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.

Taking it easy...

Click this link:
http://www.crazydopetastic.com/post/24401602130/an-interview-with-natasha-leonora-spence-itsrealight

This is one of the best interviews I've ever done! Because it's sooooooo extensive...This is my blog entry...YUP! taking it easy...there may be a quiz WITH a give away package to the winner! details will follow.

AND...

8 more days to collect your likes on this video for a chance to win $10, 000!!! So, eye know you have to sign up to 'like'...Pretty Please! lol...$10,000 is like a million to me!
https://bingenow.com/channel?chanid=635&vidid=5756

Punch yo Lights out!

Kind and Barefoot

This is KB here. I consider myself extremely lucky to be a member of the Hear, Here team. This blog is late. Hear is my story.

I grew up in Littleton, Colorado. I have a big, loving family. I am a poet, jazz musician, marathon runner, political science student, debater, used car salesman, and hitchhiker. It is my belief that life is a long run and there are many trails that lead in a myriad of ways.
This trail is the Hear, Here trail. It led from monthly slams trying to accumulate points starting in October to the dramatic final finish amid a blizzard at stargazers. I didn't know if I'd make it and I daily feel humbled to be on the team with such a talented group of poets and artists.
And here I am, with a soul bound for wandering, grounded with my team, sharpening our wings so when we take flight we can really soar. These days, the writing process is like my first car. My first car was an 89 Honda Civic Hatch, standard, that I stalled all the time when I initially learned to drive. When I got it into gear though, that car was a dream, it was loud, fast, and beautiful. Write now, I'm still learning to drive. I've got a short curve before I can get it into gear and open up on the straight away. As I blog, every Wednesday, you'll hear about my life behind the scenes, my growth as a writer and performer, and our growth as a team. For now, take it easy. We'll see you tomorrow. Here's a poem about my first car:

Didn't mean to give up on you like that gus
I'm a part of the gratification generation
The impatient millenials who were born with fluff in our ears
Please forgive me
You have covered in locomotion
more miles than I ever may and you have learned the language
hidden in the grooves in the pavement
that the day labors of fathers and grandfathers graded
grinning at the good work they did.
With Pooh like patience,
You and I followed every blustery day to a breezy end
but even Christopher Robbin needed a new way to get to school.
Didn't mean to replace you
but broken engines are like broken hearts
you can only make so many repairs before the years of wear and tear
show in chipping paint and scar tissue
engines seize
hearts attack, until there is just no going back.
Baggage is only luggage when you identify that you have it
Filling the trunk with the memories of pushing you up the hill
Waiting for you to come to life again
a prayer with every turn of the key
Hoping for some sort of miracle
You know, like if Transformers were directed by Sam Raimi instead of Michael Bay
but at the end of the day
Theres so much more to you than meets the eye
And so long as the belt doesn't break, you've got impeccable timing
a built in rhythm, even your gears were rhyming
sliming the driveway with leaking oil, the life blood that kept your revolutions spinning
But you knew you were falling apart. You planned it
With every new tank of gas. You had a mind of your own
Hidden somewhere in the transmission
and not a bit of your intelligence was artificial
It was as real as the dent in your side and your rusty front wheel
As they say of athletes, you were always clutch
And it didn't matter much to you where we were going
Budha of beaten up automobiles I've learned lessons in leaks you sprung
Taught me that motion takes work
that every drive up the highways is a pilgramage
that every cough and sneeze of you inaccurate acura engine was a fire starting inside of you
that maybe the dead dinosaur milkshakes derricks suck through earth
shouldn't be used as frivolously.
If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have met whiskey joe, who gave us a tow from ignorance into discourse
If it weren't for you, I never would have learned that even feet communicate and some cars prefer not to be yelled at.
And when you looked too ill for me, we made sure you could teach someone else
Take them to work each day and feed a family.
Maybe I'm glad I gave up.

Tuesday Drew's Day

Hello, everyone! Tuesday is Drew's Day! This, of course, means that you will have the lovely opportunity to hear my musings... or poetry... or grocery lists each and every wonderful tuesday that you happen to visit this wonderful blog. So, as an old videogame character would say, "Stay awhile and listen."

