Radio Interview and Set List

I’ve uploaded the audio of my radio interview to YouTube so everyone outside of the station’s very small range can listen to it (which is pretty much everyone who wants to listen to it).  If you’d like, you can listen to it below.  There is a reading around the 14-minute mark.

I think I’ve decided on a set-list, though I still need to decide an order.  I’ve chosen the following poems:

1.       Belieber’s Anonymous: A Music Snob’s Confession

2.       Welcome to the Midwest

3.       For Jamey

4.       Don’t Ever Give Up

5.       No Child Deserves to Die

6.       Pink’s Hot Dogs and Foul Balls

7.       You Could Be Superman

8.       Sometimes You Don’t Have To Be A Doctor To Save a Life

And on deck is The Sacrificial Rite.

Poems Round 3

Tonight’s first poem a happy poem that isn’t funny—unusual for me, right?  I wrote this one back before MLB Opening Day in honour of the start of summer.  It discusses my loves of baseball and roller coasters—two things that only come with summer.

Pink's Hot Dogs and Foul Balls

I love the spring weather, though I much prefer the summer activities

Because summer means two things: baseball games and roller coasters

Which are, quite easily, two of my favourite things

There is nothing better than hopping in the car and cruising down the road with my best friend by my side,

Headed north--either to Cleveland or Sandusky

We got the windows rolled down and the music cranked loud--most likely the Avett Brothers or some Kid Cudi

And whether it's that two-lane State Route 4 or the I-71 freeway, it is my favourite place to drive,

Save for all those annoying one-way streets and weird-ass intersections in Marion,

There are few things more spectacular than the sight of the steel frames on the horizon,

As you drive across the thin causeway with the gentle waves on either side

And the closer you get, the louder the roar of screams and heavy engines grows--

The peak of Mount St. Helens poking through the clouds as you ascend from SeaTac

And the fierce English Channel waves crashing on the Dutch coast as you descend into Schipol

Are just a couple which I can recall from recent memory

But nothing, absolutely nothing, matches the boner-inducing, goose-bump causing, panic-stricken, sweat-pouring adrenaline

From being in that first row as you drop 95-degrees at 70-miles per hour

And then quickly run back to the start of the line so you can do it all over again,

Taking just a short break to chow down on that natural-casing hot dog piled high with cole slaw--

The perfect amount of cool to counteract the snap and pop of the dog

It's the perfect treat for a day filled with thrills and screams.

There are few things more spectacular than the sight of NOT seeing Lebron's face hanging on the side of a building as you exit I-90 onto Ontario St

But that dying city doesn't that backstabber so long as the Chief Wahoo is still around--

That team is the reason why I'm in Cleveland and why I wouldn't mind calling it my second home

Because you'll find me sitting on that first base line more often than you won't

Me and my best friend sitting in the sun, trying to avoid treacherous sunburn, just behind that visiting team's dugout

The bat makes contact with the ball, so close you can hear the crack

And the ball goes soaring with three runners on the bags--a walk-off grand slam to end the night

The fireworks erupt from behind the scoreboard, illuminating the light-polluted city sky

The game is over and all the fans pour onto the streets, but I'm fine just staying here at the ballpark,

Where I feel some of the most joy and have some of my best days.

This next one is a little morbid, but a good kind of morbid.  Before you go into a big huff about it being angsty teen poetry, it’s not.  It’s a poem written from the perspective of a character in my rom-com novel (in progress), Birds.  The character hates his life as a big shot exec who merely inherited the job from his dad and wishes to pursue a career as a writer, having written almost his entire life, but is too afraid to take the plunge.  This was written before I decided to capitalize things in my poetry.

the sacrificial rite

have you ever seen a broken heart?

have you ever seen an aztec priest

take his knife and plant it square in the middle of his victim's chest

and cut through the flesh, tearing and ripping it from the bone,

cracking the sternum and opening the rib cage

and there it sets: a still beating heart,

that's my heart.

it's still beating.

can you hear it?

thump. thump. thump. thump.

THUMP.

there's a look of anguish on my face.

and the priest reashes in with his aged and bloody hand

and in one swift tug removes the organ from my chest cavity;

he turns to the crowd at the bottom of the temple

and displays his still beating prize, trying to pump blood into the air.

he is met with a glorious uproar in unison and much applause

and a look of relief comes over my face.

This last one is another silly one (kind of).  It’s about one of my favourite professors at OWU and all the crazy things he did.

David Walker, Crazy Son of a Bitch

Do you remember when you took us on that field trip to the hood?

Actually, it was more than once

Here we were, a big group of rich white kids--

rich white kids from a posh, white-ass, Methodist private liberal arts college,

cruisin' down Mount Vernon Avenue in a white 8-passenger minivan adorned with a giant crimson logo

I would be lying if I said we didn't get a few stares from the local residents

Or, remember that time in Cinci when we were stopped by the cops?

