National Poetry Month and How I Quit Writing Poetry and Killed Osama Bin Laden

I always write something in April about National Poetry Month. I feel very conflicted about NPH, but this month has been a sort of return to poetry for me.

Sure, I still read and write poetry. I even publish from time to time. But since I've been in a band, writing songs and playing music and doing all the things you have to do to keep a band going has been taking precedence over all other modes of artistic expression and ambition.

This April, we had two poetry readings at the Darjeeling Cafe. I read at one of them. I read a short cycle that has been accepted for publication, and I read another short portion of a poetry book I've been working on. I'm pleased to report that poetry readings, no matter where you go, are the same as they ever were.

People still clap when they're not supposed to. There are still members of the audience that will say "hmm" rather loudly in order to tell others audience members that, yes, they are listening to poems that are affecting them on a level that pushes them to audible response. There are still those well-meaning poetry reading goers who will laugh mercifully at little jokes in poems. Kids still make noises and distract everyone in a charming way that only kids can. I've always loved it when people make noise at poetry readings (except for the hmm's), but there is still the one lady who will "shh" her fellow inhabitants of the temporary holy ground of poetry. There's still the poet who demands people participate by raising their hands or saying something when prompted. There's still wine and wine and wine and wine and purple tongues to prove it. There are poets who read too long and ones who are too nervous. There are poets who don't know what a poem is but have enough money to publish through vanity presses. There are still stacks of books that go unread attractively arranged on a table near the bar where you can buy them for a handsome fee, knowing you'll never read them because there are just too many poems in them, and they aren't organized in a way that makes you want to finish. The pretty people and the ugly people and the over-educated and the wannabes are all still there and make a hodgepodge of who's who that makes you realize everybody's a nobody in the end because the art you're performing fell out of favor long ago and doesn't matter to anyone outside of that room, so you love them all anyway.

Poetry is still dead except during National Poetry Month for most people who have ever read a poem or pretend to care about things like that.
Poetry is still the greatest form of artwork the human race has ever known, forcing it to the privileged few and fringes.

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Someone put together a poetry strike online. I thought it was funny, so I observed it. It happened on May 1. Poets were supposed to not do anything poetic except maybe look at flowers and faint. For the poet, this is very difficult.

One day of not writing poetry, and Osama Bin Laden dies. Coincidence?
Maybe poets should abstain from writing poetry more often.

Osama's death is a very strange thing. It caused many people to cry out in jubilation. I don't feel the way I am supposed to feel about it. I'm supposed to be happy, I guess. I'm supposed to be relieved. But I wonder how much information died with him, and I wonder if knowing more about him and how he became the way he was would be more valuable than his corpse. I've heard why he hates Americans, but I would like to know what made him hate Americans. I wish that that information were more public, and I wish more people would think about what makes a mass murderer. I learned almost nothing from his death, and that's why victory is often empty, and this one seems Pyrrhic if it is a victory at all.

47 Million Turkeys Will Be Murdered for Tomorrow's "Holiday"

How to pose with YOUR dead turkey!!!

Humane Turkeys

These are "Certified Humane Turkeys." There are not enough in America to feed all of the Americans who will be celebrating Thanksgiving next week. Most people will be eating force-fed animals that were raised in atrocious conditions, slaughtered in ways that would make you cringe and maybe cry, and pumped full of chemicals and antibiotics.

The word humane is an interesting one. It suggests ethical. Because the best human beings are ethical creatures, humane has come to mean the best of us. It's very strange to me that "humane killing" or "humane slaughter" are combinations that even exist. "Humane war" and "humane rape" should also be considered acceptable following this logic.

I read once that turkeys are the most environmentally friendly animals because they convert grain to meat quite well, thus being energy efficient. Energy efficiency is important since we're running out of oil and everything. But humane?!

Below is what a humane turkey looks like. It's made of soy and wheat. It tastes great. There isn't any POOP in it. Turkeys who once had heads, no matter how clean the slaughterhouse in which they met their doom, all have a little POOP in them. Happy Thanksgiving!

The Staunton Police and the Dead

The police in this town, for the most part, are brutish. I've never liked calling police officers pigs or saying nasty things about "the boys in blue," but in Staunton they are a problem. I haven't said much about them because Staunton is a pretty nice place to live, and I'd like more young people to live here. I don't think that young people would want to come here and work and start businesses and spend money if they knew how piggish our police force is. If Staunton can't have a good police force, it might not deserve to be much more than a retirement community. Some people might be happy with that outcome.

