, B-Real lit a huge joint, all the more massive for being displayed on the giant video screens on both sides of the stage, while DJ Muggs fashioned some beats to inhale by. Behind the group bobbed an inflatable gold Buddha with a green pot leaf on its belly. Cypress Hill covered all the old hits and ended with an aggressive version of Rock (Superstar) that got everyone on their feet, properly setting up the next group: Wu-Tang.

Wu-Tang came onto the stage like an army. The eight members stood in front with special guest Redman while their crew filled in the back. Method Man was soon crowd surfing over 36 Chambers while Ghostface Killah, the RZA, the GZA, Raekwon, U-God, Inspectah Deck, and Masta Killa held it down. At times the excessive amount of talent on the stage left one or two of the Wu dynasty standing idly, waiting their turn, but the sound was flawless and amped. A hardcore performance of Wu-Tang Clan Ain’t Nuthing Ta Fuck With began completely a cappella. They took a break in honor of Ghostface’s birthday and took the opportunity to announce a new album coming out this spring. The only other break in the music was a moment of silence for Wu-Tang member Ol’ Dirty Bastard, who passed away in 2004.

Finally, it was time for Rage Against the Machine. The minutes passed like hours in anticipation as the whole audience pushed to the front. Then Zach de la Rocha, Tom Morello, Tim Commerford, and Brad Wilk appeared through the red synthetic smoke and launched into Testify. Immediately, three massive mosh pits erupted in the middle of the crowd. The performance was so high-energy that Zach accidentally fell over the monitors at one point. Morello's guitar sounded better live than the studio recordings and Commerford’s bass filled up every spot in the parking lot. Rage ended the show with Killing In The Name and Zach made a slight but poignant change in the lyrics: "some of those that hold office, are the same that burn crosses." Then the immense assembly exited on foot, taking over 3rd Street and backing up traffic for 45 minutes, until the riot police got out of their vans and the sirens began.

And Now For Something Completely Different: The Pink Palace, Part 2 of 2

After sleeping all day we hit the six-hour-long happy-hour, then went to dinner. The dining complex is a huge, windowless, pink, disco-ball hangin', sixty-foot bar totin', dance-floor cafeteria. Upon taking a seat, one of the guys at our table said, "Are you Canadian, too?" We shocked everyone by informing them that no, in fact, we were not. Despite our outsider status, the people we sat with were friendly, and the food was great, beginning with a re-hydrating, salty soup, a Greek salad, and a deliciously spiced meat sauce over pasta. With beers costing 1.50 euro, it's a great deal. Next, we headed for the bar and chatted with some of the Canadians from our bus, one of whom, when he wasn't unsuccessfully hitting on short-skirted women, kept telling us that it's better to be single at the Pink Palace, and another of whom, upon learning where we'd traveled from, said, "San Francisco…yeah…aren't there a lot of fags there?" Which kind of killed the mood. We finally escaped to our room and found a party raging next door. Drinking heavily was the blonde who'd informed us that alcohol wasn't allowed inside the rooms. I swung across the balconies a few times looking down three stories, then two hundred sloping feet onto the moonlit shoreline.

The next day we rented kayaks and, rather than join the kayak-safari trip, opted to do our own thing. We'd heard from others that the quad-safari was too slow. The kayaks, described as sea-kayaks, had open cockpits and were very bulky, but they did the trick. We explored up the coast and out to a huge pinnacle of rock sticking out of the waves a hundred feet off shore. Looking up it towered straight to the sun with sea-birds nesting and cackling above. The sheer immensity of it was awesome. We almost unloaded, then noticed the thousands of sea-urchins with two inch needles sticking out. The waves of the Mediterranean grew a bit big around the next peninsula so we stopped on a beach that could only be reached by water. Later we found a sea-cave and paddled inside and found streaks of light coming from two-hundred feet above us. We were underneath a massive cliff, alone, with nothing but the sound of waves rolling in and gently breaking farther inside the cave's recesses.

That night, the party in the room next to ours was raging again. We met a chill couple and enjoyed too many sugar-filled drinks (decidedly, the bartenders were trying to kill us via glucose). There was an orgy taking place a few doors down that included a very unsure stray dog; when it managed to escape we gave it refuge on our balcony, wary of any strange fluids. The day before, The Pink Palace's cleaning ladies had brutally beaten the dog with brooms – cruelty to animals is not uncommon in Greece – until a couple of lodgers saved it.

