Some performances were long. We raged past the show and burrowed furiously into the night. Other performances were lonely and quiet, intimate, with soft conversation and relaxed acceptance of letting the flow be. On the last night, our voices rose and fell in play with one another, harmonizing at their own accord to the perfect pitches, intervals, frequencies.
Found out my friend Ryan passed away last year. We met at the Canoga Park Art Walk a few years back…I typed him a poem, he showed me his drawings. Young guy. Potential. We stayed in touch, hanging out and talking, reflecting. The last time we talked, he told me Read more…
Often we see books as signs of civilization. I take in their tree trunk roots and inked spines and think only of the sky: (books belong in the wild)
“Couple #1” is the first in a series of poems called “The Couple Series.” It was conceived when–following a breakup and other intense life stuff–I somewhat impulsively decided to fly to Hawaii and backpack through the islands.
Natalie, the woman who created the poetry prompt, asked for something focused on Japan, lost love, new love, and nostalgia–all tied in with blossoming sakura.
Captivated by conversation, tapas and wine, attendees were enthralled by the night. In a literary wonderland reflected through timeless glass, everyone bubbled. Princeton Library celebrations were led by live classical music, auctions, vendors, food, dancing, and free poetry. I’m honored Typewriter Poetry played a small role in the enchantment, even if it was for one night (and one night, only).
Here is “The Process.” Here are dreams, here is art, here is expression. Throw that body into the thralls of inspiration. Yes, it has led you down an unproductive path. Yes, it will abandon you to a space without answers. But tonight you are shaman and you shake like the stars. Your mind is my mind’s final frontier.
Most of the people I typed for at last year’s Artisanal LA event have blurred together in memory. Even still, there is one fellow I have no intention of ever forgetting. He came over with a friend. She wandered off to take pictures as he and I began to talk. At first, we did the basic Typewriter Poetry dance. He asked about the project, I answered with my usual bases covered. Soon, something shifted. He sat down on the floor. I halted my work on another person’s poem. We dove into our hitchhiking and traveling stories; afterward, he shared his love of robotics and electronics with me.