Bluesmen and a bottle of bourbon

Posted by Unknown | Posted in , , , , , , , , , , | Posted on Friday, March 25, 2011

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There are some nights where the only thing you can do is sip on bourbon and listen to voices like Junior Kimbrough and T-Model Ford stomp and pluck, wail and moan about much harder times than you've ever experienced. Lots of musicians play the Blues, but there's something about the Blues that enables a listener to decipher the truth from the bullshit.

The guys who've actually lived through seeing family or friends lynched. Who have been to jail. Who have lost everything (if they ever had anything to lose). Or, in the case of T-Model, who have killed a man. These true Bluesmen reach out and slap you in the face. They say, "Look, son. You ain't seen nor been through shit. But, even if you seen a bit a trouble in your life, I know what you're feelin'."

And they play it. They take every bit of heartache and string it across their guitars like sinew. Grab death by the throat and stretch him across a snare drum to beat him down before he beats them. They stomp with heavy heels into pine floorboards in a smokey juke joint on a soggy Mississippi Summer night. Keeping time with every beat of their heart closer to the last.

It's more than music. The Blues feeds off of human sorrow. Devours it. It will suck every bit of heartache and pain out of the listener, chew it up and spit it back out in the form of hypnotizing rhythm. There's been more than one occasion where I've caught myself moving to its sound. Letting it roll down over me like river water, brushing every bit of grime and grit from my day.

Tonight is just one of those nights. A bottle of Maker's Mark, a few Blues albums and myself. I only wish I could be somewhere deep in Mississippi or Georgia. Down some forgotten back road that the tourists don't know about. Sitting at a bar sipping Southern whiskey. Watching bodies dance like hypnotized snakes in the low light of a juke joint on a hot Summer night. Sit and sip the burn while a true Bluesman sweats blood, pouring his life out onto the stage.





My heart as an inkwell

Posted by Unknown | Posted in , , , , , , | Posted on Tuesday, March 22, 2011

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"More than kisses, letters mingle souls..." ~John Donne


Opening the mailbox to find a letter or a package addressed to me still ranks high in my top ten best ways to be surprised. This is why I find it extremely disheartening to know that letter writing has all but died off except in certain cases of writing soldiers or prisoners. E-mail is instantaneous and has made it possible for us to communicate, to anyone in the world, what used to take days or weeks. That's great if you need to send memos or other types of official correspondence (Did you get the TPS reports?). But what of deep, human connection? Who can hold an E-mail? Who can cherish it?

A letter is scattered with bits of the person who creates it. As if the composer carefully folds pages of their memories stained with ink from the well of their heart and seals it with the heat of their fingertips. E-mails come to your inbox while letters are received in the palms of your waiting hands. You can almost feel the letter pulsing within the envelope as you hold it before you, carefully pealing back its paper mouth. 

Never, in this day in age, did I think I'd experience this until I found another who treasured such simple pleasures. It was last year, in the heat of the summer, that Stephanie and I began what has become the most unbreakable and loving bond I have ever known. And how could it not have turned out so? Among so many things that attracted me to her, she spoke of names like Gibran and Nietzsche. Most people can't even pronounce Nietzsche. She introduced me to Rilke. She quoted Kerouac and I was hooked. As though Hemingway had fished me out of the lake and landed me upon Stephanie's dock. So, what would be more natural than two lovers of writers writing one another? 

E-mails would certainly not do, however. Try picturing Keats composing E-mails to Fanny Brawne on his iMac and you'll understand exactly where I'm coming from. If we wanted to share pieces of one another with each other, only ink and pulp would do. 

Every time the tip of my pen glides over the face of a page, I know that some bit of my being is contained within the curves and lines of my words. And, as I fold the pages of my letter evenly and seal them within the envelope, I know that they will be opened and looked upon as though it were my own eyes she were looking into. My own lips speaking the words recorded upon the paper.

I sit here tonight, opening and unfolding letters she has crafted and composed for me, and I feel as though the gentle loops of her handwriting spill out onto the bed next to me and construct her curves. The smell of her perfume still lingers upon the pages and fills my senses. And Stephanie is here next to me, speaking of memories, dreams, hopes and happiness. Before I fold it back into its envelope, I press my lips to hers and inhale that which she has sent over distances for me to hold.

These folded memories will stay with me forever. Never lost to the voids of cyber trash. Tucked neatly and safely away within an Oak box only after the scent of perfume fades and the beating heart of the writer remains.

