Reading at The Inspired Word Titilating Tongue Series, produced by Mike Geffner, curated by Aimee Herman.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VGmlw7OPRVY&feature=share
Poems, performances, photography, productions, stories, prose, music, journalism, band, songwriting, videos - surviving despite the odds. Is it all true? Yeah. Maybe. Sometimes. Mostly. Creation is transformative. I collaborate with amazing artists and musicians, primarily with my band, Puma Perl and Friends. Books available as well: knuckle tattoos, Belinda and Her Friends, Ruby True, Retrograde, Birthdays Before and After. Photo, Len DeLessio
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Homebound - a video
Reading at The Inspired Word Titilating Tongue Series, produced by Mike Geffner, curated by Aimee Herman.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VGmlw7OPRVY&feature=share
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
DAMES OF DECEMBER: A DDAY PRODUCTION
DAMES DO DECEMBER: DDAY AT THE BOWERY!
THURSDAY, 12/15/11, 8-9:30
BOWERY POETRY CLUB, 308 BOWERY
POETRY/PERFORMANCE/MORE!
HOSTED BY BIG MIKE!
CURATED BY PUMA PERL!
A DDAY PRODUCTION!
FEATURING:
REVEREND JEN - Art star, author, troll museum curator, columnist, guru, open mike host, ambassador to the otherworld, underground movie star, Voice of the Downtrodden and Tired and Patron Saint of the Uncool. She has a new book out from Soft Skull Press called "Live Nude Elf." She also writes and stars in a live show called "Reverend Jen's Really Cool Neighborhood." It was recently voted "Best Off-Off-Off Broadway Musical Comedy Theater" by the Village Voice. I am currently making it into a TV show.
NANCY MERCADO - Most recently, Nancy Mercado was featured in a PBS Newshour documentary, Special Report: America Remembers 9/11, PBS Newshour. Also featured in The Encyclopedia of Hispanic American Literature (Facts on File) and inducted into The Museum of American Poetics, Nancy is the author of It Concerns the
Madness.
LIZA WOLSKY One of Liza’s proudest moments was being in a World War III retrospective exhibition and strollling past her own work while Allen Ginsberg read to a packed house. She has performed at numerous NYC venues including Bowery Poetry Club, Nuyorican Poets Cafe, Cornelia St. Cafe and Theater for the New City. She’s been on WKCR Radio’s “Art Waves,” and read on Squat Radio. Most recently her work appeared in the Dada journal Maintenant 5 (Three Rooms Press) and in +gape+seed+ (Uphook Press). She used to be production editor at Pantheon Books, and is now a prof. at FIT-SUNY. She is also affiliated with Spiny Babbler Arts in Kathmandu.
LAUREN MARIE CAPPELLO eats dessert for breakfast. Her work has appeared in Uphook Press's Gape-Seed, Polarity, & Occupy Wall St. Poetry Anthology. Aside from performing her poetry at a variety of local venues, she teaches yoga, and is working to finish her B.A. in Creative Writing with a concentration in Poetics. A former New Yorker, she now resides in New Orleans, LA.
AND THE USUAL SUSPECTS:
FAUX MAUX (MO KELLY) – Lifetime performance artist/actress/playwright and writer, she took her one-woman play “Lil’ Red” and a few burlesque acts to Holland and Scotland. Now, she does the occasional stand-up and continues to creates play, perform outrageous acts of art, and creative havoc here in New York City.
PUMA PERL –Poet/Writer/Performance Artist/Producer/Curator and co-creator of DDAY Productions and this event - author of the full length collection"knuckle tattoos," the award winning chapbook "Belinda and Her Friends," widely published in journals and anthologies, internationally!
BIG MIKE is the author of 2 books, 81 Pounds and Sibling Rivalry and appears in the anthology One Millimeter, all published by Pretty Pollution Press. Big Mike is known for his performance art and was awarded Best Neptune in the 2004 Mermaid Parade in Coney Island.
OPEN MIC SIGN-UP - 7:45
$6 AT THE DOOR
http://www.bowerypoetry.com/
Thursday, November 3, 2011
NOVEMBER RAIN!
DDAY Productions presents November Rain!
Thursday, November 17 · 8:00pm - 9:30pm
Bowery Poetry Club
308 Bowery (bet. Houston & Elizabeth)
New York, New York
POETRY, PERFORMANCES & MORE!
HOSTED BY BIG MIKE!
PRODUCED BY BIG MIKE, FAUX MAUX & PUMA PERL!
FEATURING:
JOANNA C. VALENTE is a native New Yorker. She is a writer who has been featured in publications such as You Say. Say. (Uphook Press), The Westchester Review, The Houston Literary Review, Side B Magazine, among others. In 2011, Joanna was the recipient of the Friends of Humanities/American Society of Poet’s Prize. She is also the founder and editor of the online magazine, Yes, Poetry. Joanna is a graduate of SUNY Purchase College, where she received a BA in Creative Writing and a BA in Literature. She currently attends Sarah Lawrence College for her MFA in Poetry Writing. In the future, she would like to live by the ocean.
JACKIE SHEELER is a native New Yorker, an award-winning poet, songwriter, performer, and renegade. She is the author of The Memory Factory, Off the Cuffs, Poems by and about the Police, to[o] long, a more recent full-length collection, Earthquake Came to Harlem, published by NYQ, and is widely published in journals and anthologies. She founded POETZ, the online poetry calendar, and created and hosted the Pink Pony reading series for over a decade. Jackie was the vocalist for Talk Engine, a popular WordRock band and has recently been performing as a solo artist. She’s performed on radio and TV, and at venues including the Knitting Factory, CBGB’s, Symphony Space, and much much more. Jackie is currently a teaching artist at Voices UnBroken and facilitates poetry workshops from her home.
LAUREN O’BRIEN is a provocative rock poetess and a top act on the NYC underground poetry-performance scene. She was drawn to arts and activism at a young age. In addition to her music studies, she spent three years in the avant-garde troupe, Terra-Incognita Theater, founded and directed by Polina Klimovitskaya; this experience helped to shape her poetry performance style. Lauren later became the poet/lyricist in the band P.O.A. and eventually formed her own rock-poetry outfit. Together with guitarist Thaddeus Wellenc Jr., engineer and synthesizer/drum programmer Sal Chisari, multi-instrumentalist and musical director Gary Pickard, and others, she began playing New York clubs and developed the material for Inconsequential Dream.
& THE USUAL CULPRITS:
FAUX MAUX (MO KELLY) – Lifetime performance artist/actress/playwright and writer, she took her one-woman play “Lil’ Red” and a few burlesque acts to Holland and Scotland. Now, she does the occasional stand-up and continues to creates play, perform outrageous acts of art, and creative havoc here in New York City.
PUMA PERL –Poet/Writer/Performance Artist/Producer/Curator and co-creator of DDAY Productions and this event - author of the full length collection"knuckle tattoos," the award winning chapbook "Belinda and Her Friends," widely published in journals and anthologies, internationally!
http://pumaperl.blogspot.com/
BIG MIKE is the author of 2 books, 81 Pounds and Sibling Rivalry and appears in the anthology One Millimeter, all published by Pretty Pollution Press. Big Mike is known for his performance art and was awarded Best Neptune in the 2004 Mermaid Parade in Coney Island.
$6 at the door
3 Minute Open Mic, sign-up starts at 7:45
Event photo by Jodi Lynn
More Info: http:www.bowerypoetry.com/
Monday, October 3, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
DDAY AT THE BOWERY!!!!
THE FALL CLASSIC
POETRY! PERFORMANCE!
PAGEANTRY!
& MORE!
