Thursday, March 17, 2005

 

Went to the Poetry Project for the first time last night, which is sort of obscene because I've only been in New York for a year and a half. On the bill were Kasey Mohammad and Reed Bye. I was intrigued to hear Kasey's work if only because, on the page, you have time to sort of sit and contemplate the phrases and sentences as they fade in and out, zinging around. I wondered if listening to it would be all too bewildering, but I underestimated the powers of organization and sense-making bestowed upon a mind forged in the MTV age, where channel-clicking and radio stations with crowded frequencies make interwoven wordplay and static interruption par for the course. I especially enjoyed a poem called "Exorcist Voice." Others included "The Name my Mom Sews on All My Shirts," and "No, I'm Gary Sullivan . . ."

Reed Bye sang us ballads of dogs who ride bicycles, of impromptu whorehouses where mussels are steamed, of jilted lovers who refuse to take pictures of bulls, and read us poems that dared reference plants and landscapes. Anaethema to a New York crowd! We have come here to escape the natural, and soothe ourselves with cyborg dreams and neon, not to be told of places where there are hills and trees and suchlike. Okay, I'm being silly, but seriously, New York, why no trees? I miss trees. Sniff.

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