Body in Motion

In my quixotic quest to pay the rent I signed up for a national study regarding depression and possible genetic markers. Beyond the small sum it would make me, I was pleased that it might inspire more effective treatments that would benefit, if not me, my prospective descendants. Unless I decide to take more direct measures. During the screening questionaire, I was quizzed about many possible symptoms. The most surprising question was whether, during one of my depressive episodes, I had ever believed myself to posses special powers. I laughed, in my experience, depression is pretty much the exact opposite of this belief. The most disturbing question was whether I paced or wrung my hands during these episodes. "Well, I pace all the time, I'm pacing right now!" It was a phone interview.

For about a month this year I was really worried my most recent period of poetic productivity was due to alcohol. Especially disappointing since I recently curtailed my consumption. Since then I've realized it's directly related to chilling the fuck out and having some confidence in my abilities, which can be achieved without ethanol enhancement. But looking back on it, almost nothing I've ever written has been composed without extensive pacing or bike riding. I'm not much for handwringing, but when I wrote in high school I'd snap my fingers for hours at a time. In the past I've considered depression not to be so much a part of my personality but rather an overbearing episodic force. But if the body in this kind of motion is a symptom then I've had it more or less constantly for more than a decade. Even worse, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't want it to go away .

[From The Perils of Strict Determinism]

I have always loved to dance
The pictures, five years old, cute suit
And tie, striking Michael Jackson poses
On wedding reception floors prove it.

When I was in high school I danced so hard
All my friends said I was high
I got the sweats and shakes
Even pressing the porcelain later
I had that oceanic feeling.

At my best friend's wedding
I rocked with such passion people swore
It was me about to start my honeymoon
Or else I only had six months left to live.

Which is all a way of saying
That I never lost my faith in bodies, in motion
I'd still make a bloody sacrafice
In the name

And, as long as I keep going
I think I'll be alright.

SHOW! 7/7/09 Trace 3714 N Clark St Chicago IL 60613

I'm going to be the featured performer at the Trace open mic July 7. I promise a show full of sex, sex toys, faith, doubt, zombies, strippers, cannibalism and love. Invite to follow.

Creative Myopia

So a really important image that inspired a recent poem is not what I thought it was. I thought I was looking at a painting of a naked man pointing a camera at a naked woman. Upon later and closer inspection it seems that it's actually a partially eaten apple. Despite the biblical implications the truth would totally ruin said poem - so I'm glad I saw it wrong the first time.

I often take my glasses off before I perform. It makes it less nerve wracking to look directly into the eyes (ok faces - can't see the eyes) of the audience.

Here's the verse in question:

I saw her, six months later
Naked and huddled on a canvas
Captured across from my best friend
In oil, pointing a camera at her
Like a porno.

Which would then become what?

I saw her, six months later
Leaning forward, naked on the canvas
Towards my friend's playfully proffered apple
She looked well fed.

Sure it could be funny but the image isn't as powerful.