A Quick Note on the Changes

For those of you who frequent the site. You may notice that there have been a few changes. I've taken down the rough section. I know this is how a lot of you access the work that I do, but getting work published that is also available online is a small probability. So it’s strange to say after having only committed to this for a short time, but with a little bit of luck I should be a published poet soon. So now you'll be able to pay for the awesome words I write! (yay)

I do intend to update my diary more often to let you guys in on the small trials and tribulations of a traveling author. Speaking of which, I recently had the occasion to perform at the Sacred Grounds Cafe on Saturday afternoon.

That day I was expecting company and had tailored the set especially for the person I was expecting. Unfortunately they didn't arrive which under most situations wouldn't be an issue at all, but in this case it was among of slew of times they weren't able to make it.

Leaving me here, with an empty seat next to me waiting for them to arrive. The person next to me wondering why I was guarding it. I felt wrecked.  Then I hear over the microphone "Next up, we have Michael. Michael, can you tell us a little about yourself?”

I thought I was going to sink. I thought with absolute certainty that I was going to sink. That I was going to drown in a sea of emotion.  Getting up was like jumping off a diving board with cement shoes.  Still, somehow when my feet found the ground.  They kept moving. I took off my flannel and I told them. I told them this set was for that person missing. That it hurt, and that I would try to get through the set but it might be rough.

I couldn’t tell you too much about the set they’re always a blur, but after a round of applause and a few pats on the back I was approached by a woman who offered me her card, she told me she enjoyed the set, and that if I should contact her about getting published. 

I was about to go out the door but then the person who ran the show asked me to give a feature performance on the 24^th. So there you have it. Things are moving quickly in this life, and while I’d like to hit the pause button we all know you can’t even if you want to.

As always thanks for your support and especially for reading. Talk to you later, internet.

-MJR

Winning at Poetry

Fair warning this post won't be modest, when it should be. Just like how I shouldn't talk too much to the girl I like and I do anyways.

"I thought you were the best poet out of all of them."

I had someone come up to me after the show last night and say that to me. While I've had my fair share of pats on the back, handshakes, and compliments. I've never had someone state so emphatically that what I had done was simply better than my peers. Whlie most people would just take this compliment I of course cannot.

Instead I've been mulling it over since last night. I'm equal parts elation, trepidation, and aprehension. The idea of competitive poetry is profane to me, and that being said I know that the slam is inevitable and at some point I'll have to get up and lay it on the line for applause.

I'm intimidated by poetry competitions. My poetry isn't for everyone. It's eclectic, bizarre and hyper pitched just like the sound my brain makes when I don't know what to say to a cute girl. I don't go up on stage expecting applause and I'm thankful that I haven't had a bad show yet. So up until now I've been living in a comfortable little bubble of "Yes I can kill the open mic every night"

And lastly I'm ecstatic. I have gone into most venue's and crushed the stage. I have seen a lot of performers since starting this journey. There are those who are pretentious and read off paper quietly and wonder why they can't be heard. There are those who get their kicks from simply writing dirty sex (which to be honest I kind of like.) But, worst though are those who are part time artists, and are still more than willing to give their ill informed critique. Thanks but, No I don't think I should not read more like Maya Angelou it would sound like shit.

Perhaps being good at this poetry schtick isn't too bad after all. Writing and performing what I have on paper is something that I'm married to. I go out every night with the intention not just of getting out those demons but getting out yours as well. My style is loud and bombastic because it's how I feel. Poetry should never apologize for being entertaining.

You know what fuck it. I want to win at poetry.

It came from the notebook 1/11/12

It's heartbreaking to me whenever I'm shut out. Tonight I find myself in the Tenderloin. The homeless and addicts are all around me and even though I'm here for a show it still feels like self imposed exile. I do have friends but few of them are close and even those who have been the closest don't know my heart.

Only my family, who Im grateful for everyday, know how awesomely frantic my mind can be. How estranged I am from reality. How sorrowful common pains hurt me. Perhaps I belong here in the TL. These days I'm thankful I can at least write. It's the only honest expression I have. Two weeks touring locally has felt like a month. Each venue I go to has asked me back, with enthusiasm and my poems are ever so slowing turning into true art.

If it weren't for this I think I would surely be destroyed by the trials of my heart.

Apologies and Clarifications

I hate putting explanations before poems, but someone asked me tonight who Tiny Implosions was about.

I hadn't realized that it might be interpreted as being about someone. In truth I thought it was clearly about my own fear of abandonment and pushing through that.  

As such I feel it's appropriate in this case to put an explanation before the poem so that those close to me aren't hurt or panicked. If anyone was, I am deeply sorry.

Other Late Night Messages

After getting home last night from a severe lack of show and a strong infusion of Jack, Rum, Coke,  I stumbled through my front door. My roommate who had a rougher night than mine was so kind to have offer me a medical joint to keep from flying off the bicycle handles completely. After I drunkly rambled my way to incohesion he shuffled off to bed. When I went to mine, I discovered that I  had recieved a message from someone, who for lack of a better word in the dictionary we will call a fan.

"...Anyway, I saw a link to one of your poems earlier today. I didn't read the title but I saw one word in the description. Sadness. So I clicked it. I loved the poem. And the others. And the diary. And I thought to myself that maybe this is what I need.

I want to start writing. Poems, stories, journal entries. Anything. You can say I've been a moderately okay writer in what I HAVE done but you have inspired me to really let out all of my emotions onto paper..."

I don't think I ever started writing and performing to become famous, or win anyone's heart. Instead it was a simple way to get all the ugly out of my heart. I think at a frantic rate, and live in constant panic. So everytime I get off stage, and there's a brief moment of clarity, like being at the eye of a hurricane, I am beyond grateful.

Knowing that kind of terrible tearing and mental unrest is troublesome. I don't think if I had the good fortune have seen Buddy Wakefield a year or so ago I would be as healthy I am now. I wonder, I really do, if I would even be here. So for someone to have read something of mine and feel inspired to write. That unexpectedly means the world to me.  I am humbled.