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
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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