Music of Life

I rather like the life of a poet. Traveling and writing; telling stories and meeting new people. Dancing. Okay, perhaps that last one is not necessary to be living the life of a poet, but it is necessary for my poetry.

For me, dancing is the missing connection between hearts. Sure, we can speak words which allude to feelings, and we can hold hands as though treating the other as a transfusion, but dancing creates a rhythmic connection as though the body is moving within the beat of a universal heart – add to this that two bodies are moving together connected by hands to make a circle unbroken – dancing is alchemy for transmuting music to movement through hearts powered by feet.

The common metaphor for life in today's culture is one which refers to life as a race. We are all trying to get somewhere the fastest. I'm still not sure towards what we are racing, but it promises to hit us with the casual snap of a broken ribbon. I am not so sure I want to know what is at the end. Races never really end. People are always running. Or training to be able to run that much faster than their opponent in the next race. What are we running from? To what are we running? Where does this all go? Why do we look so beat when we cross the finish line? I can't make sense of a metaphor in which little is left to interpretation. So, instead, I'd like to turn toward a different metaphor altogether. If one doesn't like the concept with which he is faced, one must invent new words or supplant the old ideas with one more fitting. So, I turn back the hands of the clock into a time less focused on time but more so on timing.

In the Middle Ages, the prominent metaphor for life was that of a dance. I feel as though this makes more sense because music is ephemeral. It will not last any longer than the vibration of a string, the stirring of air. Lungs power music as much as hands do. Music has a definitive ending point, but we can replay the song in our minds a million times over without – melodies get stuck in our minds like stories. Music ends, but it can be replayed, and no one wins at the end of the song except for those who danced. If life is a dance, then we only need to tap into timings in order to tap into time. Feet don't have to move, but when they do to a rhythm, a beauty emerges. And it expands in every direction.

Life is not linear.

Music is not linear.

Dances are not linear, and music is interpretation rather than command. A poet speaks in rhythm just as bodies speak in dance.

Races have a right answer and a wrong time.

Dancers need not apologize.

So don't apologize when your feet feel too tired to move, you are not running a race with points to its end; you are engaged in a dance where the universe holds your hand. Listen to the rhythm and fear not the end of the song; we all will be dipped, but this dip is one of beauty and is not to be feared because we will not be dropped. We will not be dropped. We need not compete to get underground faster.

And I will remember to live, breathe, love, and dance.

Time Flies

Today marks the day that we officially have seen more days in the year than we have left to see. Days unfold. Hours fall out like loose leaf paper. But at least we have a chance to write our hours into poems if we so choose before they're crumpled and lost.

Sometimes I think hours fall off like dandelion seeds when we make wishes. Perhaps an intention gets intertwined with the seeds, and our wishes intermingle with earth when the pods finally find somewhere to land. Maybe this makes the wish come true for the fields. Then someday when someone lays his or head down to name the clouds, maybe a new dandelion will whisper that wish into his or her ears, and that person will be inspired to do something.

Sometimes, I think that the wishes we cast upon far away stars don't just burn to a crisp. I think that our wishes, like the dandelions, plant themselves in the stars and then wait.

Sometimes, I think you are the amalgamation of someone's forever ago wishes come to fruition.

Sometimes, I think we are all someone's forever ago wishes come to fruition.

I know that we all used to be stars. The earth on which we walk used to be 10 million degrees or more. I find it fascinating that far less degrees separate humanity from universe. All love is falling for stars.

Dandelions take our wishes and plant them in fields which used to be stars. We take our wishes and plant them in stars which used to be one mass until the Big Bang separated itself from itself. If wishes grow in fields like seeds, imagine how bright wishes must grow in stars. Unfortunately, stars have to die in order to add what they were to the universe like dandelions have to die for us to make a wish, and we are composed of the bodies of stars, so maybe trillions of years ago something made wishes and the stars held them inside until they died and had their wish-intermixed molecules flying through the universe to plant themselves on planets like dandelions plant their wish-filled seeds in fields.

I like to think I'm something's trillion year old wish come to fruition. I like to think that the best things are worth the wait, and I like to think that even as time passes like seeds falling from dandelions, we still do something with it just by existing. Maybe that's being optimistic, but I'd rather think that my presence is both a wish fulfilled, and way to better the universe's future.

Even if I am merely making wishes with my spare time.

I Came Upon Some Flowers

While walking through the neighborhood of Wichita yesterday, I saw bright, beautiful, pink, fake flowers. Pictured at the left are not those flowers. Lilies sprouting up unassumingly out of someone's garden.

Someone in my family likes to talk about how the United States is in trouble because of all the shady things that the government does... and the companies.

I'm not so sure. We are still a government by the people. At first glance this sounds absurd – nearly atrocious, perhaps not lacking a firm grounding in reality. This idea is like those fake flowers – beautiful but ultimately pointless. Trouble is, the fake flowers looked real enough to be real. And if I had gone about assuming that every single flower I encountered from then on out was fake, then I would have missed a lot of beauty. This is a trouble with people – it's not so much that we forget to stop and smell the flowers; it's that we assume we already know what every flower smells like.

But life changes everything. No flower can smell the exact same, and you miss out on opportunities by assuming. I've missed out on opportunities by assuming. We miss out on the opportunity to interact with each other when we assume that beauty is fake. Not all of it is. These flowers are living proof of this. Beauty grows out of the dirt; it doesn't live a comfortable life because beauty can't be beauty unless it intimately knows ugly, and fake flowers will never know ugly like fake people will never admit ugly, and it's a tragedy. And I know I'm saying two different things now, but the ugly truth is that we have to fake some beauty until the world can see what we're trying to show it, and we have to be real with our own ugliness or else someone someday may confuse it with beauty. And there's nothing worse than realizing, upon close inspection, that what you thought was real turned out to be nothing but fake.

So here's to being real despite the "ugliness" we think it brings. Everything is a matter of perception, and realizing this is, in itself, an act of great beauty.

