Late August Post

Long time no post, there's no one reason why really. Mostly it's because I've been spending more time Advantage Playing certain slot machines, something that requires me to move around a lot from casino to casino, which means a great deal of walking. Thus less time spent sitting and contemplating and less time writing. Time management has never been a strength of mine, every Report Card I ever got in school said "Does not use time and materials wisely." I have stuff I want to write about including a short, short story, but I need to sit in one spot for hours to do that. And I haven't. Also, so many things going on in the world, bombs in Gaza, the invasion of Ukraine, casinos in AC shutting down, Ray Rice and Janay Palmer in an elevator on video, the white sheet that covered a brown boy's body for hours on a hot street in Ferguson MO and the following flames that made everyone hotter. So, so many things. Including the nagging feeling that I should be writing about more of those things. My recollection of Ruby Dee reached 100 views faster than anything I've ever posted here and the truth is that my prose postings get way more pageviews than the poetry, although the haiku and senryu don't do too bad. I have written some ku and ryu since my last post here;

Late August-
Stopped by the road's only red
leaf

Everywhere 
but under this umbrella-
August sun

August morning- 
Dad's hairline receding
in my mirror

Another orbit
Now fifty-two flickering 
wicks

Round and shining 
On the desk -
August Moon

Gaza dawn- 
So many red marks
on my Lesson Plan

Changing the channel- 
Yet again
Gaza explodes

Bit by bit 
The cake disappears from
the urinal


A few of these may even be worth keeping. I also had a birthday and got three awesome completely unexpected gifts. My birthday isn't really a big deal for me and until I joined Facebook I would sometimes miss it until the day after. But Facebook makes it a big deal with all the birthday wishes so you know it's coming. What I didn't know was coming though were two anthologies I have poems in, both of which I was really excited about. One was "Red Reads First" an anthology of haiku and senryu from participants in the Head to Head Haiku Slam held every year at the National Poetry Slam and now the Individual and Women's competitions as well. As a two-time National Champ I was invited to participate and was eager to read the work of the many poets who won or competed in the years that followed. The other anthology is perhaps the most important publication I've ever gotten, inclusion in the 2014 Best American Poetry edited by Terrance Hayes. I've known since January that I was in but the books arrived unexpectedly the day before my birthday. I often get my mail at the Borgata Business Center (long story) and they call me when stuff comes in, but when I got the call this time I couldn't figure out what it could possibly be. The reading for Best American will be in NYC in late Sept. and I expected to get my contributor's copies then. So their arrival in the mail caught me off guard. And one of the copies is a hardback! That was a really pleasant surprise. I may have even celebrated a little. Then Showboat, and Revel closed, two places I have many fond memories of. At Showboat I'll really miss the Earl of Sandwich deli with their great sandwiches and fresh brownies baked with Ghiradelli chocolate. Many of the restaurants in Revel had great food and when their poker room was open I ate there probably five days a week. The food was so, so good in so many places. Of all the casinos that closed though I'll probably miss Trump Plaza the most, because I spent countless hours in the Starbucks there reading and writing. It had both chairs and free Wifi and was the only Starbucks on the Strip that had both. I probably made more Blog posts from there than anywhere else save the Borgata. The Plaza also had one of my favorite neon signs in all of AC (pictured above), it was a huge sign above an escalator that lead down to Pacific Ave and I never could figure out why it was there. It wasn't the name of a current restaurant or club on the premises, maybe it was leftover by a previous show or something. I always told myself that I'd ask, but never got around to it. I had to ride the escalator four times just get the shot right. But it didn't matter, how ever many times it took, I was going to ride it and get the shot. I'm a patient guy that way. 

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)!

It's Gonna Be a . . .

Finally got my mojo back after a long dry spell. I think I have a short, short story in me too, if I can ever sit still long enough to get it down.


