Burning Down the House: True Story
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.
Three Rules for the 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.
On self-discipline and self-flagellation
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.
Flashback: Why I Slam…
[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…
R.I.P. Peter Conti (aka Peter of the Earth)
I hadn’t seen him in a few years, drifting apart when we moved to Virginia and never reconnecting after we returned, and had no idea he was sick, much less dying.
He missed his 30th birthday (today, Saturday) by one day.
I’ll always remember the carefree Peter who let it all hang out when the music was playing and he was surrounded by friends. The Peter in the picture here (at the National Poetry Slam in Chicago, 1999, courtesy of David Huang), who stood by me as a friend that entire season when ‘a little bit louder’ was born into a community divided. The Peter who could go toe-to-toe with me in a debate without ever letting it get personal, because in the end, we were fighting for the same thing.
The Peter who introduced me to a kind of spirituality that didn’t demand a church or a bible or any outward symbols, simply a desire to connect with something larger than one’s self and draw strength from it.
The Peter we always joked about being my gay twin brother, and who, despite his own insecurities about his poetry and his performances, inspired me every single time he got on stage. The Peter who brought me to full tears three different times with one of those performances, more than any other poet I know.
The Peter who had a way with words and never, I think, truly realized how special and talented he was.
Not even death can take that Peter away from me. Or from anyone else who knew him well enough to call him friend.
Rest in peace, Peter.
And if there’s anyone who could figure out a way to come back now and then and watch over his friends, I believe you’d be the one to pull it off. So I’ll be looking for you every time the music’s playing loud enough to get me on the dance floor; for that sign that it’s okay to let loose sometimes and simply enjoy the moment.
Thank you for your friendship. You’ll be missed, but never forgotten.
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Adios, Nueva York
CITY LIMITS' September/October 2004 issue has a timely article, Adios, Nueva York, about the Puerto Rican exodus from New York City during the last decade. According to the 2000 census, NYC lost 10% of its Puerto Rican population between 1990-2000! While many left for the island, a significant number have headed to surprising destinations like Lawrence, MA and Reading and Allentown, PA, doubling the overall Latino population in each city -- 60%, 37% and 24% respectively. The article itself focuses on Allentown - the metropolitan neighbor of my theoretical oasis, Bethlehem - and the troubles migrating Nuyoricans, primarily from the…