It crossed my mind, that in many ways the dog's life mirrored the experience of the travelers passing through The Palace: caught in something unpredictable, uncertain of where the next hour will take you, never mind the next day; hedonism takes you in, pulls you along until your hangover, like a broom-wielding cleaning lady, pounds you over the head.

We stayed one final day, working hard to avoid machismo and left on the morning of the weekly toga-party. I don't think we missed anything we hadn't seen before.

Some suggestions:

* Check out the town! It's like five minutes away and has tons of food and drink at cheap-ass prices.
* Note that yr fifth night is free and plan ahead.
* Be wary of the end of happy-hour, yr care-free buzz-bill might surprise you.
* Concerning guided vs. unguided trips around the island, we had a great time on our own but later heard that the kayak safari went cliff jumping and hiked up to an abandoned Buddhist monestary, which sounded kinda fun. It's yr call.
* Do not rely on The Pink Palace staff for information concerning ferries and make sure they check to see whether anyone else is leaving when you are, thereby avoiding a 25 euro cab ride with a very unfriendly local.

TRANSLATION - Rainer Maria Rilke - page a month

The man from Langenau writes a letter, deep in thought. Slowly, he paints with large, earnest, erect letters:
“My good mother,
be full of pride: I bear the flag,
do not hold sorrow: I bear the flag,
hold love for me: I bear the flag--”

Then he puts the letter inside his wool coat, in the secret place, next to the rose petal. And he thinks: before long it will take on the fragrance. And he thinks: maybe, in some time, another will find it…. And he thinks: …; therefore the enemy is near.

And Now For Something Completely Different: The Pink Palace, Part 1 of 2

THE PINK PALACE

The Greek Island of Corfu is known for its amenities, luxurious beaches, hotels, restaurants, and particularly effective public transportation system, but far away from the major towns, in a little cove, the laws of hedonism take over, and at an affordable price.


We arrived at The Pink Palace at eight o'clock in the morning. The ten-hour bus and ferry ride regurgitated fifteen sleep-deprived Canadians on the doorstep of a giant pink complex, where a blond woman with a Texan accent hollered, "Throw yr bags in the luggage room and join us at the bar." Check-in involved shots of pink Ouzo, a psych-up speech, and a buffet breakfast; it felt like a camp orientation on mushrooms. My girlfriend and I snagged a second Ouzo from the Canadian newbies at our table and waited.

We were shown to our room by a woman who'd stepped straight out of a dumb blonde joke: balloon-breasted, breathy-voiced, dressed in pink. She'd come to the Pink Palace from Canada on vacation and ended up taking a job there in order to keep partying. She told us we weren't allowed booze in our rooms but added that she didn't really care. We'd made reservations in advance and this turned out to be vital: the rooms are a good size but semi-hostel style, with three beds in each room. Without the reservation, we would’ve probably had to deflect some creepy sexual advances in the middle of the night. The rooms have private bathrooms and cost 25 euros (like 35 bucks) per person with breakfast and a three-course dinner included. And the view… the view is pure Greek island with a long beach wrapping around to cliffs that jut straight out of the waves, as you can see.


Our choice of activities was extensive: kayaking, guided quad safari, booze-cruise, mopeds, a pool-sized hot tub, pool, or foosball, but we opted for naps on complimentary lounge chairs at the beach. All the traveling and Ouzo had knocked us out; in the three days prior we'd seen the Irish grunge band Therapy?, went to the 1st International Athens Tattoo Convention, and drank Ouzo and smoked weed on the slippery marble rocks beneath Acropolis Hill until sun-rise. Our minds were at least three days behind our bodies and our souls were still missing.

To be continued...

