This & That

There is a BIG show coming up as part of the Salt Lines tour. Andrea Gibson (former WoWps champ), Denise Jolly (Seattle slam..what), Tara Hardy (Bent Writing, Seattle Slam, general amazingness) and Sonya Renee (Indiv. National Poetry slam) will be performing at The Warehouse on Sunday March 29th at 7pm. And who is opening? DC's own Capturing Fire, including yours truly and 5 other DC poets. Going to be dope. $10. Tickets at door or email Regie Cabico to reserve: regiec@solysoul.com. Come!!

As I've mentioned a few times, this past weekend was PSI's Women of the World poetry slam in Deetroit, Michigan. Rachel McKibbens was named Woman of the World. She is pretty darn bad ass and I was lucky enough to workshop with her last year when she was passing through Seattle to feature in the Grand Slam. Here is her on Def Jam a few years back:

Natalie Illum: A Remember When Feature

As I mentioned in an earlier post, my friend Natalie is less than two weeks away from the Women of the World poetry slam. She has been spitting in venues all over the city in preparation and her stuff is just hot out the oven. A government monkey by day and the most current past president of Mother Tongue, from DC by way of Upstate NY, Natalie Illum:

just cause...

I wish I could write you a poem
that removes the monkey from your back,
A poem that sends the ghosts in your spine
to heaven. But my words are tiny pebbles
in a much larger ocean of sound; they sink
rather than save the drowning.

The monkey wears a heart-shaped locket.
You cannot reach it to steal it back
into your own chest. Inside
the locket is a picture
of your lover, stolen
from a year you can no longer
touch. Such is the nature
of longing; it's always
behind you.

The ghosts are more proactive.
They haunt daylight from your eyelids,
so that every prism is in shadow.
They drink your tears like water, pull
at your scabs like a fresh stabbing
of pain. But your body is not a trench
for some dying calvary. Blink
Harness the sunshine

like Icarus, for a moment,
the ghosts will melt. Borrow
their sheets for wings. Bribe
the monkey with enough
fruit to sweeten its own hunger;
Breath in

your broken locket heart. Thread
muscle through the metal chain of her
leaving. Exchange suicide for more
oxygen.

Now run to every e-mail, letter, postcard,
hug, story of how your words
kept someone else's soul from limbo,
someone else's mind from shatter.
Your true heart is a tether, strong enough
to keep people from plummeting;
from scraping their fists on
mountains of broken ribs

has they reach for Orion.
This too is your legacy. Look up.

The sky is clear tonight.
The metal cage of your heart
is pumping something that sounds
like music; the ghosts have stopped
invading the marrow of you. The Lover
you carry within you. If the monkey
returns, fill your fist with pebbles.
Throw.

Believe that you will make an impact.
Write it down as a wish, like this poem
for you.

Capturing Fire

For the past month, I have been spending my Monday nights with the wonderful people of Capturing Fire, a workshop of DC poets led by Sparkle's own Mr. Regie Cabico. The nine of us gathered for two hours once a week to write, look at a s-ton of amazing poems and workshop each others pieces. 

And, in the the spirit of Sparkle, we talked about sex. A lot. I honestly often left class more hot and bothered than is apropos for a Monday night.

Anyone who knows me well, knows this is a subject I talk about. A lot. But for some reason it's never translated into poems. I've never written an 'Erotica Poem' in the purest sense, mostly because I feel it comes out trite and disjointed; never the message I'm trying to convey. Still not there yet on a great piece, but it's all about the journey, no? For now, the beginning of something that could be. Based on the prompt of 50 things that turn you on.

beards & boys with a social justice bend

air blown in my ear, even if it’s the accidental
aftershock of a whisper
my face being held by hands larger than my own
built up kisses that feel like they belong
under bleachers

the smell of almond
the taste of beer on your breath
dancing
being pulled in closer
dancing
because this is our element
dancing
because carefree is sexy
deliberate
the first raw attempt at a handhold
mystery

making eyes
for hours
at the black cat

compliments
knowing something others don’t know
knowing something exactly eight other women know
shared showers

hole sings Malibu live
shane on showtime

visual
talkative
messy

the smell of sweat & nature
your sleeping breathe in my ear

rum & diet & a dance floor