On A Saturday Night Before I Leave My House

Where do you stay?

When all the ticket buyers buying tickets say
I'm gonna go ahead and go. One is more
a destination person. One more like go ahead.
And go. Like say a wheel
or a wing I remember
getting carried away.

The one who does laundry meets the one who does dishes.
Who gets down with your demands,
who's short pennies for wishes.

One with too many choices meets the one who wants more.
Who drains the fuel from jets,
who knows what time is for.

How long do you stay?
One stays away. One stays behind.

I am trying to buy property:
it's a-guy-walks-into-a-house kinda joke.
Some even more real estate,
a jughead believer, I somehow build broke.

With a death grip she comes
down hard with a spike.
Time lived is the sum
of days that I "Like."

HAMMER a way

Shiny rims rolling under such chronic keep-on-truckers:
just jump, get off, or fall.
Drawn back, swing stilted like a stay-at-home sucker
punch potholes in the dry wall.

Where you go won't say where you stay;
I pound the hammer for punching stakes in.
Name a certain place along the way,
live there & wait for leaves to rake in.

That pickaxe you jacked,
I want it back to break ground.
Swing it hard to make place,
call it home, stay in town.

YOU'RE HOME. GET OFF. (for Theo Eliezer, Jac Currie, Aubrey Edwards, Erik Kiesewetter, Katie Darling, & Jamie Chiarello)

I already have everything I want.

Living, now, is for making actual unrelenting joy of circumstances which I have both built and which have been built around me.
I have exaggerated all stereotypes and imagined even more. I, travel agent. Double back time-traveling agent. International travel is not worth the memories. Go home. It takes longer, costs less, and postcards can finally have pictures on both sides. I live the most fierce and turbulent life. A terrible plane ride. I'm on my way to where I can land. Or on my way to when the air might tear my wings off. Either way, I'll dive into a quiet. Kickback like 16-ton, lead eyeballs rolling back into a chicken wire hammock. Have a real hard rest.

I laugh so stupidly while my bicycle goes across town, past midnight, past my home.
I laugh at a world too stupid to know I've been playing marbles with its balls since I was 12.
I get ridiculous. This spectacle of self, diving hard from HA HA OH EM GEE HA HA to golden-studded sunglasses I snivel beneath & sob behind. Original Bawler, bitch. Fake bitch with a mouth full of mad ballers. They're not welling up. I'm swelling up. I come. I come with a soft focus option. Press this button. Not a trick.

I hate playing marbles. I hate life's balls, dropping like lead eyes that roll back inside a chicken wire hammock. I thought you were sexless or hermaphroditic. It's a lie, a smooth plastic mound; no orifice, no mind. You crazy. Tranny on my face while I ride through the dark, everyone will think I love you. Get off.

I love living. I want to live. Just live like an organism. Everyone saying they gonna do this gonna do that gonna do it do it do it to it.

Friends jammed up in internet traffic, I employ you, get off.

I dare you to set your alarm, wake, and spit on your sheets. Put your weight on your feet and make to move out. See if you can carry the weight of being loved by the place around you. Strap an electric collar on your dogged heart and fight the love of anything beyond the city limits.

Crushing. High School Crushing. Crushing like a cemetery dance.

Gravestone carving machines, punch this on a plaque for me: HE GOT OFF HERE.

I'm off to party with folks for the rest of all the years I have left, making friends of all the fish in one net, gutted with the same knife, breaded with the same flour, filleted and fried in the same oil, served up at the same table, smothered in the same sauce. All together consumed. We live this way for you. We have such unreasonable hope. Expectations. When will you come? I love everyone on their way here. I'll help you cut your heart out. I'll walk you to the fryer. Drop it in, and imagine how this ridiculous metaphor works. Home is stuck through with the cross stitch and lace making of good sentiment. I am also sure that Home is a fish fry. I've explained this above. That's why I want your heart in the fryer where my heart has been. Thin tall tongs to hold you under our long boiling oil; we share a fried taste. If you want to love all of us, if you think we should believe you, drop your balls in, let them roll back inside a chicken wire hammock, let them rest.

We wait and watch your plate. You're on your way. I smell it. I've always had that crispy heart-popping scent. Just sit down and drop your heart on the plate. Drop your balls, take the sauce. Drop your hair, drop your legs, it'll fit. I tell you, I invite you, I beg you to just drop your face on the plate and get off. Go home. Where you're special, where everyone wants a taste.

"New in NOLA" reading recorded

My Reading on October 20 with Nik De Dominic, Sara Slaughter & Paul Killebrew at NOCCA in New Orleans. Curated by Anne Gisleson.

I got beat up Sunday Morning, The Poem.

It was during this period that Claude first sensed his vocation to the religious life in the Society of Jesus. We know nothing of the motives which led to this decision. We do know, however, from one of his early notations, that he "had a terrible aversion for the life embraced". This affirmation is not hard to understand by any who are familiar with the life of Claude, for he was very close to his family and friends and much inclined to the arts and literature and an active social life. On the other hand, he was not a person to be led primarily by his sentiments.