Review - Show - Poison Idea @ Thee Parkside, July 20th

The night started with a friend asking me: Do you ever look at a five dollar bill and picture a beer? I said, No, I see it as two. I had about ten beers in my wallet then, and by the time I reached Thee Parkside there were only two left. The bar was already packed with an impressive display of punk fashion; seriously, the sum of silver spikes must have been in the millions. It was a phenominal showing of old school punkers. I’d just learned of Poison Idea and I guess that’s pretty fucked up since they originated in 1980, two years before I was born. The band’s line up:

Vocals-Jerry A
Drums-Chris Cuthbert
Guitar-Jimmy Taylor
Guitar-Matt Brainard
Bass-Rawbo

The original guitarist, Pig Champion, died in 2006 and his presence has been missed ever since. But that didn’t stop Poison Idea from rockin’ hard as fuck. But wait a second, who played first… oh yeah, the Texas Thieves! It’s great to see an opening band that lists the headlining band as an influence on their myspace page (and they‘re from SF people). These guys have a sound that almost rivaled their stage performance. Lead singer Fozzy began the show by slapping hands with everyone in the front row and calling them by name. Then they launched into superfuckingfast punk. I really liked them. The guitarist Johnny Bouldt was asked to tell the girls in the audience what he did to play the show, to which he responded, “I had to suck all yr dad’s dicks to play this show!” Later, Fozzy screamed to the crowd, “What’s it gonna take to get you to run around and hit each other?” It made me laugh really hard (while getting hit).

The Midnight Bombers were up next and the lead singer kinda ruined it for me, too self-obsessed. Also, they wore stupid matching outfits. But the music was alright and the drummer was a huge motherfucker. When he hit things it felt like Armageddon. He really should be in Nile or Napalm Death or something. Hey, dude, if you want to play with my death metal band email me!



I’m not going to say much about Poison Idea’s sound besides that it was tight, had a sense of humor, and hard. Earlier in the night it had begun to dawn on me that they were really big. I’d gone out to the patio and saw a neverending line set up in front of the Sold Out ticket booth. Quite impressive for 17th and Winsconsin or whatever. My bro said he was standing on the bar because the mosh pit was everywhere. At one point all the tables in the bar were even taken outside to make more room. That might explain why all my pictures suck. Anyway, here they are. Props to the bouncer (pictured below right), you earned yr pay that night. Poison Idea fucking rules!

The Pen May Be Mightier Than The Sword, But Does Beer Trump Them Both?

Do you like death as much as I do? Do you find it funny to stare at a human skull and later, in the mirror, try to imagine yr own, beginning with yr teeth, then peeling on past the lips while exclaiming: Alas, Poor Yorick? Well, death and literature have finally been combined in the SF literary scene to form the Literary Death Match, hosted by local litmag, Opium. The match took place last Tuesday (7/17) and ended with judge Howard Junker, editor of ZYZYYVA literary journal, and writer Stephen Elliot, of McSweeney's Quarterly Concern, flinging insults, then beer. Since I have volunteered/interned for both ZYZZYVA and McSweeney's (both are linked to this blog), I find myself caught in the delicious middle of this battle of beer turned to blood on the page. Read the stories for yrself, as present by Leah Garchik of the San Francisco Chronicle or by ZYZYYVA editor Howard Junker. I personally find the latter more interesting, as Junker and Elliot have just today begun a dialogue through that medium.

*View McSweeney's via The Believer Magazine

TRUCKERMYTHOLOGY

the car door slams.
she rolls down the window quickly
cigarette stench exudes
like a stream
at the first crack
then firehoses out her nostrils
into the green world
and farts through her mouth like wind
through a bakery.
she says something then drives off
I think it was ‘fuck you’.

4/20/07
10:39am

TRANSLATION - Rainer Maria Rilke - page a month

The company is situation across from Raab, the greatest city in the northwest of Hungary. The man from Langenau rides out alone. Lowlands. Evening. The mist upon the saddle glistens through the dust. And then the moon comes up.
He sees it on his hands.
He dreams.
But out there, something screams to him.
Screams, screams,
tears him from the dream.
That is no owl. Mercy:
the only tree on the horizon
screams out to him:
You!
And he looks harder: it raises itself onto two legs. It raises a body alongside the tree, and a young woman,
bloody and naked,
lunges at him: Release me!

And he jumps off onto in the shadowy grass
and hacks through the thick knit
and he sees her image glow
and her teeth clench.

Is she laughing?

The horror.
And he sits back onto his horse
and races into the night. Bloody
laces tight in his fist.

* The second half of the first sentence I added for context. The military commander of Raab, Kristóf Lambert, thought the city indefensible against the advancing Turks, and chose to burn it down to nothing. To this day, the Turkish call it Gyor, Yanik kale ("burnt city"). Cornets Christoph Rilke must have seen it just before its demise.

