My real life is also interesting.

I spent the last two weeks at a workshop at Texas A&M. The workshop’s called Callaloo, and the participants and instructors are simply among the best. The instructors, Vievee Francis and Greg Pardlo, broke me in the best way. I feel new. I can’t wait to work on poems. I was going to do a whole huge summation of my time there, but if you want to know, you’re going to have to ask me in person.

Sad news for the poetry family recently, though. We lost two important poets this week. The first, Gil Scott-Heron, was one of the most influential spoken word artists of all time. He shaped the art long before a lot of us poets even knew about it, and his work is still among the most innovative you can find.

The second poet, Will Da Real One, was an outspoken advocate for peace in his home state of Florida, and in the black community as a whole. He was a mentor and a friend to many, and an inspiration all of us should strive to emulate.

I’m grateful for the work and lives of both these poets. I hope their families are proud of these men, and I wish them peace.

Let’s remember that life’s too short for fear. Live with love today and every day, as best you can. <3

I have a lot on my mind right now. I’m cooking sausages, for one, and I really don’t want them to be pink in the middle. My book release is this Friday (7:30 PM at the Silver Room, come through!), so I’m thinking hard about my set list, folks I invited to perform, and dj issues. I’m thinking about how freaking hot it is in Chicago all of a sudden, and how I ought to buy a sex toy to replace the one I forgot in a hotel room last summer (so I enjoy my own company even more). I’m thinking about an online argument I’m having with some folks about Odd Future‘s artistic intentions. I’m thinking about how it feels like no one ever calls or writes me both because I’m constantly plugged in, and because I ignore it when people actually do call and write. I’m thinking about how nervous I am to go to this writer’s workshop on Sunday. I’m thinking of the blog post I’m supposed to be writing right now.

I miss my grandma, which is stupid because I only ever saw her like twice a year, and she asked me about school and I told her I graduated a long time ago and that was about it.

Eh, I am failing at living a grandiose life right now. After I eat a sausage, I think I’ll watch some more Battlestar Galactica and practice poems for Saturday. You be good and get some exercise for me, okay? <3

I just found out my press has nominated me for next year’s National Book Award. I’m stunned, and very happy.

I’m not, however, under any illusion that I will win. I’m not being self-deprecating, I promise. If you look at the list of poets who’ve won in past years, they tend to be writers in the middle of their careers (or later), who’ve already published many books (hence all the “new & selected” or “collected” titles), published poems in many journals, and spent a lot of time in the academy.

No illusions: me winning this particular award would be akin to Harold Bloom winning a national poetry slam (only I’m not as much of a hater).

I’m happy, though, because Write Bloody has that kind of faith in me, that they believe in my writing enough that they’d submit me for such an amazing prize. And you know what? It motivated me to get back to work: if they’re doing everything they can to help me to make a living as an artist, I need to be doing even more. And maybe one day I will be good enough for that li’l ole prize.

Turning twenty was the first time I really considered what being a woman meant to me. What kind of person I was interested in becoming, essentially. Thirty has brought its own introspection, and I’m excited about some of the changes I’m making. My primary goal is to take better care of my health.

About a month ago, I was freaking out because of health concerns, and I called Sonya Renee. Recently, Sonya founded the very cool FB group, The Body Is Not An Apology, and she’s been an outspoken advocate for sexual and emotional health. She is also an amazing friend, and I knew I could talk to her honestly about my worries without judgment. She calmed me down, and helped me to think carefully and specifically about some of the choices I’ve been making, and ways I might modify my behaviors. Here are a few, amigos.

Getting Tested. This was the first thing I did. If you’ve recently changed partners or had unprotected sex, you should, too.

Quit Smoking. This is huge, obviously. I’d been planning to quit on my thirtieth birthday for years now. My dad did it, so that helped me to remind myself that it’s possible. Living up to this promise I’d made myself was very important to me, and so far it’s okay. It’s been five days now. There have been some surprisingly crazy moments emotionally, like sobbing hard after finishing my last cigarette, and my mind sometimes doing its damndest to justify having a drag, but I’m finally beginning to cough things up, which means my cilia have begun working again.

Distance Drinking. Given my almost compulsive excess in this area, taking a very solid break is crucial to my health – especially to my emotional stability. I’ve had my birthday fun for now, so I’ve decided to stop drinking until our house birthday celebration (also known as Running of the Bulls) on May 7th.