I've seen them push people, intimidate people, and otherwise behave unprofessionally. I've heard them say racist things and speak poorly of Jews. I've even had them leak information to politicians about me, which I think might be illegal. They've done other illegal things that have made the news. But I want to talk about the thing that happened recently in connection with the tragic unintentional suicide of a teenager.

A young man died. He was 14. He took pills on a camping trip and drowned on his vomit. He was a semi-regular customer at the Darjeeling Café. He seemed like a good kid.

His friends and a couple family members gathered at the park for a vigil. There were around 20 of them. They might have blocked some traffic. Someone saw a bunch of kids dressed in black and called the cops. The cops aggressively broke up the vigil. While in one of the police cruisers, the dead boy's brother kicked out its window.

The police are defending what happened, but they defend everything they do. They have proven in this town that they are not to be trusted or believed when it comes to these things. They've had to publicly apologize for lying about events. They're a disgrace.

McCloskey, the cartoonist at the Staunton News Leader, doesn't have a conscience. He drew the cartoon about the event above. I don't expect cartoonists to have tact or to think that anything is sacred or off-limits, but I expect them to have consciences.

The problem is that we have young people living in a town full of old people. The police have not been trained to deal with this. Are they to blame? Maybe a little for their duplicity, but they can't help that they are ill-equipped. They signed up to help people, but they're poorly managed and operate with impunity. They are by far the worst police that I have encountered in all of my travels – worse than Mexican police, worse than German police, and even worse than the Polish police. The worst. It seems a lot of people in this town want to talk about how this is the kids' fault for not conforming or being more compliant. They had a permit to gather at the park. No report of drug use that day at the park has come to light. The only thing everyone can agree on is that they blocked the road that circles the park. . . a road that shouldn't be there anyway (I hate that there's car traffic in our beautiful park). Arguments about how teenagers won't conform are old and too simple and stupid.

Tragedy is complicated and heavy. . . especially when you're young. I remember feeling so much when I was that age. I remember how important everything seemed. I remember how emotional it was when friends died while still teenagers. McCloskey and the Police obviously don't. And that's tragic, too.

Dickie Bell Shocker

So. Dickie Bell hates firemen. That's clear. When they want to apply for a grant to for "free" money, Dickie needs "convincing." The "free" money would keep firefighters alive by providing enough money for six new firefighters' salaries for two years. Staffing is the biggest problem for firefighters all over the state of Virginia and probably all over the US.

So the law around here is this: if you get to a fire, two people have to stand outside of the burning building no matter what. This is a good law. People want to run into burning buildings, and firefighters have to keep them from doing so. If people come running out of the building, the firefighters outside have to give them first aid. And if there are firefighters inside, there needs to be someone outside who can observe the situation and communicate with the guys risking their lives in there.

As it stands, the trucks go out with two guys on them. Only one truck gets there, and there are only two guys! So they have a choice: follow the law and stand outside the building, letting everyone and everything inside perish; or say "to hell with the law" and do what they can at a much greater risk to themselves than is necessary or tolerable. I think we know, after 9/11 especially, what firefighters choose. These men and women put their lives on the line for all of us.

How should we thank them?

Dickie Bell voted against firehouse #2 in Staunton. He has voted against every public safety measure in Staunton. And now, the fire department, reduced to writing grants like college students, has found a way to save their own lives and ours, but Dickie Bell is against that, too.

The fire department cannot afford to remain non-political. I'm not going to tell them what party they need to start endorsing, but maybe after two years of Dickie Bell voting against helping the families of fallen heroes, they'll figure it out for themselves. Two years is a long, tough time to learn that lesson.

Here's an article about Dickie's latest travesty of public service. It's a pretty conservative paper; bare that in mind.
I honestly wonder what kind of statement Dickie thinks it makes to claim that we don't have enough money to save lives while we have plenty of money for things like golf courses.

Christian Bale Techno Remix by Mei Shi

This is my favorite vid/remix/song so far inspired by the Christian Bale freak out. The lyrics are pretty brilliant. Don't look to deep in his eyes; he might be an American Psycho.

Broken Redneck Pride

In a cute town, on a cute street, is a cute tea shop with cute benches outside. My girlfriend owns it. Once a month, she thought it would be fun to have a metal-themed Monday night, "Brewtalitea." Last night was "Brewtalitea."