Fourth of July
The steady pop pop pop
of the rain


Second date
My car already parked
in her garage


Cornbread
Earl Grey
and me


Yoga on the beach
her Afro slightly matted


Sunrise
my glasses
half full


Manhole cover-
The ring around
Her right eye


Incoming waves
the white curls of a woman
on the beach


Casino sunrise-
A security guard's eyelids
Lower


Pistachio shell
with no seams-
Her pursed lips


Empty clam shell-
The doctor says
False Positive


Ivy greens a wall-
Her unshaven legs


Flash-
A fifty foot shadow
Boom

Summer Madness

Summer lightning-

That blonde streak

in her hair

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

#haiku

Ruby My Dear

I remember it was not quite Winter. I had tumbled into a car with Kenny Carroll and Brian Gilmore to trek to Philly, to the Painted Bride Arts Center. We were there to remember, to honor the life of Toni Cade Bambara. I remember so many famous writers in the room, on the program. Sonia Sanchez, Toni Morrison, I think Alice Walker was there. Amiri Baraka, Eugene Redmond, Askia Toure, Gaston Neal and so many others. The room was packed with writers, poets, people young and old. I was sitting down front and I remember an older, very beautiful black woman sitting just behind and to the side of me. I remember because she was thumbing through a book of poems as though searching for something. A book of poems I did not recognize. She thumbed through it with a familiarity that one only has when one has written the book. I remember that I couldn't see the cover of the book, couldn't see the name of the poet. She looked vaguely familiar, some Philly poet I thought. She was wearing a simple skirt, a simple many colored blouse, her hair wrapped in a long, very pretty scarf. She could have been anyone's mother or grandmother sifting through a book of poems. I remember the program was long, so many writers rose to testify about Sister Toni and her impact on their lives. And after several hours of testifying, all the famous writers had finished. I remember that they opened up a mic on the side for people from the audience to speak. The woman who was sitting behind me got into line and waited her turn to share. And I remember that it was not until she reached the mic and opened her mouth to speak that I recognized her, reading softly from her own book of poems. I'm not often stunned, but so much grace, class, and humility would stun anyone. Goodnight Ms Dee, I'll hum a little Monk for you.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

National Poetry Month 30/30 Haiku/Senryu

Well it's NaPoMo and I usually do 30 Haiku/Senryu for the month. But for some reason this year I just haven't been feeling it. I'm not sure why, but I just haven't been writing. Part of it is that I've sworn off writing certain kinds of love poems. Part of it is Frankie Knuckles dying (which for some reason really hit me hard) and some other bad news involving the health of some close friends. I actually only met Frankie once, but it was memorable for a few reasons. Over my DJ career I got to spin with quite a few legends, including Afrika Bambaataa, Red Alert, DJ Kool, Little Louie Vega, DJ Mandrill, Sam The Man Burns, Terminator X, DJ Frankski and a few others. But two of those occasions bookend my career and were very similar experiences. In 83 at the start of my career Bam came to DC to play at a club called the Zoo where I was the house jock. Bam was already a legend, but DC wasn't into hip hop like that and as a result no one showed up. When I say no one, I mean no one. We didn't have a single paid entry. So me and Bam and his Record Boy (a young CCNY Sophomore named Rick Rubin) spent the whole night listening to records. Basically it was Bam quizzing me and then playing shit I had never heard before. It was the best education a DJ could ever ask for. Bam was chill, he didn't trip off the lack of a crowd, he just played records for us and we had a great time. He asked me if there where any records I was missing from my collection and I told him how I had never been able to find "High Powered Rap" by Crash Crew, Bam whipped it out and told me the story of why the record got pulled from all the stores. I never forgot his magnanimity and graciousness. Years later, in 1992 just after I had quit spinning I got a call to ask if I would play with Frankie Knuckles at Traxx in DC for Howard's Homecoming. I was done spinning, but I wasn't passing up that chance. I was just there to warm up the crowd and watch the system for the House, but Frankie was mad cool. Like Bam he travelled with a gazillion records, many of them rare. At one point he asked me what was the first record I ever bought, I said "Cuba" by the Gibson brothers. He goes through his crate and pulls it out! I hadn't heard that joint in 15 years but he cued it up. We talked music and how he accidentally invented House Music and lots of other things. He was mad cool, at one point he pulled out a white label copy of Whitney Houston's "I'm Every Woman" (which wouldn't be out for another six months)it was a DJ's dream gig, hanging out with a legend and talking music. For a cat of his stature he, like Bam, was very gracious, just a really cool dude. It was an amazing way to end a career, a night I'll never forget. But usually this kind of thing spurs me to write. I haven't been reading as much either and really have no excuses for that. I did attend Split This Rock in DC to do the Black Rooster Reading and that was the bomb. I also went to Pittsburgh to read for the launch of the Electronic Corpse anthology which I have some work in. And I've been asked to read at the Best American Poetry 2014 event this September. That's obviously a really big deal since you have to have a poem in the anthology to be asked to read and they only ask a few people out of the hundred or so who are included. That will be an exciting trip to NYC for me, for sure. Hopefully I'll still get my 30 poems in this month, but right now it doesn't look good, my Muse appears to be on strike.