Check out the Talks!

DrewDat, Luke, ME!

Those three sexy poets in the photo above are (from left) DreDat, Luke, and MEEE! This photo was taken at the TOP OF A MOUNTAIN!! Yup, that's how we Colorado Springs poets do it. We write with our heads in the clouds and unwind in them as well. This all started after a team meeting when Luke, the host of our bi-monthly poetry venue (HEAR, HERE!!) decided to go for a walk. For most people a walk is a leisurely stroll in the park, but according to Luke it is to get a good 15 minute hike away from anything man made and climb the nearest vertical behemoth. It felt good to climb and the view was breathtaking. So, here we are at the top of a mountain. Since space is infinitely expanding we were both on top of the world and under it which was all fine with me.

This Monday, my newest addiction is TEDtalks. I heard about TEDtalks from an old roommate of mine. Do you have a friend that is constantly suggesting things like movies, or tv shows, yet you are too stubborn to try them? Well, that's how it is when my buddy Calvin suggests things. So far he has suggested Ender's Game, Game of Thrones, TEDtalks, and various other shrines of badassitude which have always taken me FOREVER to pick up on. Anyhow, TEDtalks are a series of sub-20 minute presentations online in which the  world's leading authorities in their fields showcase current projects. They vary in topics from technology to social psychology, and even POETRY!!! 

This presentation of TEDtalks is from former US poet laureate, Billy Collins. It's exciting to see that even with all these wonders of technology there is still room to probe into the mind of a poet. What this says to me is that not only is poetry NOT dead, but there is and will always be a constant fascination with poets and various other photographers of the human experience. What fascinates me with these TEDtalks is the way that the presenters present their topics so eloquently. It's as these professionals are poets in their own sense. Kathryn Schulz specifically sounds like a slam poet herself!! CHECK IT OUT! Her presentation sounds like she's about to throw down at some final stage slam. There are some eloquent pieces of rhetoric and prose which seriously made me do a double check and make sure I was watching TEDtalks and not browsing a poetry set. If you have some free time check them out!!

I wish I had a lot more to say to help set up your week, but I'm behind on my Game of Thrones and I need to catch up. I'm on season 3 episode 4 and everyone keeps talking about a wedding...

And Called It Poetry

Where does poetry come from?

Some say it stems from past. It's words we were never able to say in the moment built up into beauty because diamonds are only noticeable when found in the rough. Poets' lives are not easy. I am a poet. Poets' lives are beautiful. I am a poet.

Poetry comes from late night conversations with ghosts. Poetry is haunting. This is why it wakes me with a start late at night and forces me to pull pages close to my chest like blankets. It is communion with spirits who want nothing more than that their story be told.

Poetry is a haunted house. I am a haunted house. I have doors that I know not to open. I have rooms filled with mirrors adorned by sheets I don't have the courage to remove. I have rooms with rustling sounds that I'm still afraid to open. I don't have skeletons in my closets. I have graveyards. I have headstones with epitaphs written in iambic lines so that anyone saying the incantations will necessarily resemble the rhythm of a heartbeat. My poetry is a heartbeat; this is why I feel sick when I skip a line or lose my rhythm. My poetry is a heartbeat – my words are how I perform CPR. No wonder I feel so out of breath every time I perform. Resuscitation is a word that doesn't pass past lips easily. This is why I sometimes confuse my poetry with hyperventilation. The diaphragm should only expand as much as a mind.

I am a poet.

I am still trying to figure out
where I come from and
where I'm going.

I just hope
that my heartbeat
will stay long enough
to open all my doors,
expose my mirrored ghosts,
and figure out
where this all came from
just so I can forget about it,
and focus on where to go
in-stead.

These Are Things I've Learned

This weekend, I learned a valuable lesson.

Today, I went hiking.

Now, I don't know if you know this, but hiking is at least 48% more beautiful if the person or people you're hiking with are comfortable letting their minds wander like the clouds.

Hiking is at least 65% grander
if you have the opportunity to hold someone's hand.

Regardless of which way the fingers intertwine, your hands suddenly have as many stories to tell as your legs do. A palm reader should be so jealous.

When you're hiking and holding hands with someone who has an open mind, this person will comment on the scenery that wanders through her mind, will let you know the kind of beauty she conjures up in words, and her hands will tell stories of sweat and personal triumph to each one of your fingertips. Your hands will be happy they have something so gorgeous to travel and connect with. You, in turn, will also be happy because holding hands is the nonverbal way of saying, "You're worth it" or "You've got a story worth telling" or "We've really got a shot to make this whole trip memorable."

Maybe this is why I like dancing – I have three minutes to share with someone the feeling of "You're worth it." I get the feeling "I am worth it."

This weekend I learned that being a poet allows me to hold hands with the audience.
This weekend, I learned that stages extend their palms face up and ask anyone who steps upon them, "Would you like to dance?"

Some stages phrase it as a statement. Something like "Show me your moves!" with all the bravado of a falcon.

This weekend I learned that I
am allowed to ask stages to dance.
This weekend I learned that poetry is my basic.
This weekend I learned that I really missed
holding hands like I do when hiking today and that
no stage was substitute for that, but
this weekend,
I learned that I deserve
to be on stage, to ask to hold
my audience's hand, and this
weekend, I learned that
every person has a story to tell, sometimes
they just need someone
to hold their hand and say,
"I love the way you wander."

Mid-June in Colorado

Half the team is in Albuquerque for the Southwest Shootout Slam. I am not in that half. I can't wait to hear all about the Shootout. KB and I got together today and worked on some poetry. Our poetry is on fire. 

It’s summer in Colorado again. The fires are full and roaming around the mountains.

An old friend, distant from me by five state lines calls to make sure I have not melted.

When I don’t answer, he pictures my phone: a pile of molten plastic, my lungs black and my bones ash, cremated by nature, recomposing into the high plains desert dirt. He doesn’t bother to leave a message.