Claude became noted for solid and serious sermons. They were ably directed at specific audiences and, faithful to their inspiration from the gospel, communicated to his listeners serenity and confidence in God.

His spiritual notes from this period allow one to follow step-by-step the battles and triumphs of the spirit, so extraordinarily attracted to everything human, yet so generous with God.

Claude dedicated his time to giving thorough instruction to the many who sought reconciliation with the Church they had abandoned. And even if there were great dangers, he had the consolation of seeing many reconciled to it, so that after a year he said: "I could write a book about the mercy of God I've seen Him exercise since I arrived here!"

-From the Vatican Website

I got beat up Sunday morning

'fore God woke up.

Just got down to New Orleans

Where I’ve learned to drink

from a half-full cup.

I got my zygomatic bones bruised.

I got my arms crossed ‘n’ wires fused.

I got off work and rode my bike to the Bywater.

Throw a cup of water at my face while the weather’s still warm.

Throw a glass bottle at my head while the air’s still thick enough to hear it coming.

Call me faggot while I’m still young enough to wear my pants so tight.

Get out of your truck and chase me down while the streets are still empty.

Pull me off my bike while I’m still happy to walk.

Punch my face once while I ask you why.

Punch my face twice while I ask you to stop.

Tear off my jacket while I wonder how long this will last.

Punch my face three times while I look at your friends looking at me.

Punch my face four times while it occurs to me “This is different.”

Those are your knuckles so devoted to my zygomatic bones.

Hard to turn the other cheek, face down.

I feel your fists loose faith, get softer.

Punch the back of my head once before you turn away while I imagine your license plate:

Romeo

Delta

Yankee

4

Lima

Uniform

Victor

RDY4LUV

It’s over. You left me there. You took nothing.

My bike’s busted. My buttons ripped off. My earrings beaten out.

I walk home. Oh I walk home.

A gay cop finds me on the corner of Esplanade and Dauphine.

I said a gay cop finds me on the corner of Esplanade and Dauphine.

He says we’re calling this in a 35. Hate Crime.

I said officer

I said I said officer

she don’t hate me, she just don’t love me.

My Zygomatic bones bruised.

Since you left me, I rode uptown in an ambulance.

I answered questions about my city, the year, and the president.

I said you can take your 10 grand CT Scan and shove it where the sun always shines.

Baby, I was discharged and a taxi took me home.

I got beat up Sunday morning

‘fore God woke up.

Just got down to New Orleans

Where I’ve learned to drink

from a half-full cup.

I got beaten up last night.

I need to recount what happened to me last night, not for sympathy, but to make anyone who reads this into a witness, if only after the fact.

I got off work early, and by that I mean around 2:30 AM. I rode my bike downtown, stopped off at home to change shirts and grab a coat, then road further downtown to Saturn Bar for the Mod Dance Party. I'd yet to make it to the Mod Dance Party, as it's always on a Saturday, and I often work until 5 AM on Saturdays. I was glad to be out and it seemed to be shaping into a good night.

Once there, I danced a bit, saw some friends, had a few drinks. Then I took a ride back toward the Marigny for a late night snack, after which I planned on heading back to Saturn Bar. I was riding down St. Claude, as it seemed faster and safer then cutting through the neighborhoods that time of night.

Riding down St. Claude, a white pickup truck pulled up along side me and threw a cup of water at me. I was surprisingly unfazed. The truck pulled off. I passed them at the light. As they drove by again, they threw a glass bottle at me, missing me, it shattered against the wall. They yelled "Faggot" out the window then drove off. I decided it would be best to turn off St. Claude at the next street, but they pulled over at the intersection. I froze for a minute. One large fella got out of the car, shirtless and built like a brick wall. He was about 15 feet away. I said "What's going on?" He said nothing and kept walking toward me. I began to turn my bike around, putting my feet on the pedals, but it was still in 8th gear, and I couldn't get it moving fast enough. He ran at me.

He threw me off my bike and began to hit me. I said over and over again, "Why are you doing this?" His friends, 4 others, stood in a circle around us. One of them began to hit my legs. The big one kept hitting my face and my head. I tried to relax my body and not fight the blows. I didn't resist, except to say "Please stop." He ripped my jacket off and continued punching me while I was face down on the ground. A care driving the other direction began honking over and over again. The car flipped around at the next intersection and pulled along side me. The group of guys ran back to the car just before it arrived. They dragged my bike halfway back to their car, breaking the chain and wrecking the gears.

The woman rolled her window down and said how sorry she was, that she'd tried to keep honking so they'd head off. I told her, in my confused and beaten state that I appreciated it, that I'd be fine. When she took off, I saw the state of my bike. Still not clear headed, all I could do was start walking home with my bike. I went a few blocks to Esplanade and turned left. What happened had just begun to hit me... I began to fall apart, in pain, but more frustrated at the pointlessness of it. They hadn't even tried to steal anything.