April morning
flatness of the Atlantic-
Every page blank


Until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Tuesday Tidbit 1 APR 14

Wharehouse echoes-
Frankie Knuckles
final groove

Until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Poetic Tweets for NPR 2014

For the last two years the National Public Radio program "Tell Me More" hosted by Michel Martin has featured poetic tweets during the entire month of April to help celebrate National Poetry Month. If one wants to participate one merely needs to include the hashtag #Tmmpoetry in the Tweet one wants considered for the program. The Tweets are read aloud (twice!) on the air. Both of the previous years I was lucky enough to have one selected. So, below find the ten Tweets that I thought might be worthy this year. 

Polar Vortex-

The hole in my sock

widens

Arizona-

So little snow

so many flakes

Union Station-

In each other's arms

on the steam grate

Lighthouse beacon- 

The burnt orange of her lips

through the fog

Don't call it a comeback

We been here for years-

Hum of cicadas

Razor wire-

The creases in Father's

Orange jumpsuit

August heat-

The kink in the rope 

between her teeth

August afternoon-

A drunk tongues

an empty bottle

February First-

Shoveling a path to

the grill

Chess tournament-

A boy moves from his

father's shadow

Red light-

The car locks popping

as I cross

Until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Tuesday Tidbits 11 MAR 14

Not John Henry-

New sign on 

the Office door

Spring Cleaning-

Leaping up to dust

the top shelf

Between the hangover

And the blackout-

Cherry Blossoms

Heavy flurries-

Opening the door to

a blank page

On Friday I posted a haiku about a friend's recent cancer diagnosis and as poets sometimes do, forgot that all of the context that was in my head wasn't on the page. Sorry if anyone thought the diagnosis was mine and I appreciate the concern. 

Until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Friday Follies 7 MAR 14

Doctor says Stage Four- 

Coffee darkens a napkin 

then tablecloth  

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Tuesday Tidbits 4 MAR 14

I

Summer sunrise-

The casino refills 

the ATMS

Walking backwards

Across the parking lot-

The Crab Nebulae

Kissing

his name in black granite

Sliver of moon 

Manager's Office-

The telephone cord

trembling

Harvest moon-

A tight skirt waves

at passing cars

Red light-

The car locks popping

as I cross

Wide river-

Thelonious brooding

in the darkness

False eyelashes-

Wiper blades fill

with snow flakes

Lottery Balls-

Snow flakes on a bay breeze

Until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Friday Follies 28 Feb 14 Review of new Ballys poker Room

I

Morning tide

Wave after wave after wave

the schoolbus departs

Slice of pizza-

A Boardwalk seagull gives the sideye

Boardwalk sunrise-

A dab of butter on my bagel

Bare Exposure-

She removes all but makeup for money

"Jezebel"