DATE: Thursday, October 13, 2011, 8-9:30
Location: Bowery Poetry Club
308 Bowery (bet Houston & Bleecker)
New York, New York
Hosted by the one and only BIG MIKE, produced by BIG MIKE, PUMA PERL, and FAUX MAUX!
...FEATURING THE AMAZING
AIMEE HERMAN is a performative poet who has been featured at many NYC venues and reading series events, including Wow Cafe Theater, Sidewalk Cafe, Public Assembly, Happy Ending Lounge, Sideshow: Queer Lit Carnival, Hyper Gender, and In the Flesh erotic salon. She’s been published in anthologies such as Best Women’s Erotica 2010 (Cleis Press), Nice Girls, Naughty Sex (Seal), hell strung and crooked (Uphook Press), and Focus on the Fabulous: Colorado GLBT Writers. Aimee can be found sucking up subway steam, searching for flames big enough to burn bras and unnecessary labels, and is highly turned on by black ink pilot pens, peanut butter, and half-sour pickles.
KELLI STEVENS KANE - Kelli's poetry appears in journals including The Mom Egg, Kweli Journal, and Mythium Literary Journal. She's a Cave CanemFellow, and an alum of the Callaloo, VONA, and Hurston/Wright poetry workshops. She's the author of a poetry manuscript, and an oral history about Pittsburgh's Hill District. She is a member of the Steel City Slam Team, representing Pittsburgh, PA at the 2011 National Poetry Slam. For more info visit: www.kellistevenskane.com
AND YOUR DDAY TEAM:
PUMA PERL –Poet/Writer/Performance Artist/Producer/Curator and co-creator of DDAY Productions and this event - author of the recently released book "knuckle tattoos," the award winning chapbook "Belinda and Her Friends," widely published in journals and anthologies, internationally!
http://pumaperl.blogspot.com/
FAUX MAUX. Lifetime performance artist/actress/ playwright and writer, she took her one-woman play, Lil' Red and few burlesque acts to Holland and Scotland. Now, she does the occasional stand-up and continues to create plays, perform outragous acts of art, and creative havoc here in New York City.
BIG MIKE is the author of 2 books, 81 Pounds and Sibling Rivalry and appears in the anthology One Millimeter, all published by Pretty Pollution Press. Big Mike is known for his performance art and was awarded Best Neptune in the 2004 Mermaid Parade in Coney Island.
Plus Special Surprise Guests!
Join us at the historic Bowery Poetry Club!
OPEN MIC SIGN-UP 7:45!
$3 Admission, and for that price you can afford a drink!
http://www.bowerypoetry.com/
PHOTO COURTESY OF SHELL SHEDDYSee More
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Stalkers
I have had stalkers all my life. Some were annoying, and some were a bit flattering; a small percentage have been threatening or downright dangerous. Only one has been persistent for close to ten years and, somehow, involved me in this dance.
I was with this guy from March, 2001 through June, 2002. It began impulsively and ended badly. No surprise. It was the kind of ending where "staying friends" was not an option and I would never choose a friend who behaved as crassly and dishonestly as this guy did, anyway. He did not take the break-up well and convinced himself he was trying to win me back by calling endlessly, I suppose, and that I was close-minded and unreasonable. One of the most intelligent things that I have ever done, relationship-wise, was that I NEVER returned to him or encouraged him - NO hot make-up sex, no meetings to talk it over - one trip to empty my apartment of the last of his belongings so he had no excuse, and that was the only interaction I participated in.
He called constantly, sent text messages, showed up at my job, and once he brought a huge bouquet of pink roses to a place he knew I'd be. He never threatened me and had never been physically violent, so I was not afraid of him, just profoundly irritated by his refusal to respect my wishes to end contact completely. He'd call on holidays and attempted to "stay friends" with people he'd met through me - this didn't work because everyone saw through him, and most of them hadn't liked him all that well in the first place.
Eventually, he'd drop off, usually because he wound up in a treatment center or jail (his own doing - I never involved the police.)
I would forget about him, and sooner or later, tell the story to a friend, or mention my ex-stalker in the context of a conversation. If I said his name out loud, he'd call within 24 hours. It took me a while to believe this. Distance didn't matter, either time or mile-wise. He called me in Los Angeles, San Diego, and Puerto Rico after various people asked me if he was still bothering me and I said "No, I think he's given up."
And he would seem to give up for long periods of time and then, suddenly, text messages would pour in or he'd call on the cellphone. Over the years, I left the job and moved out of the area that he'd known me to live in, but I didn't want to change my cell phone number, partially because I have hundreds of contacts, but also out of fear that he'd track me down another way and learn where I lived, or stumble across me on the Internet. (He knew I was a writer, but I wasn't active on any scene during that period, and he doesn't know anything about my books or performances - not yet.)
About 5 years ago, I mentioned his name and ran into him the next day. Now, the stakes were raised. Naturally, he started calling. A Buddhist friend suggested I try various exercises in which I wish him well and let him go and let go of my anger as well. I did this for a week and then I went to Bed, BAth and Beyond to buy a shower gift and he was standing in the doorway. Sometime after that he went on an insane text message campaign, alternately preaching and lecturing me in 5-part messages on a daily basis. I contrived a way to automatically answer every message and have it seem that it was coming from an attorney. After a couple of replies, he must have believed it and never called again. This was about four years ago. I never said his name again until last week.
I was talking to my male companion about stalking and hurricanes - he has many stalkers, but he likes it that way, tells them where he'll be, and flirts enough to keep hope alive - anyway, I said the guy's name. And then I said fuck. I shouldn't have done that.
Today I went to Coney Island, used the bathroom at Nathan's, exited on my way to buy a hot dog, and he was standing there, holding two hot dogs. Like he was waiting for me. It was the ten-year anniversary of the night he stole my car and the exact place we were standing was the place where we first kissed. I don't know what my part is in all this, but I was clear in my desire to move as far away from him as quickly as possible.
I responded to his greeting politely and excused myself, bought the hot dog on the Boardwalk and circled back to my car, avoiding him. I think you can block cell phone numbers now - the only problem was that he'd use a lot of different numbers.
This was a weirdly fucked-up day, even the weather behaved bizarrely. Makes me want to hide.
I was with this guy from March, 2001 through June, 2002. It began impulsively and ended badly. No surprise. It was the kind of ending where "staying friends" was not an option and I would never choose a friend who behaved as crassly and dishonestly as this guy did, anyway. He did not take the break-up well and convinced himself he was trying to win me back by calling endlessly, I suppose, and that I was close-minded and unreasonable. One of the most intelligent things that I have ever done, relationship-wise, was that I NEVER returned to him or encouraged him - NO hot make-up sex, no meetings to talk it over - one trip to empty my apartment of the last of his belongings so he had no excuse, and that was the only interaction I participated in.
He called constantly, sent text messages, showed up at my job, and once he brought a huge bouquet of pink roses to a place he knew I'd be. He never threatened me and had never been physically violent, so I was not afraid of him, just profoundly irritated by his refusal to respect my wishes to end contact completely. He'd call on holidays and attempted to "stay friends" with people he'd met through me - this didn't work because everyone saw through him, and most of them hadn't liked him all that well in the first place.
Eventually, he'd drop off, usually because he wound up in a treatment center or jail (his own doing - I never involved the police.)
I would forget about him, and sooner or later, tell the story to a friend, or mention my ex-stalker in the context of a conversation. If I said his name out loud, he'd call within 24 hours. It took me a while to believe this. Distance didn't matter, either time or mile-wise. He called me in Los Angeles, San Diego, and Puerto Rico after various people asked me if he was still bothering me and I said "No, I think he's given up."