Cleansing. I spoke to Patrick about this one, because he’s subjected his body to a lot of extremes, healthwise, and he knows a lot about different fasts’ effects on the body. For the next week, I’m doing a pretty basic cleanse to encourage the toxins to move out of my body. I’m cutting out wheat and sugar for the week after.

Exercise. The main thing, for now, is using my ab wheel. I have chronic back issues, so fixing my core up is necessary. If I can begin to do this regularly, I’ll build from there.

Sleep. I started taking melatonin at night to help with my insomnia. I took to drinking heavily partly as a form of self-medicating this problem (ironically, because alcohol disrupts sleep cycles, and can even permanently damage a person’s ability to obtain restful sleep). Melatonin’s one of the only supplements that’s reliably helped me in the past.

Misc. Chas helped me to think about this one. He said I should consider calculating the amount of money I spend on viceful things (cigarettes and booze, namely), and spend that chunk of money on things that are actually good for me. Right now the system is pretty haphazard (I want to see how I feel about drinking after May 7th), but I like the idea of spending some of that money on a martial arts class.

That’s about it. Beyond that, I’m trying to pay more attention, in general, to what my body wants. I’m trying to be better at listening to my heart and being honest. And I’m committed to being gentle with myself. I’m pretty awesome, after all.

I gotta apologize beforehand for the awkwardness of the following paragraph. I’m doing my best to be objective and to protect folks’ anonymity, which fucks with the flow of the tale a little. Greater good n shit, blah blah blah. I also apologize for the overall quality of my prose in this post, because I’m not trying very hard.

Okay, okay. A poet who was competing at the Women of the World Poetry Slam this past weekend posted about feeling disrespected by another member of the community. The former was wearing a low-cut dress – not her usual attire – and already feeling uncomfortable about the kind of attention she was receiving. She was talking to some friends about this, and another (woman) poet, a colleague and an acquaintance, approached and commented that the poet with noticeable cleavage had no right to feel offended because, wearing that dress, she was “asking for it”. She who was theoretically “asking for it” felt pretty terrible, and that’s why she publicly wrote about what happened.

Okay, okay. I know both the poets in question at least a bit, and before I make my oh-so-important point, I just want to say that the woman who overstepped has a trangressive sense of humor and a very dry delivery. I wasn’t there, but I’m pretty sure this is a case of an attempt at a joke gone really wrong.

What most interests me about this situation is folks’ reaction to the post. There’s this undercurrent of shock in the responses I’ve read, as though it’s inconceivable that a woman could speak to another woman in such a way, especially at a women’s event.

What, exactly, is so shocking about this?

Fucking up is not a male province. Telling a bad joke is not something that only a man can do. More importantly, if you read the situation this way: being aggressive, chauvanistic, or disrespectful has less to do with maleness than it has to do with capitalism, or Americanism. Whatever it is we are as a culture, we still carry a big stick, we swagger, and we know a lot about fucking with other people’s boundaries, and sometimes acting ignorant as hell. I’ve been an asshole to many a person in my day, and I don’t want surprise or absolution just because of my body parts, clothes, and sexual preferences. This ain’t the 50s, my loves.

Just to say. Talk whatever shit you like about testosterone or estrogen, but as long as we perpetuate the notion that women are somehow sanctified, that we’re all on some Virgin Mary shit, incapable of fucking up, we’re perpetuating sexism. Equality means: if we’re just as strong and capable as men, we get to be as stupid and offensive and abusive as men can be. Amen and hallelujah, every gender fucks up.

I’m currently in Columbus for the 2011 Women of the World Poetry Slam. I was a finalist in last year’s competition, but this year I’m enjoying the festival from a new perspective. I’ll be hosting bouts, mingling with my slam family, and soaking up the city of Columbus – while, as always, continuing to work on writing, promotion, and booking. Speaking of booking, darlings, do let me know if you want to bring me to your school, event, or show; I run a helluva workshop, and I rock the mic right.

My publisher has pushed my book’s official release back to April. You can still buy pre-release copies from me, or from the Write Bloody store, but no official book release shows are happening until next month. The good news is I’ve spoken to Kevin Coval, an O.G. poet of crazy acclaim, and he offered to help me organize releases in Chicago. I’ll keep y’all posted as we pull those shows together.

Finally, I received my first official book review today! Jason Behrends writes a really cool blog on contemporary culture called What to Wear During an Orange Alert?, and he runs a corresponding reading series in Chicago. Behrends reviews my work quite favorably here. Over the next month or so, I’m sending many more copies out to different reviewers, so let’s hope this is just the beginning, babies!