For some reason, the state of Virginia makes you babysit people who are drinking on patios. That duty fell on me. I went out and watched them drink. Some people talked to me, some people argued with me about California, and some people just looked at me.

Metal Monday was really fun. The bands who played were Rebirthing Candace and Iodic. They were good, and everyone was happy. There was one fat guy in an orange shirt, who seemed to be a little too into the music, but other than that, "Brewtalitea" seemed to be a success.

When the second band stopped, people started leaving, and some gathered outside to finish their beers. I went back out into the cold Autumn air of Virginia to babysit them as the drank.

The fat guy in the orange shirt, Matt, yelled a lot. Neighbors peeked out their windows. He screamed "fuck you" at them" Fat Matt had a very offensive mouth. But I'm not a bouncer, so I didn't say anything. I just waited for everyone to leave the patio.

More people left, but fat redneck Matt stayed with his big, hideous mouth. Then, for no apparent reason, he reached down, picked up one of the benches, and threw it over.

Incredulous, I approached, "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Hey I don't mean no disrespect."

"You've been raising your voice, and now you're breaking things; you're disrespecting the establishment; you're disrespecting our neighbors."

One of his friends stepped close to me while White Trash Matt picked up the bench. He said,
"We don't mean no disrespect!"

I asked him not to raise his voice at me.

Fat Matt must have misheard me and turned around, yelling "You BETTER not raise your voice at me. Fuck YOU!"

Softly, I said, "You need to get out of here."

Unctuous Matt said something about respect and put his hand out to shake mine. I told him he should take his respect and his hand and please leave. Then he said if he ever saw me, he would kill me. I started laughing because I laugh when idiots say idiotic things. That freaked him the hell out. He started screaming and yelling, calling me a fagot and saying he would stick his dick in my ass.

Pungent Matt went to the parking area behind the shop. His friends stayed out front in their car. There were no more people on the patio, so I went inside. Moments later, a woman came in and said that a fat, disgusting-looking slob wearing an orange shirt was in back screaming offensive things. One minute later, one of the band members came in and said that a greasy man wearing an orange shirt broke two windows.

I felt like it was my fault. But what should I have done? I didn't curse, and I didn't raise my voice at the pathetic man. I didn't mean to break his pride, and I didn't mean to mess up his night. But you can't just come to the Darjeeling Cafe and and start breaking shit and expect me to just stand there and not say anything.

I've been feeling guilty about it, like it was my fault, but I think someone like redneck Matt would have broken something eventually anyway. People like him need to be loud and destructive in order to get noticed and feel good about themselves. I kind of feel sorry for him. Kinda. But he was bent on breaking something. If not the bench or the windows, something; if not last night, some night.

Last night was the last Metal Monday Brewtalitea at the Darjeeling Cafe. That's too bad, but necessary. It only takes one redneck to ruin a night.

Red State Update

There are people out there who will vote for McCain/Palin, and that makes me sad and angry. It's just so hard to believe that such people exist. This video makes fun of them, "Red State Update," but I have this feeling that they aren't that far from the truth. I used to at least respect republicans' point of view. I used to think they were a necessary part of a nation like this one. But now I think they must all have downs. Actually that's too harsh on people with downs. Republicans must be hydrocephalic.

She thinks dinosaurs were around 4000 years ago and would ban any book that says otherwise!
People like her only want us reading one book. We'll all be reading one book, even all those ivy elites.

Robot Utopia

I feel a little bad that that book went so fast and I realized that I haven't done a Robot Utopia post lately. So just so you don't feel ripped off:

I love the slow-mo bit in the end.

Mansions in Berkeley and my ROBOT! And fuck all the people who talk shit about Tao Lin.

Yesterday I went to mansions because my friends Cameron and Jessica are living in one and had their cats stowed at another, and we had to get the cats from B to A. We put them in cardboard boxes and brought them in a car, which was kind of funny. Cats poking their heads out of boxes is like an image out of Norman Rockwell or something.

Both mansions are owned by the guy who owns Rasputin and Blondie's. I don't know his name, so when we talk about him, we just call him Rasputin. The first mansion has a game room filled with air hockey, pinball, and pool, and nerdcore models. It smelled like peppermint oil. Have you ever seen that show called "Silver Spoons" that was big in the eighties? The house reminded me of that. All hardwood floors. I pretended to be Ricky Schroeder and played the pinball games.