And he would seem to give up for long periods of time and then, suddenly, text messages would pour in or he'd call on the cellphone. Over the years, I left the job and moved out of the area that he'd known me to live in, but I didn't want to change my cell phone number, partially because I have hundreds of contacts, but also out of fear that he'd track me down another way and learn where I lived, or stumble across me on the Internet. (He knew I was a writer, but I wasn't active on any scene during that period, and he doesn't know anything about my books or performances - not yet.)
About 5 years ago, I mentioned his name and ran into him the next day. Now, the stakes were raised. Naturally, he started calling. A Buddhist friend suggested I try various exercises in which I wish him well and let him go and let go of my anger as well. I did this for a week and then I went to Bed, BAth and Beyond to buy a shower gift and he was standing in the doorway. Sometime after that he went on an insane text message campaign, alternately preaching and lecturing me in 5-part messages on a daily basis. I contrived a way to automatically answer every message and have it seem that it was coming from an attorney. After a couple of replies, he must have believed it and never called again. This was about four years ago. I never said his name again until last week.
I was talking to my male companion about stalking and hurricanes - he has many stalkers, but he likes it that way, tells them where he'll be, and flirts enough to keep hope alive - anyway, I said the guy's name. And then I said fuck. I shouldn't have done that.
Today I went to Coney Island, used the bathroom at Nathan's, exited on my way to buy a hot dog, and he was standing there, holding two hot dogs. Like he was waiting for me. It was the ten-year anniversary of the night he stole my car and the exact place we were standing was the place where we first kissed. I don't know what my part is in all this, but I was clear in my desire to move as far away from him as quickly as possible.
I responded to his greeting politely and excused myself, bought the hot dog on the Boardwalk and circled back to my car, avoiding him. I think you can block cell phone numbers now - the only problem was that he'd use a lot of different numbers.
This was a weirdly fucked-up day, even the weather behaved bizarrely. Makes me want to hide.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Photograph Poem #2: NY MOON
A random photo
Moon over 9th street
So beautiful, it almost made you cry
but you rolled out quicker
than a two o’clock high tide
I started taking my own photos,
leaning out the window
nightgown slipping off
morning shoulder
Soft lens shots
lovelier than the first
NY moon
Late on a Saturday night
talking to a friend
I’m an idiot, I told him
I hate myself
I was thinking of the pictures I take
when I lean out the window
and if anyone would believe
it wasn’t suicide
if I fellI’ll probably live till I’m ninety,
as punishment, I concluded.
Luckily, he’s a hollowed-out hatchet,
perfect for suicidal conversations
and an emotionless fuck.
Labor Day morning, I lean
out the window, black straps
slipping, photographing
the 6 AM sky.
A different man sits on the couch,
watching The Final Report,
a documentary about Jim Jones
and his Koolade madness.
Very carefully,
I finish my shots,
secure the camera,
and return to the living.
© puma perl, 9/5/11
POEMS IN RESPONSE TO PHOTOS: AFTER THE LAST BEACH DAY
The green-eyed man left the garden
Abraham talks to the waves
Seagulls wait patiently,
staring down the rocks
A girl dances alone,
hair coiled like shells
Behind dark glasses
I crave cigarettes,
anger, sugar, drugs
Revenge
Soon, doors will lock
in 5:00 darkness
Summer destroyed
and forgotten
I carry my chair
like a surfboard,
unbalanced
My mother
called me “Dropsy”
You call me nothing
Abraham and the green-eyed man
are gone, promises are sand-storms,
my lips are scarred but unsealed
With nothing to lose, I drive home
© puma perl, 9/2/11
A SEPTMEMBER TO REMEMBER!
Thursday, September 15 · 8:00pm - 9:30pm
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Location Bowery Poetry Club
308 Bowery (bet Houston & Bleecker)
New York, New York
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Created By Puma Perl
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
DDAY PRODUCTIONS PRESENTS A SEPTEMBER TO REMEMBER!POETRY, PERFORMANCE & MORE!
Hosted by the one and only BIG MIKE, produced by BIG MIKE, PUMA PERL, and FAUX MAUX!
... FEATURING THE AMAZING:
CORRINA BAIN - A genderqueer writer-performer, he has worked at a rape crisis hotline, a detox ward, an abortion clinic, and as a volunteer educator responding to the HIV/AIDS crisis in Mozambique. A former member of multiple poetry slam teams, he is currently part of the staff of the louderARTS project. He lives in Brooklyn.
JANI ROSE - A poet, activist, curator and performer who was born in Spanish Harlem and raised in the Bronx. She began writing poetry at the age of 7. She is a product of Sylvia Plath and Method Man, Poe & Julia De Burgos. As a Fellow & part of the leadership of the Acentos Writers' Workshops she takes to the the stage and page to share her love of art & words, survival of the psyche, motherhood, life, love and the Nuyorican experience. She loves roses, chocolate covered almonds, dragonflies & Chanel No. 5. To find out more visit musingsandscribbles.com
MIRIAM STANLEY - She's has been published in numerous anthologies in the US and Israel. She has performed inboth countries. Her books “Not to be Believed” and “Get Over It” were published by Rogue Scholars Press.
AND YOUR DDAY TEAM:
PUMA PERL –Poet/Writer/Performance Artist/Producer/Curator and co-creator of DDAY Productions and this event - author of the recently released book "knuckle tattoos," the award winning chapbook "Belinda and Her Friends," widely published in journals and anthologies, internationally!
http://pumaperl.blogspot.com/
FAUX MAUX. Lifetime performance artist/actress/ playwright and writer, she took her one-woman play, Lil' Red and few burlesque acts to Holland and Scotland. Now, she does the occasional stand-up and continues to create plays, perform outragous acts of art, and creative havoc here in New York City.
BIG MIKE is the author of 2 books, 81 Pounds and Sibling Rivalry and appears in the anthology One Millimeter, all published by Pretty Pollution Press. Big Mike is known for his performance art and was awarded Best Neptune in the 2004 Mermaid Parade in Coney Island.
Join us at the historic Bowery Poetry Club!
OPEN MIC SIGN-UP 7:45!
$3 Admission, and for that price you can afford a drink!
http://www.bowerypoetry.co
Sunday, July 24, 2011
DDAY MOVES TO THE BOWERY POETRY CLUB!
WEDNESDAY, 8/10, 8-9:30
BOWERY POETRY CLUB
308 BOWERY
NY NY
DDAY PRODUCTIONS PRESENTS GUNS OF AUGUST!
POETRY & PERFORMANCE!
Hosted by the one and only BIG MIKE, produced by BIG MIKE, PUMA PERL, and FAUX MAUX!
For our first show at the Bowery, we honor women who have held the doors open for other poets through the creation of venues, publications, small presses, and wild dancing! Our featured performers:
...
JANE ORMEROD - Jane is the author of the full-length poetry collection, Recreational Vehicles on Fire (Three Rooms Press, 2009), the chapbook 11 Films (Modern Metrics, 2008), and the spoken word CD Nashville Invades Manhattan. Look carefully and you may spot her in the ‘80’s cult horror movie classic Screamtime. Find out more at www.janeormerod.com.
KAT GEORGES - Kat's poetry collections include "Punk Rock Journal," and "Slow Dance at 120 Beats a Minute" (Three Rooms Press) and her first full-length collection, "Hunger Sinner" (due out in late 2011). She curates and hosts Son of a Pony, a bi-weekly poetry series at Cornelia Street Cafe in Greenwich Village, and is poetry editor of A Gathering of the Tribes magazine and Maintenant (annual contemporary dada poetry and art journal) and is also the founder & publisher of Three Rooms Press.