Love, love. Be safe, sweethearts. <3

The other day, I was officially un-offered a gig to feature and workshop at a conference that’ll be happening this summer. I attended the conference for the first time last year, and a friend of mine, who’s on the planning committee, really loves my work and thought I’d be a great fit.

For the first time in the years she’s been spearheading the conference, her suggestion was vetoed. Based on my behavior at last year’s event, it was decided that I’m not “collegial” enough to be a representative of University X.

The decision was based on two major factors: my bad-mouthing the major showcase of the conference from the back while it was happening, and my missing a workshop (with a phenomenal poet) for which I’d been given a coveted slot.

The major showcase of the conference really bothered me, no point in trying to hide that now. This was a very typical auditorium Q&A with an author of note, the headliner of the conference, and it drove me crazy. There seemed to be no effort or attention paid to staging or lighting, the questions felt really dull, and in general, nothing dynamic was happening. As someone who’s grown accustomed to poetry slams and performances meant to grab one by the throat, this interview was very disappointing. I had no qualms about saying (far too loudly, apparently) that this sort of reading was verymuch indicative of the split between academics and everyone else, and it was no wonder people had such a low opinion of literature if this was the best we could do.

This is the point where you get to mutter, “Shouldna been talken shit.”

Yes, I was rude. I could have kept my mouth shut, if only for the sake of the people in the audience who’d worked hard to put the event together or/and paid to attend the conference. Some folks in the audience were really excited to hear what the speaker had to say, and I was so caught in my reaction, I was essentially disrespecting all of them instead of offering constructive feedback to relevant parties later on.

As for the latter complaint, I stayed out too late at the bar after my friends had left, then, in a kind of nightmarish wonderland, my phone died and I couldn’t find my way home. I was in a small, unfamiliar Southern city, and, although I still own a vagina, perhaps it wasn’t properly on display: I couldn’t get a cab to stop for me over the course of several hours. Five or so cabs did drive right by me when I tried to hail them. I tried stopping at gas stations to ask for directions, given the little map my host had drawn, but no one I asked had any idea where I was going. I also tried to borrow a cell phone from a number of different kids who were wandering around (being fraternal, I gather), but no one would even make eye contact with me.

The sun was up by the time I ran into a cabbie who agreed to take me and who knew the area where I was going. My friend stopped by to take me to that morning’s workshop about an hour later. I honestly thought hard before saying no, but I was too exhausted on all levels.

Hours of wandering. I feel pretty nauseous even remembering that night, honestly. I did drink too much, which was an awful call in that situation. I should have taken the rides home my fellow poets offered earlier in the night, and I should have charged my phone before going out. I was overconfident in my ability to navigate a city I’d just arrived in. I own all of this, I seriously do. But there’s a certain kind of unpleasantness that was afforded me that night, as a strange brown girl in a Southern city. It was invisibility. It was like being a ghost shouting at the top of her lungs in an effort to commune with the living.

The other day, when I spoke to my friend (who was incredibly sweet and apologetic about having to rescind her offer to feature), she mentioned some of the amazing people I’d met after slamming at the conference on the first night. She mentioned speaking to several women who’d been blown away by what I did, who said, “I want to know how to do THAT.” Somehow, that part hurts me more than the rejection itself. Because of my recklessness, I won’t get a chance to teach these women what I’ve learned. I’ve stolen an opportunity from them that they might not find again.

I don’t know quite where to go from here. One of the reasons I hated academia was because I don’t much like diplomacy for its own sake. I’m not a huge fan of political machinations, or the necessity to conform to someone else’s code. My ability to speak and live freely, as politically incorrectly as I like, has been hard-won, and I don’t want to surrender that. But it’s apparent to me now: if I want the freedom to go wherever I choose and to teach whomever I like, that means limiting my freedoms in other ways.

I honestly don’t know what this means for my future. I don’t know exactly what lesson I want to take from all this. For now, it just feels good to be honest, to share with you what’s on my mind. Thanks for listening.

In general, being a decent poet means grappling with human history. It means facing it, shouldering it, digesting it and sharing it. Taking on the burden of a species (or a race, a gender, a nationality, a tribe, a family, or an individual) is heavy spiritual lifting. In order to safely lift and carry immense weight, one ought to have some sort of training beforehand. Lack of preparation can lead to devastating damage.

I don’t feel most poets adequately prepare ourselves for the immensity of our burden. I think this is part of the reason so many of us get depressed and vulnerable and sick so often. A poet who only performs once a week hopefully has a lot of time to process and prepare, and probably has a room and a city of her own to regenerate, but road dogs like me sometimes get caught in the slipstream. This is one of the reasons I think being on tour too long for one stretch is begging for trouble. Touring is not the same as vacationing or travelling.