He calls a second time. When I don’t answer, he pictures the worms and sits nervous until I get out of work and say everything is fine. He tells me about the girl who burnt his heart down as if we were sitting by the lake again. He tells me I am missed, I am not the only adult to get homesick, and says he’s glad I haven’t become fuel for the fire.

Boulder hasn't been in the path of any fires so far this year. Colorado Springs though, where all my team mates reside, are in the midst of it. Please send your prayers/love/thoughts/good vibes their way.

Love ya.

It's Friday.

I like Fridays. I'm in line with the acronym TGIF. Today has lasted longer than a Friday should. Perhaps I'm showing my immaturity. I'd love to have accepted that the length of a day is no different, but I am Einstein's disciple as I share his birthday. Everything, therefore, is relative.

Friday falls in the realm of everything.

Everything falls in the realm of Friday.

Today, I have gone from fire to rain. From rain to shine. From shine to dark. Road trips have a way with words. They can tell you their stories. They will sing you to sleep.

In Japan, certain back country roads are grooved in such a way that music spins itself from the wheel wells when cars travel at just the right speed. The roads record your stories in song.

Kansas sounds like a lullaby with the melody of gentle grain. Nebraska roads unfold like carefully  orchestrated chord progressions. Colorado streets change pitch at awkward moments.

Today, New Mexico drove forward. It sung the song of rain, a heavy metal drum beat drowned out by poetry. Today, New Mexico screamed. This morning, Colorado wrote a ballad underneath our tires. Today, Colorado skies finally cried, and thousands breathed out catharsis in a crescendo of tears. Today, our tires flew forward over borders, under bridges, through wide open land soaked in sun.

Tonight, poets will sing their road songs. They will stretch their arms out like highways and pluck staccatoed melodies from their scars to show how far they've come and how far they've yet to go.

Thousands of songs have been composed in the three-quarter mile stretch of the road on which I grew up.

I can't imagine how many will find themselves written in dusty journals at the end of the 400 mile song we composed today.

Every Poet Needs A Home

Apartment shopping is one of the scariest things that a person can do.

Quick back story:
A friend of mine had an awesome, crazy idea to start up a poetry house. What does this mean? It means assembling a crack team of artists who would be willing to share space, rent, stories, and time together.

Unfortunately, the memo must've been undersigned by dyslexia because the team cracked. People pulled out merely a week and a half before we were to move into the house. This happened after we had found a space that fit our needs. At least it also happened before we spent any money on applications.

I'm pretty sure Colorado's current heat wave is caused by our collective disappointment.

But poems are never finished.

And life is a poem. Why else would it be written in lines where people pray?

So we pushed our pens on to find new applications to sign.

Thus begins today's epic journey. And every journey needs a story.


The morning began normally enough. The sun rose as it is want to do. Birds chirped, I'm sure. I woke up to music. Improvisation has become one of my signatures; it's a key to my abilities. I improvise my way through so many things. Like music. Like conversations. Like looking for apartments.
With the internet disconnected from my current residence, I was thankful to have a smart phone which could assist in this search. In twenty minutes time, I had developed a list of 6 different complexes to which I'd pay a visit. I should've realized then that the complexity of this endeavor would be more than at first imagined.
The first stop led me to brightly colored apartments close to the local grocery store. The assistant manager greeted me with a light hand and bright smile. She answered my questions happily. I didn't have many as I had heard her explaining the pertinent points to a man who could only understand a quarter of what was said. Then she informed me that the next apartment would be available a mere 2 days after we needed it. To move there, we would need to store furniture and surf for two days' time. So I said, "Thank you for your time" and continued on my journey.
As a poet, I understand that mountains move, but I am no mountain. She spoke of erosion when I needed an earthquake or a volcano to assist in this quick shift. Yet all was not lost. I still had 5 places to check out.
The second spot was the definition of a bust. I couldn't find the housing office, heard screams of the local urchins emanating from what I imagined had become a room repurposed for unspeakable things, and got a generally bad vibration from this place: the kind that seismographs pick up – this was not the kind of earthquake I needed.
The third place was welcoming and kind even though I couldn't immediately find the leasing office. Upon finding the office, however, I stumbled into a meeting of three people. They scattered when I entered and, for a moment, I felt a chill pass through the air as though I was disrupting something. After speaking with the one in charge, I discovered that no housing was to be found here in time. Indeed, another bust. But at least I was handed a guide book that would surely show me more spots to visit on my adventure. And so again I set off.
Remarkably close, the next location loomed. As I entered its central courtyard, I caught the scent of freshly laid paint. The location's center pool was in the process of being painted a spritely blue. The new paint carried a scent of increased prices, and this scent reflected in the receptionist's demeanor. She leaned back with hands crossed. Asked, "So what are you looking to spend?" After the second time she asked, she grimaced when I finally said my price. She smirked and uncrossed her arms, leaned forward and gestured toward the door. It was then I realized that money moves people too. But not enough to extend a hand or ask for a name. This was not the place for me to rest my hat.
The fifth destination consisted of condominiums and was outside my price range. Space is one of the most expensive factors for renting. I can't afford space yet.
The sixth destination also did not have a place open in time for my purposes. However, it welcomed me nonetheless. A woman dressed in a lively orange greeted me but said that she could not tell me about this place. Regardless, she stood with me until the owner appeared. With a trash-bagged hand, the manager appeared and said hello. Asked up to the office, I followed and sat. There, they told me about which places to avoid and spoke with much warmth.
Although this would not be my home, they made me feel as though I could rest my burdens for a moment, take my shoes off, and just relax. They said that everyone has been through this, so it's okay to wonder where the next steps will lead. They assured me that it's okay to still feel uncomfortable even after making a security deposit. Sometimes even travelers need to hear that they are not alone and that home is not a place that should be out of anyone's reach. So Pat and Donna, if you read this, I want to thank you for allowing me to end my journey with a greater sense of ease than when it began.
And because every good story creates an Ouroboros, I came to call the first place which I visited to begin the leasing process.