VIVIANA GRELL - She's the host of the Stark Reality Open Mic at Nola Studios in NYC is a writer/performer/dancer specializing in waking up the dead!! a wake up genie..through song, poetry and dance...published in numerous magazines and anthologies she has hosted Stark Reality since 2006 ....and continues to grow wings helping the young, the old, the numb, the mad ones in heaven and the angelic in hell...write write write!!!
And let us entertain you some more:
PUMA PERL – Poet/Writer/Performance Artist/Producer/Curator and co-creator of DDAY Productions and this event - author of the recently released book "knuckle tattoos," the award winning chapbook "Belinda and Her Friends," widely published in journals and anthologies, internationally!
http://pumaperl.blogspot.com/
FAUX MAUX - Lifetime performance artist/actress/ playwright and writer, she took her one-woman play, Lil' Red and few burlesque acts to Holland and Scotland. Now, she does the occasional stand-up and continues to create plays, perform outragous acts of art, and creative havoc here in New York City.
BIG MIKE - author of 2 books, 81 Pounds and Sibling Rivalry and appears in the anthology One Millimeter, all published by Pretty Pollution Press. Big Mike is known for his performance art and was awarded Best Neptune in the 2004 Mermaid Parade in Coney Island.
Join us at the historic Bowery Poetry Club!
OPEN MIC SIGN-UP 7:45!
$3 Admission, and for that price you can afford a drink!
http://www.bowerypoetry.com/
Friday, June 24, 2011
Summer Solstice! Yippie!
Time Monday, June 27 · 6:30pm - 8:30pm
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Location Yippie Museum Cafe
9 Bleecker St (Bowery & Elizabeth)
New York, New York
Celebrate the Summer Solstice at the Newly Renovated Yippie Museum Cafe!
Open Mic..$2 Donation...Poetry! Performance!
Big Mike hosts 5 Gorgeous Girls!
...
MARY RAFFAELE aka Raphael aka Queen Vixen is a former metal queen who had a brief moment of rock stardom in the ’80’s/early 90’s singing for Cycle Sluts From Hell, where she created a reputation for herself by living up to the group’s name. Now she works in the much more brutal world of fashion and is currently writing a memoir chronicling the misadventures of a Midwestern girl who moved to New York to seek glamour in the lowest of places. You can find her blog at: http://darkladymissanthrope.blogspot.com/
ZOE HANSEN - Writer of memoirs, stories, novels, upcoming reality TV STar, co-host of Sex Worker Literati, all around IT-GIRL. Zoe has worked as a makeup artist for music videos, hair stylist, model, brothel worker, Street ho, drug dealer, clothing store owner, dominatrix, & madam. She lives in the East Village with her family. Watch for her new book, Going Down in Gotham, and her reality series, Housewives of the Lower East Side!
http://www.lzhansen.com/
T. C. Gardstein is a writer, editor, artist, astrologer, southpaw, and native New Yorker. Her first novel, Circuit, was published by Xlibris; it’s available on Amazon, and you can also purchase a copy from T.C. after her reading. T.C.’s erotic poetry has appeared on cleansheets.com, and her two erotica eBooks, Sandwich Filling and The Poetry Prostitute (also available as an audio book), have been published by Paper Bag Press. T.C. has given featured reading performances at such local venues as Madame X and Cornelia St. Café, and she is thrilled to be featured at Yippie.
http://www.amazon.com/Circuit-T-C-Gardstein/dp/0738826766
http://paper-bag-press.com/
http://pluto-rising-astrology.blogspot.com/
FAUX MAUX (MO KELLY) - The consummate performance artist/actress/ playwright/writer - she has brought her awesomeness all over the world! Creates plays, performances, one-woman shows, and creative havoc of all kinds!!!!
PUMA PERL –Poet/Writer/Performance Artist/Producer/Curator and co-creator of DDAY Productions and this event - author of the recently released book "knuckle tattoos," the award winning chapbook "Belinda and Her Friends," widely published in journals and anthologies, internationally!
http://pumaperl.blogspot.com/
BIG MIKE is the author of 2 books, 81 Pounds and Sibling Rivalry and appears in the anthology One Millimeter, all published by Pretty Pollution Press. Big Mike is known for his performance art and was awarded Best Neptune in the 2004 Mermaid Parade in Coney Island.
http://www.yippiemuseum.org/See More
Monday, May 23, 2011
OUR 1 YEAR ANNIVERSARY - A SPECIAL DDAY PRODUCTION
Monday, June 6 · 6:30pm - 8:30pm
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Location: Yippie Museum Cafe
9 Bleecker Street (bet. Bowery & Elizabeth)
New York, NY
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We've added a special night to celebrate one year of performance, poetry, insanity, nudity, and blacklisting!!!!!
Four of our amazing performers have been invited back to spread the love - we wish there was time for EVERY gorgeous girl who has graced the Yippie stage with us, but hope some of you willl drop in!
DDAY anniversary is also part of the first Underground HOWL!
Limited Open Mic - $2 donation to the Yippie
...
HOSTED BY BIG MIKE!!!!!! and featuring:
CYNDI DAWSON - International Word Rocker, author of "Outside Girl", (Poets Wear Prada Press), spoken word artist/lead singer of The Cynz, Founder & Curator Poets and Angels Music & Poetry, published in over 50 anthologies & publications, her work can be heard and read on ReverbNation, Facebook and Myspace.
http://www.reverbnation.com/cyndidawsonwordrocker
http://www.myspace.com/insideofoutside
JANE LECROY - poet and performance artist, home-birthing mother of 3, teacher, atheist, vegetarian, hedonist, who fronts the avant-pop band Transmitting with Tom Abbs. Her last book of poetry, “Names” was published by Booklyn. Jane is a teaching artist working in New York schools. At www.janelecroy.com you can get her books, recordings and join her e list to receive poems and show invites.
NICCA RAY is currently working on a book about her father, film director, Nicholas Ray (Rebel Without a Cause). Her poems and short stories have appeared in various publications such as HANGING LOOSE (issues 91 and 97), WE LIVE FOR BLOOD AND GLORY, and faroutfurtheroutoutofsight. She has poetry in the upcoming UNBEARABLES ANTHOLOGY published by Autonomedia and in the next issue of PHOENIX magazine.
RONNIE NORPEL - Philadelphia native, who uses various media to tell her tales: live performance, photography, journalism, and now a novel - Baseball Karma and Constitution Blues (Three Rooms Press). Norpel played ballgirl and season ticket sales champ for the Phillies. After earning her Wharton degree, she went into poetry for the money.
FAUX MAUX (Mo Kelly) - The consummate performance artist/actress/ playwright/writer - she has brought her awesomeness all over the world! Creates plays, performances, one-woman shows, and creative havoc of all kinds!!!!
BIG MIKE is the author of 2 books, 81 Pounds and Sibling Rivalry and appears in the anthology One Millimeter, all published by Pretty Pollution Press. Big Mike is known for his performance art and was awarded Best Neptune in the 2004 Mermaid Parade in Coney Island.
BIG MIKE is the author of 2 books, 81 Pounds and Sibling Rivalry and appears in the anthology One Millimeter, all published by Pretty Pollution Press. Big Mike is known for his performance art and was awarded Best Neptune in the 2004 Mermaid Parade in Coney Island.
http://www.yippiemuseum.org/
Sunday, May 22, 2011
CRUMBS
CRUMBS
I didn’t think I was sleeping.
I thought I was eating cake.
What a life.
Sleep and cake.
I stumble from couch to bed,
try to retrieve cake dreams, but
thoughts have invaded fantasy
and I’m left with tribal make-up,
hospital doors swinging, a blue
van running, keys missing
No cake.
Not even a crumb.
© puma perl, 5/22/11
I didn’t think I was sleeping.