Sunday was Mothers' day. Not only that, it was also the day on which I was ambushed (okay, that's not the right word, but that's the first one that comes to mind) by my wonderful coach, Itsrealight (if you want to learn more about this wonderful person, check out her blog post here). While out to a dinner and a "Workshop", I was told to get up and recite a poem. And, so I did. Need proof?

I still haven't brought myself to watch the video. I feel that... ugh... about it. However, I did learn a few things from that night. And I'd like to share a few of the better ones with you all. Check it:

1. Don't let other people control your words. At one point in the video, you'll notice a guy cough loudly and obviously. I felt bad for interrupting this guy's space, but he did begin to act the part of an ass. There will always be someone trying to silence you; speak the truth regardless.
2. Be confident with what you say. Whether it's a statement or opinion, believe and be confident in what you say.
3. No one, at the end of the day, really cares. This is not to sound depressing, but it's true. If you hinge the worth of your words on other peoples opinions, then your words will be a roller coaster. At some moments they'll be exhilarating. At others they'll leave you queasy. Also, people are willing to forgive a distraction if it ends up giving them a good story to tell.
4. If you don't believe your message, no one else will have a reason to. This goes for poetry and everyday life: if you don't believe what you say, no one else will. So...
5. Speak with authority. Because what worked for Jesus can work for you. You may not be bringing salvation to someone, but you may be bringing something that they need to hear. Your words could be that advance on hope they've been holding out for; especially when every other place has turned down their loans.
6. Ignore the shaking in your limbs like branches; it's just proof you have an invisible force moving them. Your words are the wind; your limbs will ask you to leave and will shake; this experience will make you grow so say no when your limbs whisper defeat. Take root and stay planted. You will, like a tree, change someone's breath out into a gasp and give them energy to go on.
7. Dry mouth is akin to the signs of a tsunami. When the tide goes out, this only indicates that there is a force ready to breach far into the dry land. Be ready. Your words will come like a wave, so don't use excuses like sandbags because eventually everything will get washed away; at least you now get to choose how.
8. Your words are a gift, so give them without letting other know the price you're paying to make them. Life is a gift. Speech is a gift. Your name is a gift. Every time you give someone the time of your life, make sure they know you're giving it freely with nothing expected in return. Remember your life is your own, but you can never own time. This is okay – make the best with what you've got.

Finally, the fortune cookie that I got right before I stood up to speak said "Fear drives you and makes you better." There's poetry somewhere in that, I think.

Monday Got Your Goat?

Happy Monday!

Hey everybody, Too Tall here for your post Monday pick me up. A little bit about myself includes being a member of the 2013 Colorado Springs National Slam Team, as well as an actor with local theatres around town. I am incredibly excited to be working with a talented group of poets who all share a desire to expand the performance arts (all arts really) in our beautiful city.

With the introduction out of the way there is something I would like to get off my chest. Why does everyone hate Mondays? There's always a bad case of "The Mondays" floating around somewhere. It's fully understandable that the first day of the work week is always rough, but when songs like this get stuck in my head all weekend long I can't help but feel like a total G for the rest of the week.

It does indeed feel good to be a gangsta at what you do, but there are times myself when I feel like diving head first off the nearest building when faced with a long work week. I heard a story not too long ago that I always think about when I start to have a case of "the Mondays" and it goes a little something like this.

     One day a poor farmer realized that he lost his prized goat. It was not in the barn, grazing fields, or by the river. The farmer was stumped as to where the goat could be. After looking over all the pastures and counting all his goats for the fourth time, the poor farmer's prized goat was nowhere to be found. He became very sad and started on his way home wondering how he was going to break the news to his family. Just as the farmer was almost home he heard a familiar BAAAA coming from an old well nearby. The farmer looked inside and saw that it was his prized goat!!! The goat had managed to get stuck in the well and was in really deep. The farmer called all of his friends to see if anyone could pull the goat out of the well. The finest rope makers tried to send a rope down to pull up the goat, but that did not work. Someone tried to lower a ladder yet the goat was a goat and knew not how to use them. Finally someone said "why don't you pour dirt in the well and the goat will climb out on its own!" The farmer did not think this would work and was afraid that his prized goat would be buried alive but gave it a shot nonetheless. With every bucket full of dirt the goat packed it down and little by little the well became more and more shallow. The goat continued to pack down dirt until it climbed safely out of the well. 