I am moving on up.

Choosing The Way

There comes a time when one must choose their own adventure. At 24 I'm very much feeling at a crossroads. A friend of mine called this a quarter life crisis. On top of that I don't know what sort of Monday night wisdom I can impart on you today. The fact of the matter is I have a bad case of writer's block and I'm trying to dodge coming up with something witty.

The last time I had writer's block this bad, I wrote this piece:

A Writer's Block Rime

I sit with my pen as I'm writing a poem
Ignore the phone
snap the ink in these bones
thoughts are drones in a hive that feel all alone
There's an unknown cyclone of knee-bone groans
that clone dialtones from brain zone to jaw bone.
I sit with my pen as i'm writing a poem.
I sit with my poem as i'm writing a pen.
I write with a pen as i'm sitting a poem.

A blank sheet of paper I look at the clock
digging my mind for dream listed thoughts
images basted and cooked in a pot
slaughterhouse page-master with a pen I have fought,
verbal cosmonaut outlined in chalk
'cause of too many things in my brain
drained by plain champagne coursing veins
like a train crossing plains
words on wheels in the rain
ingrained in its chest insane hydroplanes

I sit with my pen as I"m writing a poem
A blank sheet of paper I look at the clock.
A blank clocked paper I look at the sheet.
A sheet paper clock I look at the blank
trying to capture creations of God
head nod angel trod
fire squad to writer's block
pulling false facades of beauty and truth
feeling like a rookie stuck in a booth
uncouth one toothed verbal sleuth
with so many things to say
and nothing to write

I sit with my pen as i'm writing a poem
A blank sheet of paper I look at the clock
trying to capture creations of God.
Trying God to capture creation
God's captives try to create.
I slice my side with my sangre I sing
a sanguine sling of songs and hymn splattered limbs
verbal trim of fat of words I don't need anymore
words I don't heed evermore
My lips can't bleed "Nevermore"
old poets decree to breathe for more so,

I sit with my pen as I"m writing a poem
A blank sheet of paper I look at the clock
trying to capture creations of God
Slicing my side with my sangre I sing
slicing my sangre I sing with my side
siding my sangre I slice with my songs
long bong prolong headstrong inhaling
silence broken by strong gongs
taking the page leaving it dreaming and heaving
in a clusterfucked screaming
as I

Sit with my pen as i'm writing a poem
A blank sheet of paper I look at the clock
Trying to capture creations of God
as I'm slicing my side with my sangre I sing
leaving the page dreaming and heaving
in a clusterfucked screaming.




Writer's block poems are the best way to write though the fog.

Eye'm So Fly...

Have you ever wondered why you might find a bunch of dead flies at a windowsill...Like if it were a window in a place with little traffic, because we clean off a dead fly here n there, so they don't bunch up...but yea...what are they dying from? It's not lack of oxygen...that's on this side of the window too...And it's at the window...They die of determination.

They are so determined to get back out; they die trying. Are you really determined? Or are we just pretending?

I bet they're flies that thought they could break through the glass. We see them sitting on the glass, but what if they were pushing with all their might? What if they kept pushing until their legs gave up and broke their neck in their fall? This is a prime example of when determination can be mistaken for stupidity. You can't break through glass...stupid little fly. The strength comes in trying...I can see my goal, my freedom, and it's just beyond this glass.

Well, stupid little fly...if you just go back out this open door; under the crack of the door or this open window...go back out where you came from you can rejoin that freedom. You see one window of opportunity and you stick to it 'til death do you part.

So, What am eye saying? Eye think the real question is...What is this saying to you?

Knock yo Lights Out!

A Wizard Is Never Late

As I awoke Sunday morning,

for the second time, because I already had a wake up call and just became reacquainted with my pillow,

I realized that once again I would be late. I was going to be late to do some super secret project with my team and it occurred to me that I'm late for everything. I was always late to class, usually late to events, and struggle to make it to work on time. This tardiness, I think, is caused by the hyper-relaxed mindset that I use to cope with stress. I haven't sold enough cars to look good at work? Its cool man, life is good. I don't have time to do everything I need to? No worries, its allll good. I don't have the passion flowing from my pen the way it once was? Oh. That's not something I want to be late for. 

See, as Gandalf once said, a wizard is never late. He arrives exactly when he intends to. And I intend to be arriving...right...about...now.

I've got a confession to make. I have felt like the weakest link on this slam team since day one, like my poetry could stand to have the most improvements made on it. My job pays well enough for my needs, but, it is draining the spirit from my soles. My place is important to me but at heart I'm a vagabond. After so much build up, so much tardiness, so much feeling late, one has to arrive. I'm not there yet. It may be a while before I feel like I'm "threre". It might take ninety years. But, I'm comfortable knowing I'm in the midst of a quarter life crisis. It could be worse. I could be normal.

Drew Discovers The Universe

I learned recently that magic happens. The heart moves faster than eyes can see, so when two hearts which had been moving along parallel lines change their direction to intertwine, something magical happens.

We went to Three Margaritas. I ordered a Macho Burrito. Perhaps for its name sake I wanted to embody a stronger image. She ordered off the appetizer menu – Chicken Floutas, I believe. They brought chips and salsa. Our conversation unfolded coolly to counteract the spice of the salsa. We talked unapologetically while laughing. I could've sworn we unraveled at least one mystery of the universe that night – perhaps that was because she was the epitome of my universe. I think we unraveled into each other over topics like music, like past, like God. I don't think I ever told her how beautiful she is, and to say that I'm not good at compliments simply doesn't seem excuse enough to justify such a glaring omission. When you've got the universe sitting next to you, a few things are going to be outshown by its stars.

I learned recently that magic happens. Hands move faster than eyes can see, so when two hands' lines come together to intertwine, something magical happens.

