Props? Clothes? No!

So after a pretty bad week of unemployment and stress thanks to a certain boy who will not be named, I really missed my slam people. I wanted to slam, but it was the Alt slam, in this case the "prop slam" and I had nothing to do for that, so I thought I'd just show up and hang out with some of the people I really like and watch some poetry.

Considering it was Thanksgiving Monday, not too many people showed up, and Spillious begged me to think of something as he had only 6 poets signed up. I told him I'd take a look through my journal (I hadn't even brought my poems) and see what I could come up with. Spillious had brought a leather suitcase, among a whole bunch of other things, and I have a poem about a case of the blues, so I thought I'd go with it.

I actually had a great time, fumbling with the big case, pretending it to be very heavy, and revealing it at the end to be completely empty, just like a case of the blues should be (awwwwww).

I did so well on that poems--9s and 10s! That I was bumped into the second round! Oh shit.

So I pulled up one from memory, called Bombardment, and picked up every prop I could find and continuously picked them up and dropped them until finally dropping everything, and taking off my scarf and sweater. Taking my clothes off landed me second place (and $25), just behind the legendary comic Richard Lett, who, I suppose, was charming enough to compete with my stripping routine.

This is why you should come to the slam, people.

The whole thing felt great. It really cheered me up, and I definitely got some stuff out onstage. Continuing to drink with aforementioned slam people really rounded off the night.

Anyway, here are the poems, if you're interested:

A case of the Blues
Sept 4

I got a case of the blues, baby.
I got a big ol’ sack of the sads
just waiting in the middle of my room
sitting on my very clean sheets
to be opened and fill the place with gloom.

This case of mine, well baby, it’s gorgeous.
Dark oak finish, big ugly latches,
and just as heavy as a case of blues should be, baby.

I wish it were full of tools, though, darling,
I wish it had wrenches and screwdrivers,
thing to help me build a house, a big one,
with a library full of books and old chairs you can sink down into.

I wish this case were full of glassware, honey, bottle openers and scotch whiskey
tools to build a bar where me and my friends
can drink and talk and feel at home.

I wish it were a sack full of love, sugar, full of hope and trust, or a trust fund,
whatever people need to build a family.

It could even be full of spirits, sweetness,
ghosts who just want to talk,
so I wouldn’t have to feel so alone.

It could be a case of reds and greens, purples and aquamarine, any colour but the blues weighing down those very clean sheets.

Or forget all that, baby.
I just wish it were a case of wine.

But for now,
the blues will have to do.



bombardment

i’m being bombarded.
bombs of info are barding me
goading me, loading me up, linke some
information superhighway supersize me bucket of fries and lies.
explosions of knowledge go off in my frontal cortex
while my hypothalamus protests the barrage.

this rapid-fire world, these fast-traffic words,
the bodies and faces attempting to annex my brain—

violence in newspapers! sex on tv!
human drama and a middle of the afternoon beer and burger and beer and beer and beer
people and books just looking at me, waiting for
intuitive essays and analytical advice

my body disgruntles, it dis, and worse, it gruntles.
my fingertips echo, my thighs ask, my forearms want to know: what’s gone missing?

it’s your hands, you know.

that’s what they are all demanding, fingertips, thighs and forearms.
they are ganging up on me on behalf of my heart, which is just now
rallying against reading, objecting to noises, protesting distractions.
there is a revolution happening in my senses, and all they keep asking for is your hands.
your hands, and your mouth, your thoughts, your air, your chest, your words, your all.

but the bards keep on bombing. the dis keep on gruntling.

till i say, “just wait til those hands come back,” i say,
to bards and bombers and dis and dis gruntlers.
“just wait,” to the troops, the muscles in my ankles, the follicles of my skin, the enamel of my teeth.
just wait.
and the power will go out.

Divino is full of winos. Not the good kind.

Hallo blog, and fans. Have you missed me? Many things have changed in my life. Here are a couple of updates.

Firstly, I lost my job at the good ol' wine bar, which I can name now: Divino, the devil's lunchbox. One week they were reluctant to schedule me, after having promised me whatever shifts I wanted (of course), citing some mysterious 'consultant' who didn't want to schedule anyone. Bizarre. I started worrying about getting another job, but thought, well, i've worried about this many times since I started working there. They are probably just disorganized, as usual.

Well, I show up for my friday shift and meet said consultant (who is actually a really nice guy) and he tells me that the mean chef/manager Hugh and the boss, Nicoletta, had been fired. Ted, the big bossman, fired his own daughter! Ah, it made me giggle for days. Donald (consultant) told me that they may or may not be shutting down, and may or may not be firing everyone and starting from scratch. He advises me to start looking for another job, and is kind enough to offer himself as a reference. I figure I've done my fighting for that place, and I'm done.

Now, I think what precipitated this was probably what happened on Wednesday night, the one shift that week I did work. Wine rep Paul came in with about 5 bottles of red wine, 3/4 full. They ranged in price from $50-$250, and he let my try them. Yum. Hugh and Nicoletta proceeded to stay there all night drinking the rest of these bottles. Hugh, plastered, with a big red wine mouth, decides it's a good idea to open a $90 bottle of wine, start making everyone cocktails with expensive lychee liqueur that can only be found in Vegas or somewhere, and giving everyone shots of his 12 year Macallan whiskey. Hugh proceeds to invite in Moe, the neighborhood urchin, for shots of tequila. The poor guy knows immediately he's being made fun of, and walks right out. I should have done it sooner.

As owner and manager devolve into children taking pictures of themselves lying on the floor, the sous chef has also polished off an entire bottle of white cooking wine, and the place is still full of customers. It's 12:30 at this point, door still wide open, blinds up, customers drinking, employees drunk, and past the liquor licence. The two of them kept singing "VIVAAAA LAS VEGAS" because the bossman Ted was on vacation there, thus leaving them to drink away the bar's profits, as usual. They must have forgotten the cameras.

Well, I polished off my expensive whiskey and got the hell out of there, just as the underage employee from the gelateria next door entered the bar. I don't even want to know what happened next.

In conclusion, I'm looking for a new job. I'd like a nice day job, one with a steady paycheque and fewer drunk assholes. I'm sick of mean managers who are misogynistic and usually homophobic, and dirty old men who actually hug me and kiss me on the neck (!!!) and I have to smile because they are the owner's friends. I've had enough of the industry, at least for now. Though of course I'm keeping my army bar job. That pays union wages.