Saturday, March 1, 2014

Steve LaVigne Open Mic at the Front Porch - Full Version

Above is a soundcloud file of my "performance" at the open mic event. There were some very good slam poets, story tellers and singers representing there in addition to our couple of bookish folks from CU Poetry -

Everyone says it’s the end of the world
Everyone says it’s the end of the world
and it’s not the “we’re good guys so we’re outta here
before things get really bad”
resistance is futile
we’re special, really special, chosen people
or even the rinse and repeat
who’ve won the contest,
(although Kali ( the goddess of death) might be able to make a convincing case) –
No, you can see it
in the care
reality star doomsday prepper
grandma takes
as she prepares her non-perishable feast
for her self defense students
from the Y,
that it’s the try without trying,
sitting under a tree, no fabricating,
who would a thunk it, underdog,
tortoise crossing
the finish line first -
hey, I see sick and dead people –
winner of all winners -
and we’re all buddhists now
living each moment
in a constant
on the impermanence
of a flawed
end of the world

Forget what I said.
A window is
a looking glass
and it is not alright to believe
that the world
is only 5,000 years old,
to say this is a christian nation,
to open museums with a white jesus
riding dinosaurs,
or to have your marquee ex-president
openly advocating
And I am not just saying that
because you are stupid assholes
or even because
by all empirical evidence
you are our very own American Taliban
denying women, gays, all those who are different
their inalienable rights,
but simply because
you are being manipulated
to fight for causes that are not your own,
you are literally, and I mean literally,
fascists fueled by fear and hate and the
need to grow for your holy cause
which, in case you didn’t know, is
enriching the greedy few at the expense of
all of society.
So forget what I said about tolerance
and loving thy neighbor as thyself -
Just forget what I said -
A window is
a looking glass
and the last thing I want to see
when I look out
at the world
is to see you
as myself.

Operation Surgical Strike
The video game console where the operator
earned his second armed services medal
watching from the heavens
with his surgical strike drones
protecting an anxious population
watches the unsuspecting enemies and
their sitcom life on hi def screen –
work, dishes, church, bedding
the wife, family time with the children
all observed, recorded, analyzed.
In Pakistan, when the brown American
and his 16 year old son
were targeted for elimination,
the wedding party strike was deemed unfortunate
but necessary in the media -
the operator’s suffering at killing
the family he had come to know so well
an exemplary act of service to his country.
And what kind of world do we live in, he thinks,
when here in Arizona, Northern California
white american extremists
hiding in our midst
must be monitored, observed –
his circling, lazy droning flight
just waiting for the order,
for just the right moment to strike
these terrorists so much like himself.

This is what meaning looks like

a tree
in winter
known only by its
or rough bark,
its patterned
the light –
no fruits, no flowers, no leaves
a mirror
the mirror
of your jeweled self
pressing hard on the glass,
tapping, knocking to be let in -
this marriage to the world
a fractured, splintered image
of your own

The surprise preemie
when her seal broke
only hinted at
what was to come –
months in the hospital
being trained to constantly
troubleshoot equipment –
knowing when the black gasket
wasn’t quite catching
in the suction machine,
dropping O2 sats, the fault
of a probe or a hidden leak
in the tubing of the
dirty filters, trach cuffs, gtube
ballons to be monitored,
their little boy, the fighter, the miracle,
beater of all the doctors odds,
so fragile
their hope
under the weight of the work, the pressure
of the years to come,
the little leaks
of doubt
always needing to be
retaped each night
with their quiet sobs
under the covers
while the other watches the
heart beat
of the machines
sitting alone
in the dark

by Amorak Huey

Mick Jagger’s penis is pleased to meet you.
Mick Jagger’s penis is the John Lennon’s penis
of penises. Also, the Steven Tyler scarf collection
of penises, the David Lee Roth midair crotch thrust,
the Gene Simmons codpiece, the Axl Rose attitude of penises.
This is a lot of pressure for a penis,
big shoes for a penis to fill. Mick Jagger’s penis
doesn’t ask for much, these days. Mick Jagger’s penis
is strongly influenced by the blues and knows
whom this song is about. There are two versions
of Mick Jagger’s penis: the one the world sees
and the one that lies awake at night
and worries it has let someone down.
Sometimes it wants to be remembered,
to leave its mark on the world, it wants
to be more than footnote, punchline, punching bag.
Sometimes it just wants to be held.
It grows weary of everything having two meanings.
If you ask Mick Jagger’s penis about its dreams,
it will tell you about a certain lightning storm
over a certain lake—which means
nothing more or nothing less than what it was:
the dark water, the sky splitting open.