Meningitis Stranglehold

no, its tooo cooldl jshe wasys
just seconds after suggesting
I remove all her clothing because
its too uncomfortable
to be worn.
spiked military mustaches have
waded through blood with less
of a shiver.
but I know nothing
and ask again
noooo, the beauty is
that you woon’t
get to look --
my god, if there’s any beauty then
I’ll have to be out of the loop
I think.
the hard crome machine stares
from the kitchen counter looking like
some medevil snow removal device.
her hands do in fact
look
cold, blue,
almost frost-bitten because
the sun’s behind her like a moon
doused in kerosene, then lit.
but my machine can’t quite lift
the newly fallen silence from her
barren parking lot eyes.
so we sip luke warm coffee,
a dove or something flies by
and I cut into the spine of a Tolstoy
almost forcing poor Ms. Karenina
into a meningitis stranglehold
so that she lets out a coo- coo
then I drop the whole thing
do you
really believe
we’re descended from apes?

4/12/07

TRANSLATION - Rainer Maria Rilke - page a month

At last, contact with his commander. Next to his horse the great man towers. His long hair has the sheen of iron. The man from Langenau asks nothing. He recognizes the General, swings himself down from his horse into a cloud of dust, and bows. The General has with him a letter, it must be orders from the lords. He spits: “Read that crap to me,” without moving his lips. He adds nothing; the cursing, enough. Anything more would be superfluous, authority states. That is the point. And one regards it. The young man reads and it is a long time until he reaches the bottom. Once there, he does not know any more where he is. These orders are for everyone. The sky is gone away. As the orders say, so the looming General:
“Cornet.”
And that is plenty.

TRANSLATION - Rainer Maria Rilke - page a month

A day through the baggage-train. Cursing, sun-burned, laughing--: product of the dazzling, blinding land. The motley crew of boys comes strutting. Fighting and yelling. Prostitutes board, crimson hats over their long flowing hair . Beckoning. They are servants, their black eyes like wandering night. Seizing the prostitutes with lust, the boys tear clothing. They push and squeeze to the beat of a drum. And when they sense their poaching hands feebly resisted, the drum quickens, like they are playing in a dream, rumbling, crashing… And when they finish and light their lanterns in the night, a fantastic sight: wine, shining in the whores’ bonnets. Wine? Or is it blood? --Who can really say?

Review - Book - secret city - by Jennifer Barone

Enter The Word Kitchen of Jennifer Barone

I remember the first time I felt that I really got her. Jennifer was the featured poet at the Dalva Poetry Reading. Instead of her usual repertoire of reading two or three poems before introducing the first poetry set at Club Deluxe, Jennifer read at length. Her sensational descriptions of “plump tomatoes, bread,/ and mushrooms”, “grilled Cuban corn/ with cayenne pepper” filled my mouth, then expanded my mind. Her food-language seemed an entire world-language.

Her new book, secret city, puts the food on the plate. It is a collection of 18 poems by Jennifer accompanied by 21 visual artworks by Edward Barone, the poet’s father. Nine poems were written in New York City, Jennifer’s home town, and nine were written in San Francisco since she moved there in fall, 2005. With this form, the book mirrors the poet’s life. The poems spread across horizontal pages in three columns; none of the jaded vertical for Jen. She would prefer that you roll gently through this book. It is not a problem. To get from east to west.

A saxophone plays sadly. Food smells drift through the air from hot cucine as you walk through the streets of endless midnight doorways, each inviting you in for a taste of something exotic.

i’ve told you my dreams
somehow you’ve slipped
under my guard
and will know where to find me
- we must never have a fight

Once you’ve entered the intimacy of her dialogue, you realize that her words will never be said aloud in conversation, and yet, all of these thoughts and feelings will be present.

i look at you across the table
and everything disappears
except for pigeons flocking
into our conversation
seeing your eyes
full of love and smiling
shaking your head at me
- leave it to you

Stepping away from her love poems written to the saxophone man, Jennifer puts the two cities on display as she sees them. One of the coolest poems is moving underground; an image of the hundreds of thousands that take the daily trip of public transport: subway, muni, metro, whatever. She gets down to “i am the fingerprints on poles”, she is “the heaviness that/ weighs our chests down”, she is “the child’s wild eyes/ smiling from his stroller”, she imagines “i am the window/ my head is against”.

