Ex Tenebris Rising

There is the shrill ring of an alarm in the air.

I roll over, put the pillow over my head. What the Fuck??
I hear Paula's voice in the hallway. In fact, that's the only voice that I've been hearing in the hallway all night long. Give me a fucking break will ya??

"It's a false alarm," she says to a neighbor. "I just called downstairs, it's a false alarm." Another neighbor sticks their head out and she repeats herself. She is the self installed hall monitor. She is our school- marm. "It's a false alarm...." I drift off on the annoying tone of her voice.

I awake the next morning, tired and disgusted. I would like to do something other than just exist today, and I will. I have to be at the Bowery Poetry Club this morning to help with the stage construc- tion for the new Ex Tenebris Rising: All New Years Day Poetry reading festival this afternoon. I don't feel like going. I feel like being a shut in today and vegetating in my home. I can do that. My reading isn't until 2 through 4pm. I could go back to my bed, and crawl in and go to sleep. It would be perfect for me. I could just wallow until tired and then rise to do my reading like so many other poets in the area.

I'm just either depressed or tired. I just can't get the gumption up to do anything. But I'm certain that I will. These things have a way of working themselves out.

How I do this is by putting on my socks. This starts a chain reaction. I climb into my pants, then struggle with my shoes, pull over my shirt, or shirts, and on goes my jackets and hat and I'm ready to do. I hit the road, hopping the Way and travel all the way down to where The Box is, at the Bowery. I walk past my old home, only giving it a quick glance, and then head to the Bowery Poetry club where inside are just a handful of people preparing for the Marathon Poetry event. I head directly to the stage where OBSIDIAN, D2theL, Douglas and Su are busy with the stage, setting things up. I join in quickly, getting on ladders and pinning things to the high curtains. Once in the mix I come to learn that OBSIDIAN was in the hospital last night for back problems. He was in pain and went into the emergency room at the VA Hospital for pain killers. He seemed in relatively good health now.

Back problems. Man are we getting old.

We build the stage set, get it all together and lit appro- priately and then take our seats in the audience just before the rank and file enter in for the show. Soon, Bruce hops on the stage and introduces the first of several EmCees that will host the show to a building crowd of people beginning to pack the house. I'm sitting just behind the front row of the audience, right before the stage, waiting for my turn to go up, and I'm not afraid. My nerves are beginning to churn, but I am not as horrified as I was last year. I have a few of my newer poems on hand and I'm ready to read them. Ready as I'll ever be.

Could it be the LYRICA which is keeping me cool? Could it be that this is my third year here reading? I didn't bring my more volatile stuff to read this year, so I'm not as nervous as I was before. It was hard last year because my first year prior had made such an impression, and my second year had fallen flat on it's face. Now, with my third year, I can be myself. And that I was. When my name was called I stood up and read:

PLASTIC FLOWER

It grew
in my front yard
Beautiful, delicate
plastic flower.

I held contempt
for the little
innocent thing
I would step on it

I would cover it
with a box
starve its light
plastic flower

I would not water it
I would not care
I planted weeds around
it

Plastic flower
Damn flower
only grew more beautiful
each day

Little bastard
would not die
So I dug it up
and brought it home

Plastic flower
so beautiful in my home
What changed in my
heart?

I was just too busy
with the dying roses
in my
backyard


The applause was great and sustained. It was only one of two, the other one can wait for another post. But at least it wasn't to an audience that didn't like it. Maybe they gave me applause for the nerve to go up to read it in the first place. But at any rate, the deed was done, and I felt good to have passed the ball onto the next poet.

And while sitting there I noticed something else. Many of the poets had their work SELF-published. Self published. I never even thought to do that. To self publish my poetry so that I could leave something behind. It's just something to look into. I don't think that I want to make a chatbook, but rather something more finished. Something more refined. Something that I can peddle to the bookstores on my own. I live in New York. Damn, why not??? There must be a million small bookstores still alive that could take my work for no charge and sell it to the masses.

It's time to start saving money for something other than Internet access and computer hardware.

It should cost just a few hundred dollars for a start, and then a few more for a couple of runs. I've seen others do it. Hopefully it's not prohibitively expensive and right in a hobo's budget. One thing that I'm good at, and that's saving little bits of cash for something. That's have always been a skill of mine. Even saving change I'm good at. I'm on my way to my first book if it's within reason.

That's my 2009 resolution.

If it's within reason.

Hobobob