A single long braid

her spine 

Arizona-

So little snow

so many flakes

Ten degrees-

Exhaling clouds

he bums a cig

Dear John Letter-

The ocean retreats

comes back again

April morning-

The Storm Drain clogged

with cherry blossoms

Polar Vortex-

The hole in my sock

saying Hello

Spring morning-

Following the butterfly 

on her ankle

Went to check out the new poker room at Ballys. While the one room is very nice, the space is spread out and they have more tables than there is likely to be demand for. The player base for poker is shrinking in AC due to all the new rooms in surrounding states and unless they have a plan to bring players back to AC they are going to wind up with a lot of dead space. A reasonable estimate is that they can double the action they had in the upstairs room in the months preceding the move. As hard as Dan and Julio are trying to make this room work there are signs everywhere that the executives above them are morons who don't understand poker, its culture or how to make the room succeed. A room this big needs players and things like Destination Tournaments, yet there is no evidence that they have any scheduled. Casears used to have a WSOP Circuit event, it was their one destination tournament, but if they plan on having one here there isn't a single ad or flyer or other piece of evidence that attests to that fact. Secondly, they put in a new gaming pit in the Wild West near the poker room that doesn't have a Craps table. It's almost impossible for me to explain how stupid this is. When some poker players lose, they often go chase their losses in the pit. The two most common games that they play when doing this are Craps and Blackjack. The Borgata has the highest grossing poker room in AC because they understand poker players, when you walk out of the Borgata poker room the first gaming table you see is a Craps table. This isn't an accident, they know that poker players on tilt will often head straight to the Pit, and Craps is the number one destination. Another example of how stupid the Ballys management is, is that I had a Security Supervisor almost throw me out of the room because I was sitting on a dead table. I've been playing poker for over ten years in AC and have never heard of this. In every poker room I've ever been in guys sit on dead tables while waiting for a game. It's a normal part of poker culture, I was also told that players would no longer be allowed to have people sit behind them while playing. These are bad signs for a new room, the Revel poker room failed in part because of similar missteps when they first opened. It doesn't look good for this room either, throwing people out for sitting on dead games is almost like saying you want the room to fail. Overall I'd say if you played at Ballys before,  you probably will continue to, but if you didn't there's no reason to start doing so now. 

Until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

February 2014 Haiku/Senryu

Union Station-

Asleep in each other's arms

on the steam grate

Northeast Direct-

The loudest thoughts

in the Quiet Car

Check Out time-

Even the geese head towards

Absecon

Cafe Car-

More mustard in the mustache

than the mouth

Full moon-

Dotting

the smokestack's eye

Typewriter Blues-

Only the empty clacks

Of boxcars

Penn Station-

An exquisite hand

on a column

30th St. Station-

A pretzel with mustard

and diesel smoke

Two Trains Running-

She puts her boyfriend on hold

for her husband

Desert stones-

The face of the small boy

Crossing them

Dunn mistrial-

What might be a shotgun

In the distance

Light flurries-

The salt clumps

in the shaker

Valentines Day-

Saving the last Kiss

for morning

February night-

A heart shaped crater

on the Moon

Two clouds-

Her arm in his

Snake Eyes-

The Pit Boss scans

The rail

Wind gust-

My Funnel Cake in

a Sea Gull's beak

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Here Comes The Sun

The cherry atop
My hot chocolate-
Her hair's red highlights

My blog passed 30k page views today, with 20k coming in the last two years. Switching up the format and posting more consistently helped a lot. I am probably going to start posting about more topics, especially sociopolitical stuff I'm interested in-stay tuned. 

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Litany for a February Day

Evening flurries-

A heart shaped hole

in the snowman




Until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Miss Prissy

Lighthouse beacon-
The Crimson blaze of her lips
through the fog

There are things I can abide, like frigid weather in January, or dealers who make mistakes, or people who put the toilet paper on backwards. But I will not abide a world in which you wake up and think you are unloved or unappreciated. And before you roll your eyes at my use of the "L" word, let me clarify. Love is a word that so many use and yet misunderstand. "Science" is another such word. People think science is data, facts, figures, charts. The distance from earth to the moon, the mating habits of the Wildebeest, the valence of electrons orbiting an atom of strontium. Science as a noun. But that's only a small part of science, those things are merely the by products of science. Science is primarily a verb, a method, a way of interacting with the world. But the interaction is more important than the data, in fact, if a new interaction contradicts the old data and can be verified, then the data is discarded. Love too, is misunderstood. People think love is a powerful emotion you feel for another person. But that's only a small part of love, that emotion is merely the by product of love. Love too is primarily a verb, a method, a way of interacting with people. Interaction based on mutual trust, mutual respect and honest communication. Thus, when a person says "I love you", they shouldn't just be describing an emotion they claim to feel, but rather making a statement about they way they have interacted with you. There is no electronic gadget that can verify if a person feels a certain emotion, but anyone can look back at interactions and see if they have been loving or not. They can lie (or be wrong ) about their emotions, but not about their actions. And so, knowing that, know this. That whether you speak to me or not, every morning I wake up and pray that this is the day that I get the chance to love you the way you deserve to be loved. 