In San Francisco the poems become more descriptive. I “see” the last poem as a visionary demand that the reader see what she sees.

those who pray for heaven
who seek the promised land
as if it were forever unattainable
i don’t envy you

looking over the bay
you’d see us
on the balcony
sharing wine on a Monday
- saving heaven for later

All of a sudden, the previous poems are not quiet descriptions - they are demands: stop, forget, look around. Forget time, forget where you’re going, and internalize this; there is a lot to see. Yr senses will thank you.



About this book:

Format: 44 pages, paperback
Size: 8½ X 5½
Run: 200
Price: ten bucks
My Favorite WordPlay: lusty burlesque girls/ wearing too much make-up/ frilly panties and fishnets full of tears -- coney island
Get It, GET IT: thewordparty.com

Review - Amiri Baraka - City Lights Bookstore at 7:pm 2/19/07

When I was twelve and recorded a Sonic the Hedgehog cartoon over the only existent video of my grandfather, I learned that 15 minutes can eliminate hours of work. Today, I made 3 hours of tiresome transportation fruitless by arriving 15 minutes later than I had initially planned for the Amiri Baraka reading at City Lights.


(Above: Some of the multitude turned away)

I told myself, arrive half an hour early at least, I told myself, I told myself. But no, I arrive at 6:46 and there I am already, a million of me, I’m seated inside, I’m crowded around the door, I’m arguing ridiculous things like that I’m a student and that I’m here for a class - I’m kicking myself for drinking at a nearby bar - I‘m asking if there‘s space left in the basement - I’m laughing alone in helpless frustration on the curb… And who would have guessed Poet Baraka would draw such a crowd? Me. When I read the announcement at citylights three weeks ago. And who’s that getting back on the bus? Oh.

But this is not what I do on this blog. I do not indulge the superfluous undulating of my life. I try to create something.

What does it mean when a poet has grown so great that he sells out? literally? not literarily. The Great Man’s 9/11 poem got him attacks from all sides as well as required the complete elimination of the position of Poet Laureate in the state of New Jersey. New Jersey State writes that “Baraka refused New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevey's call for him to resign. When McGreevey attempted to fire Baraka, he found no provision in the law for removing a state poet laureate. Subsequently, on October 17, 2002, a bill was introduced to the New Jersey Senate that would eliminate the position of state poet laureate; it passed and became effective July 2, 2003.” Poet Baraka’s actual words were “NO, I WILL NOT APOLOGIZE, I WILL NOT RESIGN. In fact I will continue to do what I have appointed to do but still have not been paid to do." And get this, "Publicize and Popularize poetry and poets throughout this state." He should have said country. He achieved it. Perhaps this man is a loud dissident. But through the glass windows of the bookstore, he looked like Walt Whitman, he looked peaceful and proud. And, at 72, this man made me feel like I was at a Beatles’s concert - alright, a James Brown concert.


And, as far as the aforementioned question, I think the answer is, well, learn it again: The Early Bird Catches The Worm.

Book Release and Reading - Jennifer Barone - Bird and Beckett Books @ 2788 Diamond St., Glen Park

Props GIRL!

If you don't know who this pleasant and ambitious young lady is - from her creation of thewordparty.com (linked on this blog), or from co-hosting Club Deluxe's Tuesday night Poetry & Jazz on Haight/Ashbury, or from her eastcoast counterpart thewordparty in Brooklyn - well, you should. And buy her fucking book titled: secret city!!! Ten dollars!

Buy it at: thewordparty.com

"i demand softer voices to counter
the piercing screech of breaks"

"you are a used world
your clowns are drunk and lazy
like wafting air of hot dog grease
and french-fried meat"

"letting crumbs fall on your chest
the pigeons eat them
and are uplifted"

Reading - Cafe Prague @ 485 Pacific Ave. (where it meets Columbus) @ 4 pm every Sunday

Cafe Prague has been kicking for a long time thanks to Mark Schwartz. But last Sunday was a real bummer. The poets were all ready to read but the host couldn't keep quiet during the performances. Overall, the distraction made for a poor time and I know for a fact that it intimidated new readers enough that they did not read. Poetry isn't about egos, it's about grabbing tiny bits of terror and beauty as they flow through and around us and grabbing hold of them. The shadows that we ink on paper are proof of such electrical currents or muses and are, perhaps, the only way two seperate people can share such things. But such delicate substances need a safe environment in which they can be developed and then released again, back into the wild. That is what makes a poetry reading a space of clarity.