We arrived at Stargazer's Theatre. The building is a repurposed observatory. I couldn't imagine needing to look up at the sky that night. We took seats in the upper level of the observatory. The stage unfolded before us. Lined with four guitars, three basses, two drum sets, and three keyboards, the stage picked up kinetic energy. It was a rock ready to roll.
The first band came out. Smooth jazz headed by a man who played the flute in just such a style. He called himself Flute Daddy, and this was the name taken by the other members of the band. After their solos, the main member of the ensemble introduced them by their real name. After every solo, he said this name. I still don't remember their names. How could I when I had the universe securely in my arms? If the sun is a beautiful thing to behold, then a universe full of stars is indescribable. I don't remember a smile ever leaving my lips that night.

I learned recently that magic happens. Feet move faster than eyes can see, so when two feet line up their  patterns to intertwine with beat, something magical happens.

The second band came up. Dotsero. They played with the intensity of a super-nova. The music was beautiful. Improvised, it wrapped around us like fingers wrap around each other. Unmistakable, the energy filled space, echoed off the roof and wrapped us up together. This music made me feel more connected with the universe than I had ever been previously.
Dotsero asked its audience to dance. The message orbited. Like a satellite, I kept in contact with this request. "Let It Be" as a melody unfolded from a saxophone. The gravity became too much, so I transmitted its message to the stars, said "This is dance-able" and hoped for assent. When a nod responded, I lifted and walked towards an improvised dance floor. I felt the universe following in my footsteps. We arrived and commenced stepping to the rhythm set before us.

The music came to fade.
Every universe needs its constellation, so I dipped her.
Held her close.
Looked into her eyes.
Observed the beauty of the universe unfolding.

I learned recently
that magic happens.

72 ounces of GLORY!!

Making history!

What's up everybody! That photo above is from 2010 when I completed the 72oz steak challenge in Amarillo, Texas. It was an incredibly bad idea to begin with, but I finally got it all the way down and it went a little something like this...

On the morning of May 31, 2010 I awoke with my friends Roger, Patrick and his girlfriend Val from a hotel room in Dallas, Texas. We were all there for a video game tournament that had just finished the day before. We ended up getting our asses royally handed to us in the tournament but that's another story. As we were leaving the hotel I stocked up to the max on their continental breakfast which included me inhaling a couple small bowls of cereal, oatmeal, 2 waffles, and a banana. Since I was still in the hotel and not in the ridiculously damn-near-uninhabitable heat of the Texas sun, I still maintained my appetite and borrowed some fruit for the ride back to Colorado. 

Once on the road after checking out of our hotel we made our way back home. With the talk in the car being filled with how hot Texas was, we all decided to stop and grab some food at The Big Texan Steak Ranch. I had originally heard of this place from one of my favorite TV shows and have since swore that if I ever got the opportunity I would jump on it immediately. The thing about the Big Texan is that there are signs all over the place advertising their 72oz steak challenge throughout Texas. Almost like subliminal advertising.

At about dinner time we decided to stop in at the Big Texan Steak Ranch. They're known for their steak challenge and they let you know. The entire meal is showcased for all to see at the entrance, and the list of all previous winners hangs as a sort of "Abandon all Hope Ye Who Enter Here" Dante's Inferno banner. We marvel at the novelty of it all and sit down to eat. By this point I was completely psyched out about trying the challenge and just wanted some food to hold me over for the rest of the trip. Patrick and Roger convinced me to do the 72oz challenge and so it began...

Let me say something about food challenges, talk about pressure. Everyone looks at you with this dead man walking stare. They see you walking up to the table and think to themselves..."That crazy mother trucker."

Across from me is another man also doing the challenge. On paper he is bigger than me by about 50lbs. He has an adorable daughter and also a smoking fine trophy wife who have both been given direct orders  to not bother him while the challenge is in progress. I order my steak medium rare for the sake of chewing and digesting purposes while the large man opposite me orders his well done. 

Before the challenge starts the owner of the Big Texan asks me what I had for breakfast that morning. I reply I ate a waffle and decided to leave out the part where I ate everything else in sight also. He tells me that I might be able to make some room for the steak but chances aren't likely. I instantly began to realize that I made a horrible mistake. I was sitting in a crowded restaurant full of people who were all about to celebrate my indulgence of gluttony and I was getting cold feet. Minutes before I signed the paperwork (yes there is a slight amount of paperwork involved) my friend Patrick ordered the 1/4th portion of the 72oz steak challenge for his dinner meal. I told him that if he could eat that meal and not double over puking, he should let me know so I could gauge whether I could swallow all this food.

The meal consists of a fat ass steak, a baked potato, salad, shrimp, and a dinner roll. My strategy was go for the beef first. I didn't want to eat the potato and roll and have it expand throughout the challenge. I cut up the steak into a grid of pieces small enough to fit into my mouth and went to town. People were watching from all over the restaurant, and quite a few people stopped to take a picture with me. I felt like a rockstar for a little while with all those people admiring my bravery, but one truth had remained; I still had to eat that whole damn steak!

the wall

About two thirds of the way through the challenge I hit the wall. It was brutal. All of my adoring fans had begun to whisper "he's not gonna make it." I had no idea where I would find my second wind. The guy across from me had given up at the 30 minute mark and left the table. He blamed it on his wife and daughter not giving him the concentration he needed to finish the challenge. At this point I felt like a frowning buddha statue. All hope was lost until I heard a noise from the balcony seating. My friend Patrick had finished his meal and said he wasn't full! They also came down to tell me that if our other friend was there (who was a fellow heavyweight such as myself) he would have already finished his plate. That's where I found the will to keep chewing. In this moment of agonizing pain, I would not succumb to the idea that I "could have" finished the meal so I kept going. 

The worst part about eating a four and a half pound steak is eating a four and a half pound steak. The taste of the steak I was eating, which I once found to be the best steak I ever had, became small foul reminders that I was just about to lose $72 (the price if you fail the challenge). Being a broke college kid at the time I could not afford to waste anything so I pretended like the steak tasted less like probable bowel explosions and more like an actually good idea.