Sifting through my family's moments

Posted by Unknown | Posted in , , , , , , , | Posted on Tuesday, March 15, 2011

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Names and places elude myself and my immediate family,
but this moment in time belongs to my bloodline. 
It falls somewhere between the late 30's and early 40's,
though I'm too late to remember either of these times.

Yet, I can still imagine bouncing around off camera as a young boy
marveling at the delicate white folds of satin and lace.
Pretending to be a cowboy roaming on horseback, pistol at my side,
happening upon some fair-skinned farm girl running from everything
her family wants her to be.

I can't help wondering where this yard may be.
If that Oak still stands.
And if I can view this moment of time
recorded in its branches.

Give me a saddle to ride upon and a stallion with
sweating shanks that gallops across sunsets
and over miles of ticking clocks 
to bring me to this
moment.

..

Readings, readings and more readings

Posted by Unknown | Posted in , , , , , , , , , , | Posted on Monday, March 14, 2011

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On Sunday, when most folks were home nursing terrible parade day hangovers and cursing themselves for downing that last (read: last five to ten) shot, I made my way to the Vintage Theater once more to join in the Mulberry Poets & Writers Association open reading.

Considering everything that the reading had to compete with (the jump-ahead in time, alcoholic comas and the actual time of the event) it was a good turnout with some great writers. Not once did I feel the need to shove my pens through my eardrums to drown out beaten, dead horses and boredom. I met some great people afterwards as well. Some of them even enjoyed the garble which tumbled from my mouth while behind the mic. Though I'd rather not stand behind one again without the comfort of a drink or two.

This Friday, at the Arts Seen Gallery, I'll be attending the first of a new series of readings held during Third Fridays in Wilkes-Barre. The reading starts at 6 p.m. and will be held every third Friday of the month. Arts Seen Gallery is located at 21 Public Square, Wilkes-Barre, PA.

There are other readings which are being planned, and I will announce them here in the future.

To leave you with a little something extra, I was introduced to Buddy Wakefield's work through one of the poets who read on Sunday. After hearing "Horsehead", I was instantly hooked. Since I haven't read him on paper, I'm not sure how some of his work would hold up, but the man can certainly perform his work well. Buddy is published by Write Bloody Publishing. Here's a piece by Buddy titled "The Information Man".


Pennies and steel snakes

Posted by Unknown | Posted in , , , , , , , , , | Posted on Wednesday, March 09, 2011

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Photo by d.r. wilsey jr.
















Train tracks meander alongside the Susquehanna river just over the bank from my house. From Spring until Fall, the whistle of the steel behemoth can be heard bouncing through the river valley like a rubber ghost. As a child, its haunting tune would pull me running through my yard and across the street to stare down over the hill, catching a glimpse of boxcar after boxcar trailing the rumbling engine. Winding like a trudging, steel snake down the track. 

If my friends and I were lucky, we'd hear the whistle early enough to give us time to grab a fistful of pennies and run down to the tracks. I'd place a few along the rail like a line of copper ants. Sometimes I'd place a couple with edges overlapped in hopes that the engine would crush them together as if they were made of clay. Someone told me once that "pennying" the tracks could derail a train. I never did believe them.

Today I saw that engine rolling down the tracks along route 92 as I drove home from work. It still fills me with boyhood excitement. I want to race ahead in my truck, grab the change from my cup-holder and sprint down to the rails to lay a line of coins. Feel the earth shake and strain beneath the weight of the steel snake crawling over its shoulders. Watch my coins sprinkle off the tracks like glitter.



- I'd like to take a moment to thank Ada Limón herself for posting a link back to my review of her book Sharks in the Rivers on her blog. She's a great poet and writer that more people should check out. 

March First Friday in Scranton and things I've written

Posted by Unknown | Posted in , , , , , , , , , | Posted on Thursday, March 03, 2011

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Tomorrow night, at the Vintage Theater in Scranton, Ali Pica and Lynette Thick's "Recycled Communication" Art Exhibit will be taking place with Ali Pica reading some of her poetic works. The exhibit opens at 6 p.m. and Ali will be reading around 7:30. At 8, the mic opens for poetry, music or the mad ramblings of a drunken, homeless bum. Whichever comes first. However, barring any bum takeovers, I will be reading some of my work during the open mic. Brian Fanelli, who I've mentioned on this blog and have had the pleasure of reading with before, may also be joining the open mic portion. Check out Brian's chapbook "Frontman".

Whatever the outcome, it promises to be another good First Friday in Scranton.

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