It's That Time of the Month

Well it’s April folks, and you know what that means. It’s National Poetry Month! Or as I like to call it, National No One Gives A Crap Month. That’s right, the nation is currently busy not reading, discussing, or even thinking about poetry. From coast to coast millions of Americans have not spent time at work googling poets, resulting in millions of dollars in work productivity not lost. If Nas thinks hip-hop is dead, than poetry’s already decomposed.
Now I’m by no means intellectually above the average American, I’ve watched my fair share of funny cat videos on YouTube, but I actually went to school for four years and got myself the most pointless of all degrees, a BA in poetry. That’s right, suck it philosophy majors! My degree’s even more useless. Surprisingly I don’t regret my decision to study an ignored art, despite the complete lack of financial reward; although as we previously discussed there’s a pretty big difference between writing about health care and having it.
Why don’t people read poetry anymore? Unlike many of my fellow poetic peers I don’t blame the populace, I blame the poets. Remember Crystal Pepsi, Pepsi’s short- lived attempt to make a clear Pepsi? It tasted like a weasel’s gym socks, and people accordingly avoided drinking it. Pepsi pulled Crystal immediately. If Pepsi were a poet they would have blamed the insensitive taste buds of Americans and kept pumping it out. That’s a pretty stupid approach for a group of people who consider themselves so smart. So today I’m going to give you a quick tour of the contemporary American poetic scene. Think of it like a poetic sampler platter, like that plate you can order at Hooters that has chicken wings, popcorn shrimp, fries, and a dessert. Plus unlimited soda. Yeah, exactly like that.

*The Chicken Wings (w/cool ranch dressing) - Beau Sia’s Letter to the Entertainment Industry, a poem about selling out. I thought it only appropriate…right now I’d write an ode to Viagra if Pfizer was paying. On a side note I once watched this man jump off a six-foot stack of speakers and belly flop onto the stage. Absolute insanity.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C40EUMU3pFc

*The Popcorn Shrimp (w/tartar dipping sauce) – Alan Kaufman’s Bus. No further introduction needed.

At the gateway to America
Greyhound strikers shrieked
“You won’t get out!”

Ninety buck to cross the
land by bus

Fort this, embarked anonymous,
neither lonely nor glad

A young man with a family stared
at his ticket, afraid

And an old aunt stooped to hear bags
as a skinhead cursed her back

We boarded like
souls on Charon’s bark

As the road, stroked by wheels
removed it’s dress, one by one
we laid our tired heads on breasts
of trembling glass

But somewhere in Pennsylvania I woke,
My face a gun

*The French Fries – Saul Williams’s Coded Language. Williams is an absolute force of nature, one of those people who readily deserve the genius label. For more rent the movie Slam, or pick up one of his CDs/download something somewhere.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzY2-GRDiPM

*The Dessert – If anyone thought I wasn’t going to include my own work, then you don’t know me very well. I understand the ridiculousness of putting my poems next to Williams, but he’s got recording deals and tours. I have this blog, frankly I need all the self-promotion I can get. Plus I’m my own favorite poet. This poem is from a collection I did that combined works of canonized poets with hip-hop MCs, you could call it a poetic mash-up/remix. Here’s William Burroughs and E-40.

William Burroughs Ghost Rides the Whip

A silent Sunday against tall black windows of the dormitory
down Fillmore rooms with high ceilings
seven deuce scraper parking lot runaway
a distant voice so painful to scan out/enemy inter
momma stab the rats in my shoes in the stomach your jaw
wired up and flashed for no apparent reason
across the valley/whole sky burning/water frayed stars of youth
so I burnt her at the mall or something riding sideways
this is a slumper coordinated with a two by a four
trailing a lonely dining room world I created quite empty
when they cut my name on hours and tinfoil
I was there in your mouth like sugar
there across the playground bare feet twisted
when I was broke grabbed barbed wire fences
understand my system sprinkled with holy water
torn September sky an arm dripping across the golf course
in the traffic a heart made of granite looking
or bleeding a room full of white folks
clear as the old sunlight over twisted coats on a bench
sideshow broke the sunroof them boys
from the headshakes broke headlights doors open
foreign suburbs a distant hand fell here washing light
let the beating begin before God get prescriptions
died when they swept the streets hyphy
Any second now the whole fucking shit house goes up
let me have your baby the winning lottery ticket
put your clothes on scratch her up for me
lear as the sky enemy intercepted over New York
refracted on static those sixteen year olds I recruited
put your head on the curb forgotten
here on the shore dead stars splash his cheek bone
this fire extinquisher over the pavement can’t breathe
run up in his home gnashing a broken deal
steps from the lake from the hill from the sky
from nothing
you can watch our worn out
from the blocks

Well I hope you enjoyed your outing at Hooters, poetry version. I generally try to avoid such educational fare, but a topic so near and dear to my heart deserves a little love. Thanks for listening/reading, you’ve put in your time for National Poetry Month. Unfortunately, no one will give a crap.