One of my last nights in Oakland, I hit an incredibly low point. I felt drained and lonely. Empty and hungry, sad and angry. Needy. Despairing. Homeless. It was a sort of soul sickness from giving so much and being so open to so many different audiences, and simply not nurturing myself enough.

There are times, though, that the road truly has your back.

I performed at a show at Butte College in Chico the next night, and it absolutely brought me back to all the right reasons I do this. The gig entailed a workshop followed by a slam, followed by a feature. I workshopped a group of folks, mostly kids from the college, on the identity poem, and we did some awesome performance critique as a group. Then I got to show those kids, who’d pretty much had blind faith in me, what was possible when I sacrificed for the slam. The end of the night didn’t leave much time for a feature, but I performed a few poems that left the audience howling for more.

The result? A whole bunch of people came up to me afterwards and said they’d never been to a slam before, and now they wanted to go, and maybe try it out for themselves. A whole bunch of young poets came up to me and told me they were inspired by and in <3 with me. I impressed the veterans, folks like Tazuo, Sarah Myles Spencer, Foxie Brown, and Kyle Bowen. And I sold a whole lot of books (hey, you can visit the Write Bloody store and buy my book just like they did, which is almost as cool as having been there).

In short, I felt absolutely refreshed, delighted, and validated (a few handsome young men even took their shirts off when I performed “The Body Beautiful”). A great show is an excellent cure for the road-weary, I guess. If we, as poets, act as kind of communal exorcists in the culture at large, it seems we can also draw strength from the power that emanates from a vibrant community.

It’s possible I’ve been playing too many video games.

Anyway, the grind. The job gets me down sometimes, but the good days more than make up for it. I’m grateful for this crazy life. It’s good to be home in Chicago again, and it was good to rediscover home on the road. <3

My last show in Oakland happened last week, at Tourettes Without Regrets‘ Fuck Valentine’s show. I’ve made no secret of the fact that Tourettes is my favorite show in the nation, appealing to my bawdy and highbrow aesthetics, as well as my sense of wonder. Recently, it’s occurred to me that many of the shows I most enjoy share a similar framework: The Encyclopedia Show, Real Talk Live, and The Oversocial Mofo Revue all come to mind.

This has led me, recently, to grandly proclaim that we are entering the golden age of the variety show. The recent surge in the popularity of burlesque has something to do with this. The punk rock generation coming of age enough to own and run venues and host shows is related, too. Hip hop becoming a cultural fixture matters. Slam blooming and maturing matters. Stand-up gaining more and more validity matters. The gradual crumbling of the big recording companies, the rise of easy online tools for independent artists to share their work – it seems this has led to a different kind of focus on grassroots art.

I love the variety show for a few reasons. For one, I actually really do prefer variety. I’m the gal that prefers to nibble off several plates than to gorge myself on one entree. I like travel, I like dating, I like collage. Maybe it’s partly a multiculti thing; maybe it’s just where I’m at as an artist.

For some time, I’ve felt frustrated by my own limitations as a performer. The possibilities the stage affords are immeasurable, but for most of my slam career I’ve simply stood onstage speaking words. There’s tremendous power in this, of course, but I’ve always wanted to push my own boundaries and see what I can do. Artists like Marc Bamuthi Joseph, Mike McGee, C.R. Avery, and Patricia Smith, who reinvented the monologue… To a certain extent, slam is inherently genre-bending, but folks like this, who do it very consciously and well, inspire me to go new places.
I’ve been working on this. About a year ago at the Vancouver Slam, I tried out a new technique (stolen from Ed Mabrey), and used bits of song to transition between some of the poems in my feature set. The crowd loved it, and I tried the gimmick a few more times over the following months, gradually gaining confidence. Around this time, I wrote “Celibate Boyfriend” and “Salem 1994″, the first poems of mine to actively incorporate song.

The next level, for me, is working with focused, talented musicians to craft even more flawless, transcendent experiences (Derrick Brown is really excellent at this). I’ve been talking to my sister, B. Steady of The Lost Bois, about collaboration, which is already yielding some exciting results. I’m also in serious conversation with one poet in particular who shares my vision of creating a comprehensive experience with poetry and music (no spoilers yet).

This is just to say that if variety truly is the spice of life, I actually do want to be your spice girl, my darlings. Stay tuned for the next revolution of Planet Yes. <3