With only 5 minutes left on the clock I still had to eat the rest of my steak, a baked potato and a dinner roll. I squeezed the dinner roll into a little ball, bit down on it, and swallowed. With one minute left I had a bite of steak and a whole baked potato and I seriously felt like I was going to vomit not only my meal, but my entire digestive tract as a whole along with it. So, I did what any reasonable human being would do. I shoved the steak in my mouth, did not chew and swallowed it. I took the baked potato in my hand and ate the whole thing in two soul wrenching bites. I swear I could feel my insides tearing as I looked over with 5 seconds left and asked if I was done. The clock stopped at 3 seconds.I felt like this badass.

I was so excited I jumped up somehow and for some reason the spirit of Bruce Lee moved me because I was doing all sorts of kicking and judo choppy motions. The owner of the restaurant told me to sit down before I saw the meal come back up. I spent a good 15 minutes getting my land legs back and paraded around the restaurant like hot stuff with a newly acquired t-shirt that proves nothing but an overwhelming and slightly sad fact that I could probably eat small children. That night I arrived home and drank a full glass of fiber.

Tastes Like AMERICA!!!

Moral of the story: Keep on pushing past the wall. You'll never know what "could have" happened until you try to break it down.

Eye think...Therefore, Eye...think

What Eye have to say is quite simple...If you think it than you have made it exist; even if it only exists in your thoughts. If you put actions behind your thoughts it then becomes your reality. What do you want? Live it and breathe it!

Someone asked me today, "How are things?" and my response to them was, "Things are as they should be."

Hear, Here

Eye'll have more for you...maybe tomorrow...Until then...

Punch Yo Lights Out!

The Poetic Heart and Other Musings

Over the weekend, the slam team met up. We had an amazing time getting to know each other. We told two truths and a lie. We discovered that none of us were good liars. I suppose that is a good thing.

We told each other stories. The topics ranged from past experiences to sprawling epics about travel. And love made many appearances. One of our team told an amazing story about finding and losing and finding love while trying to find himself. The team was enthralled. I kept wondering: Is someone out there searching for me? Am I searching for someone?

I wanted desperately to know that someone out there had my eyes engraved into their memory but were stuck searching for my name. I began to imagine that someone was searching in vain on Google Images with keywords like "green shirt" or "blue jeans" or "understanding eyes" or any number of other keywords they had stuck in their morse-code heart beats.

I suddenly wanted to browse every Craig's List missed connection post spanning the past ten years to see if someone desperately wanted to know that I was more than just a memory. I wanted to know if I was more than just a memory to someone; I wanted to know that I was someone's wish. I wanted to make someone's wish come true.

I wanted to dial a random sequence of ten digits on my phone and, when the person picked up (which I was sure would be a beautiful voice), I would say something like "There are ten billion possible numbers I could have dialed, but somehow I knew this was the one to call." It would have been romantic. Because she is a hopeless romantic too. Except recently I've only felt hopeless.

Even now, there is a cage surrounding heart. Each beat feels dangerous like a car speeding down a sharp-curved road with no brakes. But brakes feel dangerous because I feel like brakes have been breaking my chances at finding love – as though if I could just let my heart go and let life take me where it will and have the confidence to give that beautiful person a compliment, maybe it wouldn't feel so broken. I'm torn in two different directions at once, and comfort is so much more pleasant than its antithesis, but life is not meant to be pleasant. Not all the time. And poets, of all people, should know this.

Poets are the ones who dig up their pasts and tell these stories to complete strangers in order to share something with people we may never meet again. It's strange. And beautiful. It's art. And it's real, and it's truth. I don't know what it means all the time, but it gives me license to breathe.

So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go take a breath and tell that one person just how beautiful I think they are.

I think you should do the same.

If nothing else, it will give you a beautiful story to tell.

~ DrewDat

For I Will Consider this Memorial Day Weekend

Hey everybody, Too Tall here for your Monday/Memorial Day Post. In observance of Memorial Day, I would like to give a huge thanks to our service men and women for continuing to fight for our country.

This Memorial Day weekend was quite eventful. This Friday was the opening night for A Streetcar Named Desire where I play one of Stanley Kowalski's poker buddies, Pablo Gonzalez. One of the funnest parts about the show is working with an awesome cast including fellow poet Phil Ginsburg! The show runs for another few weeks so everybody needs to tell they wives, tell they kids, and tell they husbands too because we're acting for everybody out here! The photo above is me stuffing my face with nachos at the cast party for the show NOM NOM NOM!!

This weekend was also Territory Days! Territory Days is a 38 year old tradition in Colorado Springs that gives everyone in town a reason to gorge on funnel cakes, BBQ, kettle corn, and various other festival foods. 

Photo courtesy of csindy.com

Also, this weekend was Hear, Here. I was unable to attend this week's unfortunately, but I heard it was incredible. IF YOU HAVE NOT BEEN TO A HEAR, HERE GET OUT FROM UNDER YOUR ROCK!

I felt like I got a lot of writing done this weekend. I"m getting back into the swing of writing for slam. My pen is a little rusty but i'm coming around. There has been a shift in my writing style towards a more structured verse. I find that structure isn't as restricting when writing a poem as most people would think. Forcing your brain to write with an underlying subconscious pattern is an incredible accomplishment. My ultimate goal would be to combine verse craft and slam. Here is an example of one of my verse pieces. It is my anaphoric (each line starts with the same repeated phrase) verse.

For Considering this ant at the river

For this ant lives in the land of giants and isn't afraid of their footsteps.

For he feels the river's rumbling and still walks in its wake.

For he fears not the Sun's heat.

For he cleans under Yahweh's fingernails

For he does the following three things so well:

For firstly, when he finds food he lifts the equivalent of an elephant.

For secondly, when he brings food home he doesn't care that his piece isn't the biggest.

For thirdly, he can hold water in his bare hands.

For he never wears a helmet and isn't afraid of boulders.

For he is Mother Nature's broom.

For he probably can't see as far as the stars.