Everyone was happy especially the farmer and they all lived happily ever blah blah blah. The moral of this story is that no matter what happens in life you can rise above it. As long as everyone keeps packing down all the dirt that's bothering them, then they can climb out of their own dark well. Everything that is needed to lift someone up out of a funk is already available within ourselves.

This goat agrees. Word.

Sunday Funday! Poem about Sickness.

Hear Here ya'll! This is jaboi Chris, comin at ya like Cleopatra with a Sunday blog post!

So I've been sick since Thursday and I made some notes, poetic notes, on what a sinus infection meets strep throat meets diarrhea/flu does to the psyche.


Notes on mild sickness:

1.) Prayers amplify by like ten-fold when you have diarrhea.

2.) There's sometimes a weird obsession, when you're sick, with the color of your own mucus. Tracing the darkening of your mucus' color is kind of like how I imagine birds must feel when they see the sky abrew with storm. A foreboding sight. An ominous omen.

3a.) It is possible to wake up from the sound of your own groaning.

3b.) The moan of when you're sick is so far less awesome than a moan for any other reason (wink,wink). That's like trying to compare "Happy Gilmore" with any other Adam Sandler flick after '07.

4.) The bathtub can function as a spittoon if necessary.

5.) If you drink chocolate almond milk and then hack up mucus, it will freak you the f#@k out!

6.) Do not line the perimeter of your bed in Kleenex filled with snot if you don't want your roommate to get weirded out.

7.) Today was 75 degrees and I was walking the street in a third-day worn sweater, a zip-up hoodie (the trendy kind), and a long communist jacket, holding a Big Gulp, mind you, a peanut butter sandwich in hand, cursing about how my skin felt like ants were crawling underneath it. Several people looked up from their newspapers. Mothers clutched their babies. But I rambled on. A tornado of germ and error. You too must ramble on. A hurricane of snot and ragged.

8.a.) When you are sick or hung over, the public library is usually an okay place to hang out. Most people there are in the same condition as you. If not, they at least sympathize.

8.b.) The library has a copy of "Fern Gully." Fern Gully bitches. 7 days. Fo' free!

9.) When the nurse asks you your symptoms, you never fail to say, "diarrhea" in as soft a voice as possible.

10.) There are times in a doctor's office when all your despair and agony morphs into gratitude. There are people without limbs in this world.

11.) You will make eye-contact with an old woman in the waiting room. You will see your future self in her gray eyes.

12.) When doctors ask you to "breathe normal" it's suddenly a hard task. How the fuck do I breathe normal???!!!!!

13.) Hospital gowns are like over-sized lobster bibs but for barf instead of crustacean entrails.

14.) There are certain bathrooms in every house you just choose not to shit in when other people are over.

15.) Non-drowsy. If it doesn't say non-drowsy you're effed at work and then your manager will sound like a little barking chihuahua and you will just drool at her in defiance, stapling some papers together, those papers may be fingers though, your own fingers, but you're already sleeping so you don't care.

16.) Coughing is hard if you're worried it might make you shit your pants.

17.) Hit up all people who owe you money just to get your co-pay paid.

18.) Remember you are mortal.

Sincerely,
Chrisxoxoxoxxxx

Buy a Painting! Support the Hear Here Crew!

I've been painting these mini landscapes and selling them to help fundraise for the little event we're going to in Boston in August called the NATIONAL POETRY SLAM! 

The pieces range in size from really small to 4"x6". Many of the ones pictured below have already sold, but you can request a size, shape, color scheme, and/or type of landscape. OR you can just order one or more and I'll surprise you! 