Reading - Dalva @ 3121 16th St. - Featuring Monique Marquisa de Magdalena - WARNING: NUDITY

The Dalva poetry reading (7-9:00 every 2nd and 4th Thursday of the month) has been one of my favorites; the tiny wooden room with a low ceiling is tucked in back, past the bar, and the space feels like an illegal gambling room or a meeting place for anarchists, or even, scatological poets. Thursday the 11th: stepping through the unmarked door into the suffocating air we barely found standing room in the antearior. Every seat was taken and the staircase in the corner was filled all the way up to the second floor. The 1st poet was followed by a gush of applause. The room was crowded for a reason.

Up came Ozzy with a poem that veered toward madness; and yet, it was about searching for books at the public library . He pronounced words with a brutal Rhode Island accent where "R"'s are "ahh"'s while referencing old Bezerker mythology as well as the giants from Beauwolf in a way that made the room shake. Somehow we were in a tangle with all of written history while searching the card catalogue. At one point he says: "KEYWORD / spelt B / E / R (AHH) / S / E / R (AHH) / K / I am not crazy!" Include lunge toward audience and wide unseeing stare. Always a pleasure.

The featured poet, Monique Marquisa de Magdalena, I'd seen at many readings but I'd never see her do anything like she did this evening. I'm not certain of the particulars but she was channeling Anita Berber, an intriguing German exotic dancer in the 1920's who is "probably the first person to dance naked" and who pioneered modern dance itself. She lived wild and died at the age of 29 after 3 marriages and many drug and orgy filled nights. She wrote a book of poetry with a husband titled: Die Tänze des Lasters, des Grauens und der Ekstase (Dances of Vice, Horror, and Ecstasy).

Monique Marquisa de Magdalena turned down the lights and put in a CD - two drummers and guitarist began playing Natural Born Killers-style country - then she began a gothic reading about stripping, drugs, and touring the world: "they called me / the ice queen / the little devil goddess! / I was banned from Berlin / I played Baghdad / I played Beruit / in all the dirtiest clubs / I was banned from Europe". Everything felt punk rock and her music and dancing was hypnotizing. She passed out a bottle filled with Cognac and "pretened" to blow cocaine. Soon her clothes began to come off and a Anita Berber-mantra began. You never know what you'll find at Dalva.



(Pictures Top to Bottom: Hosts Adam Wolf and Elz Cuya, Ozzy, 3 pictures of Monique Marquisa de Magdalena, Jesse reading, myself with Cognac)

Christmas Bloody Christmas

finger queen
sounds enough like
fingering
the noose tightens
around her throat
and an orgasm bangs against
the universe’s outer walls
hmmm…
how was that, babe?
a potter knows pottery
and tea. some cocktails
make themselves before
the garnish even begins to
get questioned, sorta like
“fast wars” and premature
ejaculations of media versions
but I’m not a political poet
in any way shape or form. Female
form, then. Two breasts and
a machine gun fire blasts through
sexual moans in Cambodia, a
taste of sea creatures, the measure
of salt and constant coverings:
panties, undies, kelp, or other
seaweeds - today I’m reading and
the writing is the same
sort of Beckman
only without all his
“fucks” and “tennis socks” or
“white tennis socks” or whatever
I don’t really need to quote him
for the whole poem, do I?
Her chest, then. Sex best bent
over something, don’t care what
but her head banging something too,
her hair in a fist and drilling like
Alaskan oil fields from behind - that is
not a
metaphor. A blue, red, and white
flag covers a pile of half-burned bodies while
you open up each one of your Christmas
presents.
Or are you Jewish? Fucking happy
holidays. Did you receive money or a money shot
in the head this year? If violence weren’t
so easy, then she wouldn’t be pregnant would
she? I’d really like to stay out of
this poem but now it’s too late, let’s
send more troops (poets)!
Blah-betty blah-betty blah ha ha -
The bonanza returns to it’s origin of
man: finger-queen, goddess of the
morning’s coffee and blue pajamas or
maybe my parents have just entered this
holiday poem through the living
room door
exploding mortar
I lay dripping cold blood
between her legs.
(what a copout)

12/24/06
Christmas Eve
10:43am