Old Poets, dead musicians, living legends.

I don't have the time or the energy right now to properly explain that heading i have about an hour before i have to be to work, A. Let me spend the night, i was having a pretty rough day yesterday - my friend Sara-paule's father died. It was a long time coming, he had an inoperable brain tumor, and had spen the last few years in the respite house - though i gotta say, no matter how much i was expecting it, it was quite a shock watching him literally take one last heavy breath. i've been having a hard time getting his face out of my mind.

I have to go to work soon, but i wanna also say, that Nest Material, performed our last show on our wirlwind burlington fall tour, we're now taking a hiatus, relaxing with our earnings (one Denny's tab later... )

Mike Breiner gave me a book of his poetry from 1975 called "Coming Home" i've only read about a quarter of it so far, and i plan on writing a in depth review of it here, but for the moment i think an excerpt will do. he read at the firehouse gallery on friday, i hope he had a good time.

page 9.

She wakes to her darlene
a
lost letter
and from her to hear
the meaning is gone
or compromised
for myself
the letters have been evasive
in the morning i go through pockets
crumpled bills addresses
keys and change while notebooks gasp
pleading ink from the desk

at night
ifind myself pawing her hair
w/ syllables on my mind
and get cuffed
we end up dancing the problems away

when i puke
(which is often)
i sift through french fries
sandwiches and beer, looking
the same when i shit
ripping apart turds
but there are no syllables
nowords or poems
only me and i think
my god
have i really become a poet?

-mike briener
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