A few block down Esplanade, a cop drove slowly by, I waved him down, not knowing what to say. He rolled down his window and I quickly recounted the basic scenario. I think he was especially effected by the story, as he was gay. He had me sit on a stoop and called it in. I told him that I was aware that there was little that could be done, seeing as how all I could say was that 5 white guys in a white truck beat me up. Because of the "Faggot" comment, it went on record as a hate crime. Soon, another cop showed up, one that I know from the Quarter and who comes into my work sometimes. They called in an EMT to check me out. The EMT was worried that I might have a slight concussion and that my jaw may have been broken. They all agreed that I should go to the hospital. I was very reluctant, as I don't have insurance, but I consented as I didn't feel clear headed enough to make a decision contrary to that which was being suggested.

I took the ambulance uptown to Touro Hospital. My friend Natasha came with me, as she was only a few blocks away. I was admitted and questioned and had vitals taken. I waited until the doctor came. He wanted to have CT Scan done, as he said an Xray wouldn't convey a broken jaw. I inquired about the expense and was given a $8,000 to $10,000 estimate. By this time, some of the swelling had gone down and I could open my mouth a little more. I decided to refuse any further care and had myself discharged with a prescription for some pain medication.

That was around 6:00 AM this morning. I went home and slept much of the day. I've now been awake for a few hours, feeling better, but still in shock about this having ever happened. I know the bruises will heal, the swelling will go down, and my jaw will hopefully be fine, but I'm shaken up, startled by loud noises, and disheartened. Little things: the buttons torn off my coat, the ear rings gone, beaten out of my ears, my bike with a few hundred dollars in damage.

I remember riding in the ambulance with the EMT. I turned to him and said "I guess I picked the wrong night to wear tight pants." He laughed.

We spoke of New Orleans, with its ups and downs, with its way ups and way downs... a frequent line of conversation around here. I told him that I was happy to take that bad with the good. A bruised face in this city is still better than the lifeless faces in so many other cities I've lived in.

I would like to write a poem about being beaten up in such a senseless way, but I don't know why I would write it. Perhaps later. For now, I have so little to say about it. I suppose I simply would like some folks to know that it happened.

I'm Reading This Month

Creative Reading Series Fall 2010

New to New Orleans

October 20^th, 2010 Kirschman Artspace

NOCCA Riverfront

2800 Chartres St. NOLA 70117 www.nocca.com

Contact Anne Gisleson agisleson@nocca.com

7:00 to 8:30

Reception to follow.

New Orleans has always attracted writers and artists, and in the last few years, the city has seen another wave of literary newcomers. That got us thinking—why? We’re curious about what New Orleans has to offer them as writers and vice versa. On Wednesday October 20^th at 7:00, the NOCCA Creative Writing Department is showcasing four poets who are relatively new to town and we look forward to hearing their work and thoughts about their new home.

Nik De Dominic moved to New Orleans in May, 2009. Pushcart nominated, his work has appeared in DIAGRAM, Harpur Palate, Los Angeles Review, and elsewhere. He is an editor of The Offending Adam and an associate editor of the New Orleans Review. As a visiting instructor for Bard College, he teaches classes on thinking and writing inside Orleans Parish Prison.

Paul Killebrew was born and raised in Nashville, Tennessee. His first full-length collection, Flowers, was published by Canarium Books this year, and his long poem Inspector vs. Evader has recently been republished online by Ugly Duckling Presse. He moved to New Orleans in 2008 to take a job as a staff attorney with Innocence Project New Orleans, an nonprofit law office in the Bywater that represents innocent prisoners in Louisiana and Southern Mississippi who are sentenced to life without parole.

Sara Slaughter is a native of Pine Bluff, Arkansas, who moved to New Orleans in the summer of 2009. She is currently enrolled in the low-residency MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College. Her work has appeared in Helicon, The Honeyland Review, and a collection celebrating what would have been the 100^th birthday of Elizabeth Bishop.

Jeremy JF Thompson was born in Los Angeles, CA. He went to college at UCSB in Santa Barbara, CA. He went to Grad School at Mills College in Oakland, CA. Shortly after, he moved to Queens, NY, where he was an instructor at The Center for Book Arts. His book, AUTOGRAPHOGRAPHY, will be out in 2011 through Cuneiform Press. He runs Auto Types Press and blogs at autotypist.blogspot.com.

putt-putt gulf water park combo

I'm up the neighborhood.

Oh yeah.

Back up the barbershop.

Pole dancing on the candy cane.

Try the #1 #2 #3 FADE.

Give it to me so I can look fresh.

Spanking new. I'm going to war.

Spartacus. Stallone. Whenever.

#ilosttheoneilove

The basket on my bicycle rattles as I ride.

I hear my haircut looking down at the basket bounce.

Lemonade Flash!

Snowball!

Play Money!

Go-Go!

Federal Spending!

Let's relax. Let's talk. If the music is soft

I spit out my gum.

Tired of chewing, I find people willing.

To the dirt on Dauphine I say

you John Lee Hooker.

Now let me brood over your horrible day.

Joke.

Orange Juice & Asphalt.

Pulp Friction.

Joke.

Grand Opening tomorrow.

Back by popular demand.

THINGS GRAND.

There's this postscript.

Cousin mosquito sucks.

To wit. Slap Stuck.

Get it?

The evening sun goes down.