For he has a rich uncle who resides in the halls of a ritzy hotel.

For he feels the sky fall as the flood comes.

For he has a crazy brother who rode on an antler and saw the other side of the river.

For he sat on a park bench next to a titan.

For he can walk from floor to wall to ceiling to wall to floor.

For he knows a friend who is doing time in an ant farm in Kansas.

For he once climbed a telephone pole and couldn't see the ground for the first time.

For he is constantly collecting.

Happy Monday Y'all and have a great rest of the week! :D

My Hear Here Week in Photos

My Hear Here week in photos:

Sunday:

After an emotional, exhausting, practice on Sunday. Nothin’ but love for these guys.

Wednesday:

Being almost 2 hours away from the Springs requires some Skype meetings when I can’t always be physically present with the team, which means I get to take funny screen shots and send funny texts as we talk.

Friday:

Being a poet is tiring, physically, emotionally and mentally. I’m thankful for friends who support me not only by attending events with me but also driving while I drool all over their jackets and backpacks as improvised pillows. Support comes in many forms J

Can’t complain about the drive from Boulder to the Springs. Except for traffic. And sometimes blizzards. But this time definitely no complaints.

It was a fun night and if you missed it, make sure to come to the next Hear Here slam on June 28!

Love ya! 

Ellen

Better late than next day...

Thursdays is the coach days...now we sip champagne when we thirstays (in my Biggie voice...lol)

Honestly...champagne is nasty to me. Not that I ever drank urine, but I would imagine that champagne is not too far off. Moet, ugh. I have no desire to try Crystalle (did I spell that right?) either. I am a cook. Knowing flavors is my life. So, it makes me think of all the rappers that rap about buying the whole club piss water and know it's more of a status thing.

"How much money you spent on that?"
"You ain't official; I spent twice as much."

My mother was the mother that shopped at TJMaxx for the faults.

"That should be another 10% off...there's make-up on the collar."

I will always brag about my discounts, cheap finds, and hook-ups. Mom used to let me talk them down, from young.

I wonder; could I represent for piss water if they were endorsing me? Hell, Yeah! I said I was a bargain hunter, not a fool. Just line up the interviews with the right questions.

Psst...can I tell you a secret? This one is just between us, okay? I make it a point not to lie, but being a poet has taught me how to dance around the truth, so listen closely and always pay attention. They don't call me Smart Ass for nothing *wink.

I want to know...is there anything you absolutely will not promote; no matter what they're offering? When I say anything I do mean any object. I have so many creative friends. I just know one of you were thinking genocide or something like that. But...being that you are so creative; I think it's time you shared. There is a comment section under these blogs.

Punch yo Light's Out!

The Art of Being Sold

This is not a post about what you  might think it's about. I am about to be sold. Over the next twelve days, I will be taking bids for some time with myself. Technically, it's for a fundraiser. And, also technically, it's a date. The scoop is this: I won a dinner from 3 Margaritas along with two tickets towards a smooth jazz concert at Stargazer's Theatre (the awesome venue where Hear, Here's final slam was held - check them out sometime). So, instead of just going out with a friend or deciding to gorge myself on delicious Mexican food, I decided to donate my winnings and time to charity. That's right. Charity.

To whom am I donating? I'm so glad you asked! I'm donating to Hear, Here. Do I hear some of you naysayers out there, "Now wait just a darn second, Drew. Isn't that just benefiting you? Even if indirectly? Aren't you on the slam team?"

To these people I would smile and say, "Yes, indeed I am on the team. However, it doesn't just benefit me. It's for your benefit too." To those who still doubt, let me explain.

And Be Sure To Listen To This As You Read The Rest of This Post for that Extra-Inspirational Touch =)

Any money that we get indirectly benefits you, the city of Colorado Springs because we are the little city that could. We are the ones who think we can. We think we can so very much that in just one year, we have assembled some seriously top notch poets to compete as underdogs on the national stage. Several of those poets grew up right here in Colorado Springs; I grew up right here in Colorado Springs.

We represent the voice of this small city, and it's about time that the Springs got its say. See, we're not just some midwestern city. We are one of the best midwestern cities. Our culture is unique – a curious person could find any group of people here in the Springs from the very religious to the not-so-much-hippy to the "Well, I'm not so sure, but let me tell you what I think about..." types. Our blood beats red, but our voices voted blue – we are Colorado Springs. We are versatile, interesting, unique, and downright amazing. I mean, as one visiting poet once exclaimed, "There are mountains. RIGHT THERE!" (While pointing directly to the west no less.)

Our city has a natural compass for those who feel lost; we have breathtaking sun rises and sets; we have the iconic purple mountains' majesty mentioned in America the Beautiful; we ARE America The Beautiful; we are this nation's fighting spirit because we have the Air Force Academy, Fort Carson, Peterson and Schriever Air Force Base. And, yes, we may be slightly identified with some religious "craziness" but that's only because people don't know us as well as we know us, so this Slam Team is a chance to change that! Hear, Here IS Colorado Springs; YOU are Colorado Springs; therefore, you ARE the Slam Team!

And the best way you could possibly be a part of Colorado Springs AND this Slam Team is to place a bid to go on a date with me before May 29th at 7:00PM.

A date with me IS a date with America*!

*But that's only because you have to pay for it first

Giving Voice

Hey everybody! Too Tall here for your Monday blogspot. I hope everybody had a great weekend. With that being said, if you haven't seen this movie, then you should! It was awesome!

People always ask a poet, why do you write? I have two rules to follow when I think of this question. The first being what William Wordsworth wrote, "poetry is a spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings." The second is rooted Oscar Wilde's Our Town.

Emily: Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it--every,every minute?

Stage Manager: No. The saints and poets, maybe they do some.

I feel that as poets we record every day instances around us which shape our voices as writers. Anything from a birthday poem to a social injustice piece are all rooted in moments that shine a light on what it means to live the human existence as well as give a voice to that which cannot speak for itself.