I probably will never be rich. I don't think I would like to have a ginormous house even if I were rich. I think I would like to have more friends who have giant houses, though, so I could pretend to be Richie Rich in their game rooms and wear wool socks and slide across the hardwood floors. I think I would also have a remote control car and a robot that could walk around those floors. I would bring them to my friends' mansions and let the robot walk around by itself. The robot would be three feet tall so that it would scare a dog but not a human. It would be able to recite every poem Jack Spicer ever wrote and know how to mix perfect Tanqueray and Tonics. It would also tell jokes and take pictures. It would say ""say cheeze." It would also know the answer to every stupid question people ask about being vegan so that I wouldn't have to answer them anymore.

At my house, it would live in the closet. The only time it would come out is when I went to my friends' mansions and to poetry readings. I think robots ride BART for free. It will introduce me to people and ask other people their names and remember them and tell me when I forget.

I will name it Tao Lin because I like that name and because Tao Lin is kind of short, though much taller than three feet, and because I think Tao would laugh about that. Maybe Tao Lin 3000. It would sometimes say funny things about hamsters or other small animals.

Also, I wish I could buy rights to Tao's new book. I wish I could buy half a share. I don't have 2000 dollars for shares in books, but I wish someone would want to split one with me.

People shit-talk a lot. Some people do it about Tao Lin, and when it happens I feel bad because it's much bigger and much more intense when it happens to him. When the police made me come into the station because of shit-talking Rae-Lyn Barnes, that was pretty intense, and when Suze Stein made that comment about people who like me being horrible people, that was pretty intense, but sometimes people who are not as easy to laugh at and dismiss say mean things about Tao that are untrue and stupid, and I don't understand it.

I am going to wear my Tao Lin shirt today.

Weird Night Red Bluff

We stopped to spend the night in Red Bluff on the way to Ashland.
Deciding on a drink, we ducked into a pretty huge bar called the Palomino Room and met some locals, who were pretty cold to us, but the pretty bar tender and the security guy, Zack, befriended us, and we all ended up going to "Karaoke" together at some other little dive bar, where the bartender reminded me of my grandmother when I was little. My grandmother was young when she was alive. At the dive bar, everyone was very nice. The Karaoke wasn't really Karaoke, but the jukebox worked and was cheap, and the pool tables were flat enough to play on.

So we all end up at a table at Shari's, a place quite similar to Denny's that the locals claimed was sooooo much better. So there we were with a bunch of people with accents, laughing away the night. One of the locals named Dusty Roads Veteto said he was the third highest selling Chevrolet seller in the state, and he told the waitress she should know him from television. He was the local celebrity. Dusty Roads Veteto said he was rich. I suggested that Dusty pay for the meal then. He took out his credit card and threw it on the table, and one of the ladies picked it up and put it in her shirt by her boob.

Dusty Roads asked me what I did, and I told him I was a poet. He said he was published in Stars and Stripes magazine. He said he was a writer, too. Dusty Veteto said he made more money than a poet ever could. None of them had been to Ashland. Dusty Roads Veteto said that he was from L.A. But when I said I was from L.A., he said he was from O.C., but he moved away before his first birthday. The lady who put the card in her shirt by her boob said she was from Reno. Dusty said his name was not "Veteto" but "Verero" but his business card said "Veteto." He said I was pronouncing it incorrectly. And then everything got really weird.

Dusty Veteto's credit card was missing. Dusty and everyone started freaking out. They tore apart the booth we were sitting in, searched our pockets, searched out wallets, searched Jessica's purse, went nuts and said they were calling the cops. We told them they should call the cops. Then the lady with the shirt and the boob said that we should get the fuck out of there because we are fucking thieves, and Dusty canceled his card. And we were laughing, and I told the boob shirt girl to get the fuck out of there and that we were weren't thieves, and then they all started talking about disrespecting women, and Zack acted like he wanted to fight me, but I knew he didn't. Then everything was cool for thirty seconds, but the other redneck girl started freaking out again waving her hand around and saying that she knew everyone in town and that some broke poets stole the card, and Zack told her to stop "running her mouth" and then he got up and left, but he shook my hand and said he knew we weren't thieves and that this whole thing was lame. I told Dusty Veteto that he shouldn't have accused us of thievery, and he said he knew, and we left the redneck women "running their mouths."

We didn't sleep in Red Bluff because we were afraid that people like that do stupid things and might mess with the car while we were slumbering.