I thought I was eating cake.
What a life.
Sleep and cake.
I stumble from couch to bed,
try to retrieve cake dreams, but
thoughts have invaded fantasy
and I’m left with tribal make-up,
hospital doors swinging, a blue
van running, keys missing
No cake.
Not even a crumb.
© puma perl, 5/22/11
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Dear Somebody
30/30 completed, have not written again until today. I now have 30 new drafts. Maybe some were born poems. Wrote something just now just to do it.
Dear Somebody
Dear Somebody,
Lunch.
Split pea soup with ham,
dropped green on my pants,
barely room
for a spoon
between keyboard
and screen.
Cold. Heater emits
stale breath, shall I drape
a shawl around me
like an old lady sitting
on a bench
in a park
without you, Somebody,
not even a fat
child like me, dreading
shorts and sunshine,
no wonder
I’m depressed
in May.
Love,
Puma
© puma perl, 5/4/11
Dear Somebody
Dear Somebody,
Lunch.
Split pea soup with ham,
dropped green on my pants,
barely room
for a spoon
between keyboard
and screen.
Cold. Heater emits
stale breath, shall I drape
a shawl around me
like an old lady sitting
on a bench
in a park
without you, Somebody,
not even a fat
child like me, dreading
shorts and sunshine,
no wonder
I’m depressed
in May.
Love,
Puma
© puma perl, 5/4/11
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Poem 30/30 Absurdities
ABSURDITIES
I have written 34 poems and 2 short stories about a man I knew for 27 days.
I continue to mistake hope for actuality.
People talk to me. Then I get a paycheck.
Most days, I am asked for directions at least twice.
I want someone to love me even though I don’t love him.
My lower Manhattan neighborhood is inaccessible. All roads lead to Chinatown. I continue to eat take-out from the Golden Forest on Grand Street.
I am saddened by a gaggle of East Village Mommies waiting for the bus with their blonde kids. The prettiest Mommies talk only to one another.
I lie about my age; if I told the truth, everyone would tell me how good I look.
30 Poems in 30 days. Some guys I know always write 5 a day and no one makes a fuss over it.
This. What I’m doing right now. This. This moment, which is melting as I tap nonsense into keys just so…
Last night at the Nuyorican. Miguel Algarin took my performance piece seriously and defended my honor. He forgot he used to throw me out.
This.
This.
This.
© puma perl, 4/30/11
I have written 34 poems and 2 short stories about a man I knew for 27 days.
I continue to mistake hope for actuality.
People talk to me. Then I get a paycheck.
Most days, I am asked for directions at least twice.
I want someone to love me even though I don’t love him.
My lower Manhattan neighborhood is inaccessible. All roads lead to Chinatown. I continue to eat take-out from the Golden Forest on Grand Street.
I am saddened by a gaggle of East Village Mommies waiting for the bus with their blonde kids. The prettiest Mommies talk only to one another.
I lie about my age; if I told the truth, everyone would tell me how good I look.
30 Poems in 30 days. Some guys I know always write 5 a day and no one makes a fuss over it.
This. What I’m doing right now. This. This moment, which is melting as I tap nonsense into keys just so…
Last night at the Nuyorican. Miguel Algarin took my performance piece seriously and defended my honor. He forgot he used to throw me out.
This.
This.
This.
© puma perl, 4/30/11
Friday, April 29, 2011
Poem 29/30, Let It Spin
LET IT SPIN
I gave them all the truth and none of the honesty… Gloria, Let the Great World Spin, page 303
Life reveals itself
on a need to know basis
I decline intervention
Every step hurts
more than you imagine
Wish I slept
like you,
on my back,
deeply
How are you?
Fine.
Nice day.
Yeah.
I have no pets
because they’ll die
before me.
I leave everybody
just in case.
I’ve always lied
about cookies,
hide them behind
the coffee cans.
Just for me.
All the truth
I can tell
right now.
Honestly.
© puma perl, 4/29/11
I gave them all the truth and none of the honesty… Gloria, Let the Great World Spin, page 303
Life reveals itself
on a need to know basis
I decline intervention
Every step hurts
more than you imagine
Wish I slept
like you,
on my back,
deeply
How are you?
Fine.
Nice day.
Yeah.
I have no pets
because they’ll die
before me.
I leave everybody
just in case.
I’ve always lied
about cookies,
hide them behind
the coffee cans.
Just for me.
All the truth
I can tell
right now.
Honestly.
© puma perl, 4/29/11
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Poem 28/30 Response to the Shark
Getting a day ahead of myself. This is a response to an "American Poetry," by Louis Simpson, used by Willie Perdomo in an Acentos workshop a few weeks back. You can find his poem here http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/240770
RESPONSE TO THE SHARK
Ruby True reaches down,
down, down
like Alice,
in her patent leather shoes
She reads poems to Tupac.
Stories set to rewind.
Memories yet to happen.
Lives unlived.
Forgive me my broken words, she writes,
release my relentless voice.
Grace me only with my name.
Ruby True.
Ruby True.
Ruby True.
© puma perl, 4/27/11
RESPONSE TO THE SHARK
Ruby True reaches down,
down, down
like Alice,
in her patent leather shoes
She reads poems to Tupac.
Stories set to rewind.
Memories yet to happen.
Lives unlived.
Forgive me my broken words, she writes,
release my relentless voice.
Grace me only with my name.
Ruby True.
Ruby True.
Ruby True.
© puma perl, 4/27/11
Poem 27/30 Lowering the Bar
hmmmm I might be lowering the bar on the writing, too, just to get through this 30/30. The best way to look at it is that it's a way of committing to a daily discipline, and I end up with 30 drafts, some of which may survive.
LOWERING THE BAR
I will dump the guy in 8 hours if you show up with a fully packed van ready to ride. If that doesn't happen, we will drink coffee on Saturday morning.
She hit “send” and got dressed, thigh high stockings under jeans and Cowboy boots, just in case.
You look like every girl I chased through the maze of Stanton and Suffolk, when my junk levels were low enough to care about it, he responded. Meet me on the avenue. We’ll live like hermits, hit the road like Kerouac.
His driver’s license was suspended. He packed a change of clothes, just in case, and bought a bus ticket.
They spent New Year’s Eve together. Five years later, he’s married and she’s still writing about it.
She’s already had the best sex she’s ever going to have. The bar has fallen to the floor; she trips over it getting out of bed.
The man beside her sleeps lightly until mid-morning, when he lumbers into oblivion.
Recently, her dreams have begun to anger her, centered on impossible tasks and unlikely phone calls from people who despise her. She wakes up annoyed with herself for her semi-conscious acquiescence, and heads for the computer.
This is the last second street story, she swears, no more fucking-in-abandoned- building scenarios. She got pregnant that way once, convinced by cocaine that the police had surrounded the block; she didn’t even like the guy she was with, but there was nothing else to do.
Some days she doesn’t like the guy in the bed, either, but she figures she might like him again the next, so she distracts herself with solitary porn. He does the same.
Maybe that’s called getting along. She’s never tried it before, so can’t say for sure.
© puma perl, 4/27/11
LOWERING THE BAR
I will dump the guy in 8 hours if you show up with a fully packed van ready to ride. If that doesn't happen, we will drink coffee on Saturday morning.
She hit “send” and got dressed, thigh high stockings under jeans and Cowboy boots, just in case.
You look like every girl I chased through the maze of Stanton and Suffolk, when my junk levels were low enough to care about it, he responded. Meet me on the avenue. We’ll live like hermits, hit the road like Kerouac.
His driver’s license was suspended. He packed a change of clothes, just in case, and bought a bus ticket.
They spent New Year’s Eve together. Five years later, he’s married and she’s still writing about it.
