Los Angeles, CA / Edwin Torres

We’re in a bowling alley today . . . I mean, we’re in a back alley hackshop . . . oh wait a minute, we’re in Santa Cruz today. Well, the bus is but I’m not . . . I join the caravan on Sunday and will spill my guts to you fine folks on Monday. For now, let’s imagine that I’m on board and let’s see where we go and how we do and why we leave and the search of it all.

Truth is, I’m in LA today, at a 2-day conference for experimental poetry called Impunities. Topics will include, Locations of Difference, Technologies of The Self, Counter-memory . . . among others. How scrumptuous that I’m heading direct to SF and hooking up with the tour afterwards. Across this fine land, poets and dreamers have left bits of dander and sweat in every crevice we can. From way back, this tour began with Homer, back with Ginsberg flying over Keats. With Paz crashing overnight on Dickinson’s stash. Stretching out the tuners here, my filamental odes on fire with lingospeak.

Man, check out the sunset from where you are, I’m serious, get up from your screen right now and lay your pods on the glass separating the outside world from yours . . . that blinding orange cupcake, linear revolutions across univision’s tivo heart. Rubio, Rubio, Rubio, where art thou . . . back in nyc with his maMA while daDA stakes a claim on imaginary identity. How beauty to bring wordness and thingness and physicalness and story and vigor lingua and why-not-ness, across the land.

Hurray Bus! Hurray Bus! Hurry hurry . . . you gonna miss the sites and sounds of real live, honest to beeswax POETS!
Back on the bus, the bus we ALL ride . . . (know m’sayin?). I look to the stage from the fender, everyone’s funk has held up well . . . under control . . . surprising yet not, y’digism?
Everyone’s visage reminds me of someone I’ve seen, but haven’t. Maybe, Deja You? Like each wordster’s gotta universe to spill . . . wait a minute, that’s us. Right there . . . looking at us! The blank soundarific, waiting to be filled. Get your pen and write this down, or pen this might . . . yo . . . soy . . . (blank) . . . (the page is)(but you’re not) . . . (ew, how Montel of me). Start your tour right now, we’ll catch up. Santa Cruz will fire the heights, what a group of readers, eh? Wait, did yu hear that one?
Altogether now, everyone . . . wave . . . wave . . . (is there an official Wave Books wave yet?) . . . weave . . . weevil . . . axis . . . access . . . (yo, where yu goin with this) . . .

Okay english lit 101 . . . what kinda music do you hear in a crowded rooftop when everyone’s salivatin’ on freezone?
‘60s soul, or at least what the newest trend is: to have the dj play the original songs that the samples were lifted from. Psych! How would that work with poetry? How many tangents get thrown out the wind on every stanza, search back for the origin of your muse . . . and spin that, all night. I’m on the rooftop bar at The Standard Hotel in LA.
Where plasticene meets brylcreme to this set of big apple eyes, nose and throat. Where 20 somethings sit side-by-side and call each other for some intimate tete a’ tetes. Text a’ text me a poem . . . pleeeez . . . until I can catch up with the bus on Monday.

Originally Published: October 20th, 2006