"This isn't a good place to be walking with a large group of kids with expensive phones and cameras,"

is what that patrolling officer said, but we continued

and, we somehow made it out of that dilapidated concrete jungle unscathed

There were, however, those other times not quite so good:

the crack sales at the corner shop, the gang vigil in the historic projects,

oh and that time the sun started to go down in Bronzeville and we were still ages from the bus

or admiring all the foreclosure signs in Franklinton

but at least you cut the part where we'd end up on Morse Road after 6pm

And let us not forget the time at Cafe Bella when you pulled out that big ass bottle of red wine and drank all but a few glasses.

Poems Round 2

I’m going to give a little contrast tonight.  This first poem is pretty powerful.  I wrote it after a friend of mine who is an EMT had to deal with his first death of a child and his second death of a child on the same die.  The first child was a 4-year-old girl who died of a previously known condition.  They worked hard to revive her, but they ended up pulling the plug later that day at the hospital.  Right after they got that call from the hospital they were called out for an 11-year-old boy who had hung himself using a belt the top bunk of his bunk bed.  I’m not sure if they ever came to a conclusion as to why he did it, but I know there was some talk of bullying at school.  I can’t imagine what my friend felt that day.

No Child Deserves to Die

Now I have never been a firefighter or EMT,

And I have no desire to ever be one,

But I can imagine that that the worse thing they ever have to face is the death of a child

They face death everyday

But there is a big difference between a 90-year old cancer patient and a 5th grader

I can't even begin to imagine the thoughts that would race through your head

As you end chest compressions and stare into those blank eyes

How could you even come back from that?

How could you go to sleep that night and wake up the next morning and go right back to work?

I don't think I could do it,

And I applaud those who can.

Whether it is by accident, disease, or by his own hand,

There is never a reason why a child should die,

Far too soon before his time

And no matter hard you try, you will never be able to find justification

So you can curse at God, but it will never help

There's only one thing you can do,

And that is keep fighting: keep saving every life that you can.

This second poem was an off-shoot of that one.  It’s a horrible thing when anyone commits suicide; it’s even worse when it is a child.

Sometimes You Don't Have to be a Doctor to Save a Life

You don't have to spend 10 years in school to save a life

It does not always require a transplant or blood transfusion

There is no need for emergency surgery or heroic measures

Because saving a life does not always require anesthesia

Sometimes what it takes is someone there to listen

Someone there to reach out a helping hand

Someone there to stitch the cuts you've put in your arm

And to cut down that make-shift bedsheet noose

I have saved a life, and I know others who have done the same

And I know that each one of those survivors will do their best to save a life

And those survivors will do just that too

It is a vicious cycle that I hope to never see end

There is never a reason to bring yourself to God's hand

Life may not always be great, but that is why we keep living:

So that we can keep trying to make life great

There is always room for improvement and that is what pushes us to do better things

No one ever wants to be content, because everyone wants to be happy

There is a difference, a lesson hard-learned

So keep fighting, keep fighting to break the mold

Keep fighting against every little dissatisfaction

And don't ever let anyone tell you no,

Don't ever let anyone tell you can't

Because you can and you will

And that is how you find happiness.

This last one is a little silly and I figure it’ll somewhat balance the first two.  But if you’ve read this blog, you’ll understand.

Beliebers Anonymous

I'm a little ashamed to admit that I have a soft spot for Justin Bieber

He is whiny and obnoxious and a teenager and a pop singer and Canadian, all things I hate

But somehow he sneaks his way onto my iPod--though just the one song

I swear, it's just the one song (though I might be open to others)

Though this boy king offers us rhymes of "fondue" and "you"

And sings one-word choruses, reiterating it over and over driving it so far deep into your head,

I must admit, I have mad respect for this kid,

This kid who went who went from street corners to sold-out arenas,

This kid who can hit notes like Freddie Mercury

Probably the best investment Usher has ever made

I'm sure Scooter Braun enjoys his pay check

Though I am guilty of helping project his fame

How many times I've requested his single, I do not wish to say

This is far more embarrassing than the time I decided I liked Flo-Rida--

Shorty got low low low low

Now please do not take away my man card for my confessions; I am just trying to be honest

It is not like I am proud of any of this

And I swear to you, you will not find any Bieber posters plastered on my wall

And I am not part of the reason why he is perpetually trending on Twitter

And you will never, ever, ever hear my call myself a "Belieber"

But I will say this: I would not be opposed to spending a day with this young man

In fact, you will find it on my Bucket List

Just to sit down and talk with one of the most influential figures

Who could very well be the next Paul McCartney despite his dorky get-up and silly haircuts.

EDIT: I did a rare re-write of the Bieber poem and wanted to share it here.