She’s already had the best sex she’s ever going to have. The bar has fallen to the floor; she trips over it getting out of bed.
The man beside her sleeps lightly until mid-morning, when he lumbers into oblivion.
Recently, her dreams have begun to anger her, centered on impossible tasks and unlikely phone calls from people who despise her. She wakes up annoyed with herself for her semi-conscious acquiescence, and heads for the computer.
This is the last second street story, she swears, no more fucking-in-abandoned- building scenarios. She got pregnant that way once, convinced by cocaine that the police had surrounded the block; she didn’t even like the guy she was with, but there was nothing else to do.
Some days she doesn’t like the guy in the bed, either, but she figures she might like him again the next, so she distracts herself with solitary porn. He does the same.
Maybe that’s called getting along. She’s never tried it before, so can’t say for sure.
© puma perl, 4/27/11
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Poem 26/30 Directions
DIRECTIONS
My blood is my compass.
I learned how to get around from my father.
He never drove a car but he memorized subway maps,
knew which streets curved into avenues, remembered
stables on Avenue C, Bronx farmland, which ships docked
on Gouverneur Slip and which ones sailed out to Red Hook,
called strangers “My Friend.” The only time I saw him get
nervous was the day a cop reprimanded him for jaywalking
on 42nd Street; it was the closest he ever came to a criminal
record. My mother believed I couldn’t learn to drive,
You have to grow up in a car, she said, but I showed her,
got a learner’s permit when I was 19, bought a Chevy Nova
older than I was, drove to Florida, no problem, I-95 straight
through, and hook a left. Go back in reverse. Wish I could.
From my father, who never left the city, I learned to navigate
without fear – I am never lost. I may not know exactly where
I’m going, but I look at the road and I know exactly where I am.
© puma perl, 4/26/11
My blood is my compass.
I learned how to get around from my father.
He never drove a car but he memorized subway maps,
knew which streets curved into avenues, remembered
stables on Avenue C, Bronx farmland, which ships docked
on Gouverneur Slip and which ones sailed out to Red Hook,
called strangers “My Friend.” The only time I saw him get
nervous was the day a cop reprimanded him for jaywalking
on 42nd Street; it was the closest he ever came to a criminal
record. My mother believed I couldn’t learn to drive,
You have to grow up in a car, she said, but I showed her,
got a learner’s permit when I was 19, bought a Chevy Nova
older than I was, drove to Florida, no problem, I-95 straight
through, and hook a left. Go back in reverse. Wish I could.
From my father, who never left the city, I learned to navigate
without fear – I am never lost. I may not know exactly where
I’m going, but I look at the road and I know exactly where I am.
© puma perl, 4/26/11
Monday, April 25, 2011
Poem 4/25 Sleep and Sleeplessness
SLEEP AND SLEEPLESSNESS
I
Why is it so quiet at night?
The window is filled with ghosts and subways.
If I turn quickly to the left the spirit stops crying.
Or is it the right?
II
The Russian man’s drunk again.
He screams all night. I can’t sleep.
I call the police, then he calls the police on me for calling the police. That’s why I never call the police.
I decide to slash his tires.
There are cameras in the garage.
III
We take turns getting up and going to the bathroom.
Sometimes we say hello as we pass each other.
IV
The Chinese man is off his meds again.
He stamps his feet and drops marbles on the wooden floor.
One morning I hear him yelling, Don’t’ take me away!
The noise is gone, but I can still smell his cigarettes.
V
I like the sound of cars on the highway.
It makes my bed more comfortable.
VI
I can’t sleep.
You can’t sleep?
No. I can’t sleep.
Feeling guilty about something?
No! Are you?
No!
VII
I’m dreaming about an unattractive man.
I say to him, The only reason I’m having sex with you is so you’ll shut up for an hour.
It’ll only take ten minutes, he replies.
REM sleep does not improve my sex life.
VII
According to the Discovery Channel, in a typical lifetime we spend about six years dreaming.
If you’re snoring, you’re not dreaming. Your snoring may also be knocking a couple of years off of my dream life.
Mary Shelley created Frankenstein in a dream.
If you didn’t snore so loud, I’d have written a classic novella by now.
IX
Why is it so quiet?
I can’t sleep.
© puma perl, 4/25/11
I
Why is it so quiet at night?
The window is filled with ghosts and subways.
If I turn quickly to the left the spirit stops crying.
Or is it the right?
II
The Russian man’s drunk again.
He screams all night. I can’t sleep.
I call the police, then he calls the police on me for calling the police. That’s why I never call the police.
I decide to slash his tires.
There are cameras in the garage.
III
We take turns getting up and going to the bathroom.
Sometimes we say hello as we pass each other.
IV
The Chinese man is off his meds again.
He stamps his feet and drops marbles on the wooden floor.
One morning I hear him yelling, Don’t’ take me away!
The noise is gone, but I can still smell his cigarettes.
V
I like the sound of cars on the highway.
It makes my bed more comfortable.
VI
I can’t sleep.
You can’t sleep?
No. I can’t sleep.
Feeling guilty about something?
No! Are you?
No!
VII
I’m dreaming about an unattractive man.
I say to him, The only reason I’m having sex with you is so you’ll shut up for an hour.
It’ll only take ten minutes, he replies.
REM sleep does not improve my sex life.
VII
According to the Discovery Channel, in a typical lifetime we spend about six years dreaming.
If you’re snoring, you’re not dreaming. Your snoring may also be knocking a couple of years off of my dream life.
Mary Shelley created Frankenstein in a dream.
If you didn’t snore so loud, I’d have written a classic novella by now.
IX
Why is it so quiet?
I can’t sleep.
© puma perl, 4/25/11
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Poem 24/30 Like Texas
LIKE TEXAS
being with you is like being with Texas
sprawling, so large we’re both lost,
vague, indirect, meaty, a grassy plain,
deserted, space to spread your arms
country/city lots of people, but nobody
there, hospitable, friendly, forgetful
big you, little me, awake at dawn
places to park, roads to ride, cowboy
boots, pork sausage, Mexican breakfast,
Arkansas mind, south-central hands,
crowded airports, empty streets, hot
snow, riverwalks, dogs, cameras,
hats, unanswered questions, nods,
teeth, Alamos, knives, day of the
dead, being with you is like Texas
© puma perl, 4/24/11
being with you is like being with Texas
sprawling, so large we’re both lost,
vague, indirect, meaty, a grassy plain,
deserted, space to spread your arms
country/city lots of people, but nobody
there, hospitable, friendly, forgetful
big you, little me, awake at dawn
places to park, roads to ride, cowboy
boots, pork sausage, Mexican breakfast,
Arkansas mind, south-central hands,
crowded airports, empty streets, hot
snow, riverwalks, dogs, cameras,
hats, unanswered questions, nods,
teeth, Alamos, knives, day of the
dead, being with you is like Texas
© puma perl, 4/24/11
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Poems 23/30 Haiku on Wheels
Haiku on Wheels
I
Arizona us
Sweet watermelon sunsets
Behind the strip malls
II
Three on the terrace
John between our tie-dyed shirts
You delete your socks
III
Segovia us
Indian motel clerk says
Lots of bikers here
IV
Harley in the hills
Photos in black leather vests
Motel has a pool
V
In New Mexico
We fight over gas prices
The moon doesn’t care
VI
In Van Horn Texas
The Sweet Shoppe is deserted
There is just one bar
VII
Last stop New Jersey
Washington Heights say good bye
Take the A train home
© puma perl, 4/23/11
I
Arizona us
Sweet watermelon sunsets
Behind the strip malls
II
Three on the terrace
John between our tie-dyed shirts
You delete your socks
III
Segovia us
Indian motel clerk says
Lots of bikers here
IV
Harley in the hills
Photos in black leather vests
Motel has a pool
V
In New Mexico
We fight over gas prices
The moon doesn’t care
VI
In Van Horn Texas
The Sweet Shoppe is deserted
There is just one bar
VII
Last stop New Jersey
Washington Heights say good bye
Take the A train home
© puma perl, 4/23/11
Friday, April 22, 2011
Poem 22/30 Respecting Your Memory
RESPECTING YOUR MEMORY
Well, I guess I’m not getting high today,
you said, gathering up your books and sheet music,
we were sitting on Dennis’ stoop on Seventh Street,
I wore a boys’ Yankee jacket, it was an April day
like your last one, maybe a baseball day, I was broke
as usual, Wait, I said, I’ll get us something if I can get a taste..