Over the last month or so I read an article about this man, Jean Charles de Menezes. He was killed in a case of mistaken identity. I could not get the story out of my head and I knew I had to write something about it. Sometimes poems come out of nowhere and blindside a poet. After researching his story I knew the world had to know more about what happened. Here is an excerpt of a poem I wrote about his story.

Does mistaken identity sound like bad intelligence?

Jean Charles de Menezes looked nothing like Osman Hussain

His palm read a lifeline cut short by crossed wires

The hot morning described by police was a brisk 60 degrees

the coat detailed by police to be large with wires

Was nothing more than a light denim jacket

In the thirty minutes it took Jean to get to Stockwell station

Was his bright Brazilian smile too dark on that cold morning?

As he was tailed by two armed guards within 15 feet

since he left his home.

What did your death sound like, Jean?

When you answered your work phone that morning

Was Death the one who told you

A fire alarm needed to be fixed with your blood?

I feel that as poets it is our duty to not only capture the moments in our own lives, but also capture the moments that need unresolved justice. I like to think of poets as the voice of the people; a sort of soap box preacher everyone has inside. Voices need to be heard, and it is our duty to speak for them.

Jean Charles de Menezes January 7, 1978-July 22, 2005

My Goodbye Note - a poem

Last week, I wrote this poem and something interesting happened soon after I finished it...

My Goodbye Note

For five years, I wouldn’t wear matching socks
out of fear that if I died that day
people would think I was boring
or normal. 

Mom, I’m sorry you found my goodbye note.
You were never supposed to see it unless
I never came home.
But I left it careless there on my floor,
floating obvious on my ocean carpet.
So when it caught your eye
and you fished it into your shaky net of fingertips,
when you cradled then unfolded it,
did the paper open up
into watery grave before you?
Did my handwriting look like a sinking ship?
Did it glow like St. Elmo’s Fire
or splinter like sea soaked wood?
Did my intro, “Dear friends and family,
I need you to know I’m as sad to have left you
as you are to see me go…” echo
in your mind like the sound of casket closing?
When you read it, surely more than once,
did it feel like I had already set sail? 

I didn’t intend for it
to steal the breath from your lungs
or make solid ground turn
to riptide beneath your feet.
Did your chest hollow and knees creak for me?
Did you sink onto the edge of your mattress,
a field of floral bed sheet
like funeral flowers? 

I didn’t write my goodbye letter
into suicide note
because it was February,
the thaw was near
and I didn’t feel I was drowning anymore.
I only had to write it because
December taught me what death was:
high tide rushing toward sandcastle heart
to watch my best friend,
a daughter,
turn to newspaper article,
to know newspaper ignites
too quickly for water to put out,
to sprinkle ash into the lake and watch it
float away.
I wrote it because I didn’t want my CD collection
to collect dust if I died
on the way home from school tomorrow.
Wrote it so no one would have to fight over
my bracelets or treasure maps.
Wrote it so the task of sorting through my closet
wouldn’t feel so much like digging
up a shipwreck.
So you wouldn’t have to put oxygen tanks on
before submerging yourself in
my sea of a bedroom.
Wrote it so it wouldn’t seem like our harbor of a home
was a dock completely flooded with tragedy
or a bow cracked and crushed to meet the stern,
pushed by the current to every unknown shore.
Wrote it so the following months wouldn’t feel
so anchor heavy
and soggy with memory. 

So people would remember
I wasn’t the kind of girl who
wore matching socks. 

By now, Mom,
I’ve either grown gills
or kept my head above the surface long enough
‘cause I’m still here, still swimming, fingertips so pruny
and even though I haven’t lived on land for a long time,
I know I still have a drawer,
deep, secret
as the bottom of the ocean
full of mismatched socks at your house
That you can’t bring yourself
to throw away.

She didn't know anything about this poem, but about 3 days after I finished it, my mom texted me this:

I didn't ask, but I wonder if she started going through the socks before I began the poem or if I wrote the poem and then she sorted through the socks. Either way, it seems that we were dealing with the same thing at the same time without knowing it. Looks like there's not a drawer full of my mismatched socks anymore and she is able to throw some away. Good thing I wrote this poem when I did, hey?

Love ya.

Ellen

Free For All Friday: Time Flies

The clock caught my attention yesterday. It was a few minutes before 4. I had been working since early on.

Suddenly, I heard a frantic ticking noise. An old building, I thought the pipes may simply have been acting up. Then I looked around. The clock on the wall spun wildly. I don't know how many revolutions it made, but it transfixed me from the moment I saw the hour hand running a race with the second hand and winning. My focus lapsed as the minute hand lapped the second hand several times and brought the hours with it. It spun and spun, wound around several times with incessant ticking. For a moment, I thought a spectre had eyes on me. I wondered if it had a time sensitive message it wanted me to decode.

Then, my poetry senses ticked on, and I thought that the spinning clock screamed sign language with its hands that time is short; that we never really have any control over how fast hands will move. That sometimes, a few moments can feel like hours, and conversely, hours can pass by in a matter of moments.

I then began to wonder if some kind of grave hands had reached out to tell me that my time was going by too quickly. That if only I'd let go of the past, I could focus on the new to know the now. That if only I could hold the hands of the clock like I held the hands of girlfriends past, maybe it wouldn't feel like running away so fast.

Then I remembered that I'm single, and I had exes for reasons which usually involved me letting go all too easily. So perhaps the hands were signing to not let go so simply. To hold on to what I could and turn nevers into nows, thrust my hands into the future, grab dreams, and let them pull me forward into a time I can't yet conceive.

I would have pleaded with the clock to let me know which interpretation was truth, but I never knew. Sometimes hands are quicker than eyes, and so when the hands finally stopped their magic show, I sat stumped in place. I brushed the rings underneath my eyes and felt old, tired, as though I had a story to tell.

I cracked the knuckles on my worn hands and set my fingertips to work.
I looked at the clock.
The clock looked back.