rants n raves
by tom miller
rants n raves
by tom miller
11/13/98 - 11:24 A.M.
friday the 13th, poetry reading, & dates
it's friday the 13th, but not so unlucky. after all, i got up, didn't i?
*****
last night at the civic media center poetry reading, nothing had changed, except for the fact that there were fewer people than usual. punch was there. punch, i think, is probably an anarchist. he's definitely a genius. a hacker. a social commentator. a world class scavenger. a bisexual enigma. and possibly, no, likely, no definitely old school punk. he comes to the club on goth night. i work the door and let him in free as my guest. i buy him beer. we talk about how we'd like to fuck many of the people in the club. he offered to examine me to determine if, indeed, the crabs were gone. i respectfully declined.
jimmy nil was there hosting the event. jimmy's on the same order as punch in some regards, but he's more of an activist. you'll find him at campus speakouts, in the news with his friends who protest things by biking naked through the streets of gainesville. you'll find him touting the gorilla pirate radio station that moves from house to house so the f.c.c. can't shut them down as they've threatened to do. jimmy nil's written a few great poems. he should write more, but he keeps reading the same old stuff.
jimmy, remember how good that celine dion song from the movie, titanic was before they played it to death on the radio? now when you hear it, you want to grab any ears you can find and tear them off.
think about it.
and josh was there. he used to read stories and poetry. he used to rant and rave. he used to read his work through a bullhorn. another writer who doesn't write anymore. another punk with a degree. he can teach your children. he hosts the poetry show on the pirate radio. he asked me if i would appear on wednesday night. i said i would. (see my calendar of events on my main page.)
and ian. a friend. always willing to share a clove or a joint or some of his wine. yet another poet. yet another punk. ian loves to wear the same clothing until it is deteriorated. he loves to smell. he loves to say the most horrendously inappropriate things in the most horrendously inappropriate places. for example, we were in a lesbian bar, and this really nice girl was playing a lovely song about relationships. she was playing well and her voice was like an angel. she was a friend of mine. so ian yells out, "YOU SUCK, BITCH!"
later he told me he didn't think she sucked at all. he told me he just yelled it for no particular reason. that's ian. but i think he's toned it down now. he used to write poems about social decay and his dick and art and his dick and fucking and his dick and drinking and his dick, but now he's more optimistic; more hopeful. he's really lost his edge.
the only writing i've seen him do as of late is to scribble notes on a rag of paper during the poetry reading only to read it moments later. he probably throws it away when he's done. writing seems like more of a pastime for him these days. but he's written and read some good shit. there's a spark there.
and kyle was there. kyle the homosexual. there's no pretension to hide anything. it's in his poetry, his manner, his energy. he's gay, and you better deal with it.
he reads dramatically in an exaggerated southern drawl. sometimes it's grating. sometimes it's remarkably effective. he admits he's not as much a poet as a performer. you can tell because some of his writing doesn't work on the page. without kyle's reading of the work, so much is lost. but i've seen him leave a crowd speechless. and he always has an extra beer to share. i tend to sit by him.
and david from ocala was there. and you thought nothing good could come out of ocala, florida! when dave first came to the civic media reading with his friend, gene, (also from ocala), i was tripping on acid and reading a poem. they walked in like a couple of high level vampires. david proceeded to read a poem from memory and his reading was so ferocious, i thought he was the best poet i had ever seen.
he is the author of the now infamous poem,
History of America (The Short Version.)
Revolution
Constitution
Institution
By David Grantham
gene followed with some on-the-road style work, and again, this was some of the best ever seen in gainesville. when the drugs wore off, i realized that they were only pretty good, and not the best. but pretty good was better than what i was hearing at the time. and as far as the reading goes today, pretty good wipes it off the map. today, the reading genuinely sucks for the most part. neither gene nor david write anymore. they hardly, if ever, read out.
sad.
*****
i was called up. there was applause, but there is always applause. i read a few new poems, and then hit them with my entry about the smell of hippies. i was good, but you could see on their faces, i didn't win them over.
and that is because it was the wrong piece in the wrong place read to the wrong people.
i thought it went great. all the smelly hippies will be back next week. for some unknown reason, so will i.
again, i love what i hate.
buddha would be proud.
*****
and after the reading, i headed for the club to work my shift checking i.d.
no less than three people hit me up for dates. that's not normal. usually, i go out, look at all the beautiful people, drink beer with all the older men, and then go home and fuck the television set. this night was different.
it could be because i didn't shave. or maybe it was because i haven't had my hair cut, and the blond dye is growing out leaving brown roots. or perhaps it was that i was dressed sloppily. maybe it was because i was smoking a cigarette. all the ugly things i could do to myself seem to bring out the beautiful ones in droves. i'll never figure it out.
one of the young men asked me to write a poem for him and e-mail it. then he pinched my tit so hard, i thought he was trying to rip it out. i don't mean to stereotype, but american asians have a screw loose, despite their beautiful olive skin and alluring eyes. okay, so i'm a bigot.
and the other young man was just so fucking nice. when you get good looking and nice in the same package, i just want to choke puppies. on the other hand, it's refreshing to know that not everybody is so jaded that they have no humanity. i should know. i have none.
and the third was mr. prolific from my earlier entry in this journal. mr. boner. mr. new-one-every-night. the guy i threw up with. he said, "thanks for smoking me out the other night."
i said, "no problem."
he said, "i haven't smoked out since. i think once a week is good."
"yes," i said. "once a week."
metalanguage for, "blow me once every week."
later that night, he came over and said, "i've got a raging hard-on. it's as hard as a rock."
i asked him, "so what are you gonna' do about it?"
he pointed to a guy who had just been kicked out of the bar for underage drinking. he smiled, and then he and the 18 year old walked into the parking lot, hand in hand.
and i thought, how could anyone ever be special to you. how long are you going to live? what's it like to be a walking petri dish.
and finally, i thought to myself; next week's going to be good.
(tune in next week for the continuing adventures of tom miller and his world of the living bomb.)
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