Guy LeCharles Gonzalez

My Bookshelf (one of them)

The only thing I was fit for was to be a writer, and this notion rested solely on my suspicion that I would never be fit for real work, and that writing didn’t require any.

–Russell Baker

I’ve been “a writer” since the 5th grade, when the combination of praise I received for a plagiarized homework assignment and fear of getting caught, pushed me to start writing my own stories, and I quickly discovered that I both liked it and was pretty good at it. Over the years, I’ve published poetry and articles in school papers, magazines, journals, and anthologies; performed my poetry in slams, and featured at various bars, coffee shops and the occasional college gig across the country; finished the prerequisite, semi-auto-biographical screenplay (that I even tried to film myself at one point!); and even cranked out 15,000 words of a “novel” during NaNoWriMo in 2004.

Arguably my “biggest” publishing credit is co-authoring Burning Down the House: Selected Poems from the Nuyorican Poets Cafe’s National Poetry Slam Champions (Soft Skull Press, 2000), and while I am both proud of and eternally grateful for its publication, its existence has more to do with timing and opportunism than the quality of the work therein.

Besides my own attempts at zines and chapbooks, it was my first real introduction to the world of publishing, and it left a permanent mark that partly explains my cynical passion and/or pragmatic idealism for the publishing industry.

NOTE: The blank pages on 141-142 in the book are probably my fault.

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2009 National Poetry Slam

Eleven years ago next month, in Austin, TX, I took one of the most life-changing thrill rides ever when I attended my first National Poetry Slam, as a member of the 1998 team representing the Nuyorican Poets Café that would go on to become their first (and still only) team to win the Championship. The victory itself was amazing, but what really struck me and lasted much, much longer was the diverse community of poets in attendance, and their passion for the event that brought them together every Summer.

The competition was fierce, and there were some who took it way too seriously (myself included!), but late at night, after all of the bouts were done and people gathered in groups of old and new friends to talk, drink and trade poems, the true spirit of the slam always shone through: “It’s not about the points, it’s about the poetry.”

I came back from that first NPS inspired and on a mission, and in September of 1998 added a regular slam series to my fledgling reading series, a little bit louder, and the rest is history.

Literally.

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The most difficult aspect of writing, for me, has always been the self-discipline required to write every day, no matter what. I simply don’t have any. (Not just for writing, either, but that’s a whole other post!)

There are a number of legitimate reasons excuses I could put forward to explain why it’s so difficult to find the time to write on a regular basis, not the least of which are family and work obligations as well as my ruthless internal editor, but even if I won the lottery tomorrow and didn’t ever have to work again, I would still probably lack the self-discipline to stick to a regular routine of writing. (Blogging doesn’t count.) I envy those people who can wake up early in the morning to get a couple of hours of writing done before they start their day, but that’s not an option for me as my weekdays start at 6am without any writing, and staying up late comes with its own obstacles, not the least of which is sleep deprivation doesn’t make for very good writing.

I especially envy the old me who used to crank out at least one new poem each week, slam it at the Nuyorican on a Wednesday night (or later, read it every Monday at 13), and then move right on the next one, rarely looking back. Most of those poems weren’t very good, but the gears were always turning and I’d eventually revisit a few and edit them into something good whenever I hit a dry patch. Most of that writing was done at Botanica, a couple of nights each week after work, usually before the Nuyorican on Wednesdays and Fridays.

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[Going through the archives trying to figure out what to read tomorrow at the Nuyorican and I came across this little ditty, a typically belligerent, sophomoric effort from that crazy Summer of 1998! Backstory here.]

Why I Slam…

Hi my name is Guy and
I’m not an alcoholic
I just drink a lot.

Can you spare some change?

Drinking is an expensive habit that
poetry just doesn’t support
begging the question…Why?

Why poetry?

I pondered over this
one humid summer night
halfway through my second draft
of a cold pint of inspiration
reflecting on that first poem
way back when
when the muse cried out in pain
inky tears running down my pen.

It was one of those deep, heartfelt free verse numbers
that meant nothing to anyone except for me
and the woman it was for.
I cried as I wrote it
she cried as she read it
and that day
the muse proceeded to bleed my soul.

Poetry is truth
and no two truths are the same because
your truth is different from my truth but
no matter what
when it’s real it’s truth.

Sometimes it’s confirming or contradicting
disturbing or frightening
entertaining or enlightening.
Sometimes it’s published and sometimes it’s not
and sometimes it’s slammed
because half you muthafuckers ain’t picked up a book since Dr. Seuss
and there’s no other way for us to reach you.

Can you spare some change?

Poetry is truth and truth is universal.

I speak in words universal shamelessly use a cliche
so there’s never a question of what I’m trying to say.

I’m not the one for flowery metaphors
academic whores seeking legitimacy
abstract poetics masquerading as ideology.
I got my M.F.A. at the Nuyorican Poets Café
and my Ph.D. in applied reality
so my poetry is for everybody.

Went from spectator to agitator in less than a year
‘cause I realized the truth wasn’t welcomed there.
Raised my voice a little bit louder
made a list checked it twice
deputized myself as Nuyorican vice.
Tipped sacred cows from plaster pedestals
dragged phony prophets from shadowy vestibules.
called out fake revolutionaries they were making me dizzy
told narrow-minded bigots their children would look like me
‘cause I’d had enough of their racist philosophy.
Threw thieves from the temple armed with three poems
repetitive rhymes for the roar of the crowd
ignoring the honor with which they’ve been endowed.

Steve wants to hear a poem
but all I’ve heard is shit
making me wonder when was the last time they picked up a pen
‘cause their signatures have rubber stamp written all over it
ranting on and on without saying a thing
making a mockery of slam poetry
in hopes of a perfect thirty
forgetting that the poetry IS the point.

Why poetry? I ask again
and this time I’m talking to you.

Poetry is truth and truth is universal
and I take that shit seriously.
When it comes to the slam I maintain my integrity
‘cause someone out there is listening closely.

They say the best poet always loses
but you know that’s a lie.
I’m going to Austin because sometimes
they tie.