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

A Full Mug

It was a Monday night in the Anacostia section of DC, we were three; Kenny Carroll, Brian Gilmore and myself, all chilling at the Eight Rock Cultural Arts Center that Kenny ran. We had a poetry group, the 8 Rock Collective that was named after the center. We were hanging out after setting up some future readings. Then Kenny's phone rang, like it had a hundred times before. I could hear that the voice on the other end was feminine, yet husky with a hint of smoke. It was also harried and pouring out of the phone at a quicker than normal rate. We only knew one woman with a voice that sexy and that was Toni Asante Lightfoot. Toni was a local poet who also hosted reading series, her last series had been on Monday nights at a now defunct joint called Soul Brothers Pizza. I often would show up there and read because the owner Chris would give me free pizza in appreciation for my poetic contributions. He knew me from my former days as one of DC's legendary DJs at the Eastside Nightclub. But Soul Brother's hadn't lasted. Now it seems that Toni had started a new Monday night reading to replace that one at a new black owned coffee shop in Georgetown. Tonight was her first night and she unexpectedly had a full house, there was just one small problem-while almost everyone there had come to hear poetry, none of them were actually poets themselves The only poets present were Toni and her friend Toni Blackman. So, she wanted to know if we could swing by and drop some stanzas until she could maybe round up another poet or two. We piled into Kenny's car and swung by. Not only was the joint full, but it was full of some of the most beautiful and well dressed Buppies that one could imagine. There was no room left to sit so we commandeered the stairs. One by one she called us up and we did our thing. We didn't know it then but it was the beginning of a vibrant chapter in the literary history of Washington, DC, a city with some serious history already, especially where black poetry was concerned. Langston Hughes, Sterling Brown, Georgia Douglas Johnson, the list goes on and on. One would never expect an Open Mic night to reap such rewards, but this was no ordinary Open Mic. Jelani Cobb, Ta Nehisi Coates, and A. Van Jordan are just a few of the now well known poets and writers who were regulars. Now, jump across twenty years, the Mug coffee shop has long since closed and been turned into a swanky furniture store, but you can still catch a sip of its former flavor. This Friday Jan. 31st at 6:00 PM, the Kennedy Center will host a 20 Year Reunion Reading for It's Your Mug on the Millenium Stage. Toni will be the host and I'll be there kicking some old stuff and a new piece or two. Ernesto Mercer, Toni Blackman, Twain Dooley and Holly Bass are just a few of the poets who are scheduled to appear. You don't want to miss this, trust me, you don't. If you can't make it, the event will be streamed live and archived for later viewing here 
http://m.kennedy-center.org/home/MSIndex

And until next we meet, may all you potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Tuesday Tidbits 10 DEC 13

This post contains the haiku/senryu I've written so far this month.

Geese overhead
She misses
the traffic arrow

Fresh blueberries
falling into
Chucky 's laughter

Moonrise
The slow curve
Of her lips

Manager's Office
The telephone cord
trembling

Low winter sun
A slice of banana
In Raisin Bran

Starless night
The vast emptiness
of my wallet

Below the ice-
The wide eyes
of the fish

Contrails-
The perfume of a
Passing woman

On
Call
Daily-
voices inside the voices
inside my head

Icicles-
Screams from the other
side of the wall

Bowl of granola-
The morning crunch of
the Mailman's boots

Flowering rhododendron-

Only a seven syllable poem

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Tuesday Tidbits 22 NOV 13

Lighthouse beacon

The Crimson blaze of her lips

through the fog

City siren 

Flashing past 

Too cherry lips 

Full Moon 

One hand on her belly

She rises

Kissing
his name in black granite
Sliver of moon 

Snowstorm 

The Bread aisle's
shiny white shelves 

 

Spring morning 

Dust rises with the rhythm

of the broom

Summer sunset 

A voice falling 

into a cellphone 

 

Blowing

Up and down the Boardwalk

Runny noses
 

Still Life 

with Arizona Iced Tea 

and Skittles 

 

Plunging deeper 

into her neckline 

November moon

 

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Friday Follies 18 OCT 13

Sliver of moon-
The last bit of shine
on her lips

Quarter moon-
The last swallow of beer
in the bottle

Half moon-
Her new hairstyle
Almost an Afro

Full moon-
A simple bowl
Of oatmeal

Equinox
A sax riff ripples
Autumn Leaves

Fall Equinox
My glass half full
of grey geese

Columbus Day
Leaves of the native trees
a deepening red

Friday Follies

Relentless rain

Sunrise
my country

drops bombs

Full Moon-

A Nickle only

in my pocket

Half moon-

The last piece

of sugar cookie

Meteor shower-

I sleep still smiling
in the wet spot

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)