Buy a painting, support us poets! Shoot me an email me at ellen.bruex @ gmail.com if you want one (or one hundred).

Love ya.
Ellen

HEY! I'm Ellen.
I'll be your featured poet/blogger/entertainer/virtual BFF every Saturday, so mark your calendars, set your weekly alarms, paste a sticky note to your coffee pot, whatever you gotta do. Don't worry if you're still in your slippers and robe...that's what weekends are for! My hair will be messy too. Just join me here every Saturday!
Since we'll be hanging out so much, you probably want to know a little about me, huh? Okay...

• I like adventures. Most of my adventures come from riding my bicycle. A long ways. Specifically, I've ridden my bike across the United States three times. Ask me about it sometime. I probably want to fill your ears with stories and show you pictures of my bikes like grandmas show you pictures of their grandbabies. Then I'll ask to hear your stories and see what you love like grandbabies.
• I'm from Michigan and I love it there. I currently live in Boulder, Colorado. I'm still learning what home is.
• I started to write poems early last year after I broke my pelvis (riding my bike, of course) and couldn't move around very much (at all). It was a huge part of processing and healing for me at that time. Writing continues to be a vital tool in processing the world around me. Therefore I write about pretty much everything and hope that others will find healing and connection through my words too.
• I like to laugh.
• I think sea horses are the best animals ever to roam the earth.

Lucky for me, today is Friday, which means it's FROYO Friday and I'm about to go get me some frozen yogurt.

Lucky for you, today is Friday, which means tomorrow is Saturday, which means I'll see you tomorrow.

Love ya.

And Then There Were Two

Hello, everyone! My name is Andrew, but I am known on stage as DrewDat because I draw truth from words with a pencil. Yep. That's right. Pencil.

Every other poet I know uses a pen, but I don't like the feel of pens. Too much left at stake. I like the opportunity to erase my mistakes, and pencil will actually stay on pages longer than pen will. So, in the short term, these words might be more erasable, but in the long term, the words will last so much longer.

 I've trained in martial arts for well over a decade, and I like to bring that fighting spirit to everything I do. Which means that if any of my Tuesday Posts leave you feeling like you've been punched in the face, then what you're really feeling is the synthesis of at least two different arts. But this is why poetry has always been so powerful; it's a beautiful combination which dances even as it strikes. But enough about that.

 I can't wait to start this journey with you all! There will be so many things discussed, so many hits thrown, so many cages broken, so many rings sent out like echoes; so purse your lips and get ready for this team to belt out words like a champ throws fists, and, of course, get ready for so many puns!

~ DrewDat Out!

Coach...Punch your Light's out!

Coaching is serious business! I'll run these little poets into the ground until they sprout up as gods of slam! When I'm done with them their dreams will be 3 minutes or less! No grace, No mercy! But enough about them...As you can see from my profile pic I am a Delicious Black Warrior Queen and this is my introduction...It's FRIDAY!

I am a fun-loving bitch of an asshole, which basically means I'm the shit. If you say otherwise I will only recognize you as a hater (this makes you significant to the process). As a group we chose days to add to this blog...I'm calling mine "Thuggin' Thursdays w/ Light" I don't know why, yet and it may change depending on how I feel. Eye'm the craziest person you never met. Eye live for my art. Eye have this crazy notion that we are all built for greatness; where we fail is either not taking the time to figure out who we are or allowing others to decide what our great is. If you know you're great at something...go ALL in...with no apologies. I have been a full-time Artist for over 11 years and the times I was least productive is when I second guess myself or try to 'water down' my capabilities. Now, the mystery unfolds...I am not arrogant...I am brilliant! I implore you to get to the point in your lives where you can say the same.

Notice I didn't say I was better than you, but I am better for it. I want my attitude to be highly contagious, to the point of starting a plague. Imagine it! Everyone being great and there being less hate, because everyone will be doing their own thing and somehow it'll fit into the necessary balance of life and societal progress.

Stay tuned to everyday of the week...Each team member has chosen a day...Fridays are free for alls

Don't be afraid to Punch Your Light's Out! (Let 'em Shine)

Light