But where will we go? You asked because you
were always a gentleman, you had a wife and kids
over in Baruch, and you’d never lock the bathroom
door like I used to do, just one reason why
I didn’t live anywhere - Don’t worry, I said,
Come on, we wound up on the same cop line
as the trumpet player from Boston, he had a car
so we pulled over under the FDR on South Street
and you sniffed your bags, always a gentleman,
while we spilled blood and water on the torn front seat
and then I wanted coke, She’s got eyes to get some coke
said the trumpet player and we dropped you off,
you and your violin, always a gentleman,
no matter what, and we probably did a bunch
more stuff I’d regret if I remembered, but right now
the only thing I regret is my failure to follow
my instincts, I wish I’d found you again
Just to say Hey because I always liked you
You were always such a gentleman.
© puma perl, 4/22/11
Well, I guess I’m not getting high today,
you said, gathering up your books and sheet music,
we were sitting on Dennis’ stoop on Seventh Street,
I wore a boys’ Yankee jacket, it was an April day
like your last one, maybe a baseball day, I was broke
as usual, Wait, I said, I’ll get us something if I can get a taste..
But where will we go? You asked because you
were always a gentleman, you had a wife and kids
over in Baruch, and you’d never lock the bathroom
door like I used to do, just one reason why
I didn’t live anywhere - Don’t worry, I said,
Come on, we wound up on the same cop line
as the trumpet player from Boston, he had a car
so we pulled over under the FDR on South Street
and you sniffed your bags, always a gentleman,
while we spilled blood and water on the torn front seat
and then I wanted coke, She’s got eyes to get some coke
said the trumpet player and we dropped you off,
you and your violin, always a gentleman,
no matter what, and we probably did a bunch
more stuff I’d regret if I remembered, but right now
the only thing I regret is my failure to follow
my instincts, I wish I’d found you again
Just to say Hey because I always liked you
You were always such a gentleman.
© puma perl, 4/22/11
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Poem 21/30 Seeing You
More than 2/3 of the way there and I dug up an old prompt of Rachel McKibbens' http://rachelmckibbens.blogspot.com/2009/01/poetry-exercise-1.html in which the writer is asked to write down 3 superpowers, write a bland journal entry, and then choose one of the superpowers and rewrite. The following is my journal entry, followed by my poem. Rachel wrote that she was inspired by Louis Jenkins' poem, Walking Through a Wall, which you can read here http://robinchapmanspoemaday.blogspot.com/2005/03/by-louis-jenkins-walking-through-wall.html
Journal Entry:
The bus made a lot of stops. Some lady in a wheelchair needed to be strapped in. I got off at 14th Street and Avenue A because so many people were getting on. I walked one block and bought a medium size coffee at Bruno’s. I decided to get a low-fat marble muffin. It cost more than I thought it would. I crossed the street, entered the building, climbed one flight of stairs, unlocked the door, said hello to Maria, went to my desk, ate part of the muffin and drank the coffee.
Seeing You
I don’t know why I laughed at the bus driver,
maybe because he looked so serious and intent
on his task, lowering the ramp for the grumpy
yet regal wheelchair-bound lady who never raises
her eyes or smiles or says thank you. Fortunately,
I had made myself invisible the second he hit
the lever for the kneeling function, as I’m
acutely aware of my unfortunate tendency
to laugh loudly and inappropriately at the wrong
times. Funerals, obviously. Once, when my dog
screamed as the vet administered a distemper
shot. She’s hysterical, my mother explained
nervously, since she didn’t want the animal
doctor to think she’d raised a sociopath. But
that was before I’d learned how to disappear
at will, as I did this morning, on the M14A bus.
I reached my destination without any additional
outbursts, bought my usual coffee at Bruno’s.
Pedro, the sweet Mexican guy remembered my
voice and did a pretty good job of placing
the cup in my invisible hand, made his usual
joke You look very nice today and we laughed
in a normal way, which snapped me back
to visibility, and fortunately I did look
rather attractive in a new purple sweater
and matching eye shadow, so Pedro did not
have to renege on his compliment, and the day
managed to pass with neither laughter nor tears.
© puma perl, 4/21/11
Journal Entry:
The bus made a lot of stops. Some lady in a wheelchair needed to be strapped in. I got off at 14th Street and Avenue A because so many people were getting on. I walked one block and bought a medium size coffee at Bruno’s. I decided to get a low-fat marble muffin. It cost more than I thought it would. I crossed the street, entered the building, climbed one flight of stairs, unlocked the door, said hello to Maria, went to my desk, ate part of the muffin and drank the coffee.
Seeing You
I don’t know why I laughed at the bus driver,
maybe because he looked so serious and intent
on his task, lowering the ramp for the grumpy
yet regal wheelchair-bound lady who never raises
her eyes or smiles or says thank you. Fortunately,
I had made myself invisible the second he hit
the lever for the kneeling function, as I’m
acutely aware of my unfortunate tendency
to laugh loudly and inappropriately at the wrong
times. Funerals, obviously. Once, when my dog
screamed as the vet administered a distemper
shot. She’s hysterical, my mother explained
nervously, since she didn’t want the animal
doctor to think she’d raised a sociopath. But
that was before I’d learned how to disappear
at will, as I did this morning, on the M14A bus.
I reached my destination without any additional
outbursts, bought my usual coffee at Bruno’s.
Pedro, the sweet Mexican guy remembered my
voice and did a pretty good job of placing
the cup in my invisible hand, made his usual
joke You look very nice today and we laughed
in a normal way, which snapped me back
to visibility, and fortunately I did look
rather attractive in a new purple sweater
and matching eye shadow, so Pedro did not
have to renege on his compliment, and the day
managed to pass with neither laughter nor tears.
© puma perl, 4/21/11
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Poem 20/30 you are a mushroom
you are a mushroom
you don’t throw birthday parties because you love too many people and can’t bear to leave anyone out you live in a studio apartment with a cat and your boyfriend when he’s in town he’s in three bands so he’s on the road a lot forgets to call you go out with your friends you have so many friends your mother calls you Miss Congeniality even though you’ve never watched a Miss America Pageant you can’t cook you bake zucchini bread and carrot muffins with raisins you’d rather munch than chew you order appetizers instead of meals shrimp puffs and coconut wings you are a mushroom making things better with no particular taste you’re ashamed of your dead plants you caught a mouse threw it out the window hide the television in the closet your sister’s a runaway whore she fucked your brother you never tell anyone about your genital warts your grandfather killed his second wife you write poems about your thighs do pilates your tit’s heavy enough to hold the diaries of anais nin you remove the television from the closet to watch american idol unless you’re boyfriend’s home everybody loves you because you really are a mushroom producing sunshine under ultraviolet lights, expanding fungus fruit bodies
© puma perl, 4/20/11
you don’t throw birthday parties because you love too many people and can’t bear to leave anyone out you live in a studio apartment with a cat and your boyfriend when he’s in town he’s in three bands so he’s on the road a lot forgets to call you go out with your friends you have so many friends your mother calls you Miss Congeniality even though you’ve never watched a Miss America Pageant you can’t cook you bake zucchini bread and carrot muffins with raisins you’d rather munch than chew you order appetizers instead of meals shrimp puffs and coconut wings you are a mushroom making things better with no particular taste you’re ashamed of your dead plants you caught a mouse threw it out the window hide the television in the closet your sister’s a runaway whore she fucked your brother you never tell anyone about your genital warts your grandfather killed his second wife you write poems about your thighs do pilates your tit’s heavy enough to hold the diaries of anais nin you remove the television from the closet to watch american idol unless you’re boyfriend’s home everybody loves you because you really are a mushroom producing sunshine under ultraviolet lights, expanding fungus fruit bodies
© puma perl, 4/20/11
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Poem 19/30 Answer Me?
