coffeehammermic

evening,
there's another open mic and slam setting up at the Chatham Marketplace in Pittsboro. Saturday 24 March, 5 to 8 p.m.
i'll talk folks through it all and it'll be great fun.

the best part of it is that there are kids who come and share their words. i've crafted a small zine that will feature the works from the previous readings. it's called "busy signals" and will be available for free very soon at the co-op.

we do what we can and that's all we can do sometimes. i was typing in the entries earlier today and noticed a note i had scratched to myself to: "call it 'i can't write like this'". that's from a nice self-referential agonizingly familiar work by my pal Lyle. i really like the way he writes, even though he can't.

i'm hopeful that folks will show up next week. the past events have been adequately attended and those who showed really showed. that's always pleasing. come by if you're in town, grab a beer from inside the store. thanks.

here's one that i could not read at the co-op:

id #5

I want the last of whatever it is that isn’t in front of me. I want to be a pay-per-view individual. I want to dip nails in Pepto Bismol, tie them with tanned bits of umbilical cord and hang them from the mirror of my imaginary car.
I don’t know any of this yet.

I want to scream outside your window and it’s
sometime after 4 in the morning and the lights are coming on all around us and your naked tired body is framed by the light over the stove in the kitchen. I want you to beg me to stop.

I want to be that guy at the end of the bar that writes furiously in his little book and is always serious and always in demand; always dressed and always on time; always all ways always.

I want to puke in front of Wal Mart or maybe in the toilet at Southpoint Mall. I don’t know any of this.

I want to have a spare and know how to make change for the meter. I want to tinkle like a pocketful of baby food jars. I want my papa back. I want to exit every scene simultaneously and pick at the edges of your nails until they bleed. I want to weld bones
together and glue cold flesh in strips over a box that talks and string it with lights and call it Santa until it rots.
I don’t know any.

I want to be automatic.
I don’t know.
I want to know, you know.
I don’t.

I don’t.

***

y'all have a great night, i'm gonna watch some basketball.

geo