Beliebers Anonymous: A Music Snob's Confession

I am a little ashamed to admit that I kind of like justin bieber

And when I say a little, what I really mean is a lot--

This is worse than when I decided I liked Flo Rida thanks to Tom Cruise in Tropic Thunder

I am, what I suppose you would call, a music snob

I like my folk music and indie rock and legit hip hop--

Bob Dylan, the Avett Bros, Mumford and Sons, The Kooks, and Kid Cudi

I'm the kind of guy who is open to new things but knows what he likes and what he doesn't

And I do not. Do not. Like pop music, no pop music unless it's from 1964--I love the Beatles, let's get that right

But somehow this high-pitched Canadian teeny-bopper has wedged his way into my heart and onto my iPod;

Please, do not laugh

No seriously, please do not laugh--this is a serious poem, not funny.

There is nothing more serious than when a music snob admits to liking a pop artist.

But seriously though, I am not sure we give him enough credit

I got mad respect for the Boy King

He might be all about image and style, but then again, so were The Beatles

And although he rhymes fondue with you

And references animated characters from before he was born,

The kid has talent; he can hit notes like no other

That is some Freddie Mercury kind of stuff

That is some Jesus Christ Superstar kind of stuff

That is shatter a glass of water kind of stuff

This kid used that talent to go from rags to riches, from street corners to sold-out arenas

It is easily a Cinderella kind of tale

Easily the best investment Usher has ever made; I'm sure Scotter Braun loves his bi-weekly pay

I would love to be able to sit down and talk with him a while

Cuz I admire his strive and dedication

And how much he is so willing to give back.

But even so, I'm embarassed to admit that I crank his latest single with the bass turned high;

It sometimes gets me stranges looks, especially with the windows down at the gas pump.

Why I Need to Kick It

The Columbus Arts Festival is on Saturday and I have yet to finalize what poems I am going to read.  Nor have I started to practice any of them poems I might read.  What I would like to do it a variety of poems that transition from heavy to light.  So, going from heavier, deeper, possibly darker type poems about bullying, depression, suicide, et cetera to happy-go-lucky comical poems.  I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to pull that off though.  Normally I just wing this kind of thing, but I’m thinking that’s probably not the best idea for something this big.  I did go to the Writer’s Block Poetry Open Mic night last Wednesday at Kafe Kerouac for a little stage practice.  I thought my reading was good, but I didn’t make the best eye contact.  Scott Woods said it was a pretty depressing poem and asked if I would be reading that particular one at the Arts Festival.  I told him probably and he replied by saying you can’t eat a corn dog to that kind of poem.  I’m okay with that.

Since the Arts Festival is coming up I’ve decided to post some of the poems I’m considering reading and giving a few lines of explanation, assuming I can remember anything from when I wrote them (I’m partially kidding).  Please let me know what you think.

Before I get into tonight’s poems, please tune into 98.3 WPKO Monday night at around 7 if you’re in the area as I will be feature on the Night Mix.  If you’re in the Columbus area on Saturday, I will be reading at approximately 1:25PM.

This first poem is tentatively titled “Don’t Ever Give Up” and is the one I read at the open mic this last week.  I’m not a big fan of the title and am trying to think of a new one before Saturday, but have had no such luck thus far.  Nothing really in particular inspired this poem other than the fact that I was wanting to write something pretty deep and somewhat motivational that didn’t have a ludicrous amount of F-bombs so that I could either read it on the radio or at the Arts Fest.  I figure 1:25PM is much too early to drop an F-bomb on stage, especially in front of family.

Don't Ever Give Up

You see the steamroller coming towards you: You've got two options

You can either lay down on the ground and let it roll right over you,

Flattening you until you are paper thin, your entrails exploding out the sides

It is not instantaneous death, but rather, you will suffer,

Lying there, smashed on the pavement like an ant, bleeding and wanting to scream,

But you are completely incapable with no air in your lungs and your throat collapsed

So there you are, motionless, bloody. Defeated, dying, death is upon you.

Your eyes close and your heart stops beating and you take that one last breath,

Your life is over

OR, instead of laying down, you can stand tall and fight back

Take a deep breath and stare it down,

Give that steamroller the dirtiest look you can

And make it stop dead on a dime,

Drop your shoulder and charge

You can do this, make that machine yours

Put your shoulder right through it and watch it explode

The nuts and bolts, the coils, they fly through the air

The steamroller lies there motionless--it is defeated and you are the winner

You see the steamroller coming towards you: You've got one option

Stand tall, stand strong, fight back.

This second poem was inspired by a scene in an episode of How I Met Your Mother, which is a show I can easily relate to.  Honestly, that’s really all there is to it.  If you know the episode of which I speak, you’ll get it.  I actually started converting this into a short story too, but have yet to finish it.

Black Umbrella Amongst a Sea of Yellow

There's the lone man walking down the street, having just confessed his love for the woman he thought was of his dreams

But, instead he exits the building, walks down the stoop, and steps out upon the street with nothing but himself and his black umbrella

He is the Hopeless Romantic, the man who wants nothing more than to love and be loved

But everytime he tries he is met with supreme demise; he is his own worst enemy

But I believe that there is an equal for him out there, just like for you and me

And half the fun is the search to find the one whom you love.