Nuyorican

A recent discussion in Morris Stegosaurus’ journal and a conversation last night about the poetry scene got me thinking about change and evolution and what influences both.

I haven’t been to Bar 13 in the longest and have been waiting for the next UPPERCASE to come around as a reason to go. UPPERCASE always represented the best of what we did there with the series, putting the spotlight on a handful of relative newcomers and giving them the room to stretch their legs beyond the confines of the open mic or the slam. For many, it was their first time ever as a featured poet. The vast majority stepped up to the plate and knocked it out of the park and were always appreciative of the opportunity. The criteria was admittedly subjective as I was influenced as much by the quality of the work as the quality of the person, and I frequently took chances on people who, by the definition of some, weren’t “ready yet” – a bullshit descriptor in a scene predominantly made up of relatively unaccomplished amateurs.

Anyway, I check their calendar every now and then, hoping to see an UPPERCASE on the bill and have been disappointed every time by its absence. Someone suggested that there just weren’t enough good new people to schedule one but I see that as the craftsman blaming his tools. It’s been six months or so and there haven’t been three decent newcomers on the scene? There’s more than that many at every Acentos! What. Ever.

More discouragingly, I’ve noticed a narrowing of their focus as they’ve begun doing more targeted formats like GrooveNation, for black poets; Raise the Red Tent, the rejiggered – and reportedly more restrictive – House of Woman-aka-WomanNoise; and now Q2, the new queer reading that started out at the Bowery.

Ironic that a venue once known for having one of the most inclusive reading series’ in the city is now drawing such stark lines in the sand. Disappointing, too.

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When I asked for suggestions for non-political topics last week, I got some great feedback. Three of the suggestions were actually closely related so I figure what better way to end the week than with some exhibitionistic introspection?

“…your first experiences with poetry/performing/and your growing pains in the scene.”

“How has becoming a father changed your perspective on life, if at all?”

“What are you doing now post louder arts?”

First, some quick background. I stumbled onto the poetry scene by accident in the summer of 1997, after three years of the Nuyorican Poets Café being a fun Friday night out and first-date spot. The first half of 1997 was without question the worst period of my life – emotionally and psychologically – with broken relationships, miscarriages, bad decisions and extreme self-doubts. In other words, perfect fodder for bad poetry. The first time I read in the Wednesday night Slam Open at the Café – July 16th, 1997 – my reasons had nothing to do with poetry. I had just completed an acting workshop and had written a screenplay that I’d converted to the stage, and really wanted to mount it at the Café – so I wanted to get to know the people in charge. I only had four poems, loosely defined, including a contemplation of suicide, a lost love piece, an old attempt at a rap song, and a rant that was really just an essay with random line breaks.

It must have been destiny because I won my first Friday night slam a month later, and qualified for the Finals two months after that when I won the semi-final against some pretty strong competition. My play was quickly forgotten and I dove headfirst into poetry and the scene itself, writing and reading like a man possessed, and getting caught up in the never-ending drama that follows self-destructive creative types like the paparazzi stalks J-Lo.

Where the first half of 1997 was full of personal disasters, the second half was classic road to self-destruction. I was a lightning rod for controversy, known for dissing people on and off stage, usually by name, and for drinking way too much way too often. At one point, Keith Roach pulled me aside for a lecture that included the infamous warning: “Broken hearts are bad for business.” By the end of the year, I’d witnessed much incestuous drama, had been at the center of a lot of it, and somehow ended up as the host of the Open Room after the Friday night slam. To be honest, I think it was partly Keith’s way of keeping a leash on me.

Three significant things happened in 1998: Salomé and I reconciled and got married that summer; I made the Nuyorican team and we won the Nationals; I added a slam format to my Monday night reading at 13 and shortly thereafter was banned from the Nuyorican.

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