Monday, May 27, 2013

East Bay Poetry Summit: Decompressions (1)

I am ecstatically happy: pre-dawn.  Leaving.  Though not to leave.  The Bay.  And The East Bay Poetry Summit -- unexpectedly, I and others and others also woke up from a deep sleep.  Something kicked in and  I will not be able to say.  In its entirety.  The pleasure of the summit.  Woke up too early by mistake.  Birdsong.  Have to go so will be missing the the decompression BBQ.  Will Anne Boyer's "oracular sow" be there?  On Ronaldo Wilson's "spit"?  These are two examples of the available magic.  To be had.  By the sea.  My new ambition in life is to become more aggressive as a human being.  To ask the Bay to kiss me so that I can kiss it back.  That said, I have to go and so this is me kissing the Bay goodbye.  Now  I will go and channel Kapil Muni who yesterday sent yellow light -- rich yellow that is a variant of internal cream-like gold.  Like Kapil Muni, my ancestor, I left the mountains to go to the sea --  from the airport with Merissa and then we went again: Juliana en famille et autres animaux.  You know it's good when I break out the fake French.
Dawn Lundy Martin on the transformative qualities of being imprisoned.  Frank Sherlock, Sue Landers and Rob Halpern looking on.  Channeled turquoise light.  There and then.
Totemic Ascent: Melissa Buzzeo, Jen Hofer, Tisa Bryant and Camille Roy.  On the stairwell of the anarchist bookstore.
Bill Luoma and Juliana Spahr: en route to the sea.  
Pre-sea with Merissa Gerson
Juliana goring the dead vines.
David Brazil, Sara Larsen and Lindsey Boldt -- I think.  Squinting.  Knee socks.  Life.  The auto-sacrifice begins.
With Melissa Buzzeo -- who is emitting silver and violet sparks/streaming -- and receiving a pale green/aquamarine light through the back of her head: en route: to the aforementioned: sea.  
Woolsey Heights.  I sit in the doorway of a bedroom.  It is a wreck.  I take this photograph.  I think it's the best bedroom I have ever seen.
Anne Boyer articulating the "oracular sow."  When she said FUTURE CHILD I felt a congruent happiness, something I also felt when Dolores Dorantes stood on [trampled] Ban -- and when Sue Landers talked about ethnic density -- and when Tisa Bryant and I got to colonization and love and the riot and incarnate form on the way over -- as when Juliana opened her home -- with all the love and reality that a home can be -- and Melissa and I meditated by the sea -- or when Erin Morrill emerged from the bushes of the verdant sidewalk with a case of beer and David Buuck and it was obvious that the thing you had to do was lie down or when m.g. roberts and Samantha Giles were drinking the melon vodka of the future and I got to sit at their feet or Jen Hofer knit a citrine-blue and chordal section of the wrist and then a doorway full of poets of color -- Cecil, Ronaldo, Dawn, Tisa...and -- then getting to be a slain animal in the corner with Camille and Sue.  
Erin Morrill said: "Oh, that's Andrew's bedroom."  Andrew Kenower, who looped cable through the gardens and home and neighborhood structures with ecstatic, revolutionary brilliance and calm.  Erin and I went in the bedroom and analyzed the summit and all the things that are a part of the mouth: its constituencies.  The uvula, song and tongue.