ANSWER ME?
I cut my left hand slicing mushrooms.
Reminds me of William Carlos Williams
and his fucking grapes.
My mother cursed me with her unfortunate knees
and a belief that anyone who doesn’t respond
promptly to my messages is dead or gone.
Sometimes that’s the same thing.
Answer me?
Someday I may forget that you smell like my father,
who left me bad eyesight and a passion to read,
Not surprising, given his bipolarity.
My daughter thanked me for Nikki Giovanni and the Roots.
My son is glad that he couldn’t possibly be worse than me.
Luckily for the unborn, I stopped there.
We have all survived despite my foolish efforts.
You answered me and said you’d be hungry at eight.
I burned my ring finger boiling water for pasta,
reminding me of nothing.
© puma perl, 4/19/11
I cut my left hand slicing mushrooms.
Reminds me of William Carlos Williams
and his fucking grapes.
My mother cursed me with her unfortunate knees
and a belief that anyone who doesn’t respond
promptly to my messages is dead or gone.
Sometimes that’s the same thing.
Answer me?
Someday I may forget that you smell like my father,
who left me bad eyesight and a passion to read,
Not surprising, given his bipolarity.
My daughter thanked me for Nikki Giovanni and the Roots.
My son is glad that he couldn’t possibly be worse than me.
Luckily for the unborn, I stopped there.
We have all survived despite my foolish efforts.
You answered me and said you’d be hungry at eight.
I burned my ring finger boiling water for pasta,
reminding me of nothing.
© puma perl, 4/19/11
Monday, April 18, 2011
Poem 18/30 Inga's Daughter
INGA’S DAUGHTER
She was the kind of white girl everyone called China.
School started too early in the morning.
Her mother’s apartment was a mess until she ran away from the group home.
Inga, the mother, kept the snake and cats locked up in her room.
It was the the only dirty part of the house.
China woke up at four each afternoon, mopped the floors,
cooked dinner, went out for the night.
Inga’s job was to go to her program, spend the food stamps,
and download movies. She was surprisingly computer savvy.
The year China turned 15, they both had boyfriends in prison.
China’s got out first. Inga came home and her bedroom door
was slightly ajar, she said all you could see was their feet.
Inga said it looked cute.
The boyfriend was a pretty nice guy but he couldn’t stay out of trouble. He treated China decently, bought Chinese food, told her go to back to school.
She followed his advice, graduated first in her GED class.
Accepted to nursing school, but she got pregnant by the next guy.
The one who shot and killed her two years later.
She was strapping the baby into her car seat. If she hadn’t been so worried about the baby’s safety, she might have escaped.
Instead of getting shot in the back.
Her hair was long with new blond streaks and she wore a pink bathrobe.
She’d remembered the baby’s mittens. It was the first cold night of autumn.
It happened to be my birthday but that doesn’t really matter.
I knew her since she was 14, but not well enough to join the mourners, or so I was told.
The baby’s being raised by the other grandmother.
I don’t know what they tell her about her father.
© puma perl, 4/18/11
She was the kind of white girl everyone called China.
School started too early in the morning.
Her mother’s apartment was a mess until she ran away from the group home.
Inga, the mother, kept the snake and cats locked up in her room.
It was the the only dirty part of the house.
China woke up at four each afternoon, mopped the floors,
cooked dinner, went out for the night.
Inga’s job was to go to her program, spend the food stamps,
and download movies. She was surprisingly computer savvy.
The year China turned 15, they both had boyfriends in prison.
China’s got out first. Inga came home and her bedroom door
was slightly ajar, she said all you could see was their feet.
Inga said it looked cute.
The boyfriend was a pretty nice guy but he couldn’t stay out of trouble. He treated China decently, bought Chinese food, told her go to back to school.
She followed his advice, graduated first in her GED class.
Accepted to nursing school, but she got pregnant by the next guy.
The one who shot and killed her two years later.
She was strapping the baby into her car seat. If she hadn’t been so worried about the baby’s safety, she might have escaped.
Instead of getting shot in the back.
Her hair was long with new blond streaks and she wore a pink bathrobe.
She’d remembered the baby’s mittens. It was the first cold night of autumn.
It happened to be my birthday but that doesn’t really matter.
I knew her since she was 14, but not well enough to join the mourners, or so I was told.
The baby’s being raised by the other grandmother.
I don’t know what they tell her about her father.
© puma perl, 4/18/11
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Poem 17/30 Inga
INGA
She wears a boa constrictor around her skinny neck, walks the old 14th Street, placidyls whores purple wigs pimps in platforms, Methadone Program six days a week, all her junkie friends are her “big brothers” forgot her son’s graduation shrink says she’s bipolar I think she’s just a bitch fights for her klonopin script lost parental rights gained them back didn’t want them I think she’s just a bitch her daughter dances at 20/20 sits on her brother’s lap at home she overslept missed high school nobody made her go She slit her wrists to teach the kids a lesson, I think she’s just a bitch
© puma perl, 4/17/11
She wears a boa constrictor around her skinny neck, walks the old 14th Street, placidyls whores purple wigs pimps in platforms, Methadone Program six days a week, all her junkie friends are her “big brothers” forgot her son’s graduation shrink says she’s bipolar I think she’s just a bitch fights for her klonopin script lost parental rights gained them back didn’t want them I think she’s just a bitch her daughter dances at 20/20 sits on her brother’s lap at home she overslept missed high school nobody made her go She slit her wrists to teach the kids a lesson, I think she’s just a bitch
© puma perl, 4/17/11
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Poem 17/30 Do You Think?
Used a prompt from Emily Kagan Trenchard:
Hey 30/30 folks - Here's a prompt: Your first line is, "This is not easy for me." Go.
DO YOU THINK?
This is not easy for me.
I am as speechless as I am duplicitous.
Do you think we’ll ever stop pretending?
Kim Basinger sits at her desk,
crisp white shirt, buttons open,
short, tweed skirt hiked up to her waist,
sheer black lacy stockings, stilettos climb the wall.
She can’t get Mickey Rourke out of her mind.
Finally, she gives in.
Do you think we’ll ever stop pretending?
This is not easy for me.
I am as reluctant as I am fascinated.
Literary auditory voyeurism works for me.
I’ve never been good at relationships,
or gadgets or balanced meals or tying shoes.
I only fall in love on federal holidays.
I am as distractible as I am immovable.
This is not easy for me.
Do you think we’ll ever stop pretending?
© puma perl, 4/17/11
Hey 30/30 folks - Here's a prompt: Your first line is, "This is not easy for me." Go.
DO YOU THINK?
This is not easy for me.
I am as speechless as I am duplicitous.
Do you think we’ll ever stop pretending?
Kim Basinger sits at her desk,
crisp white shirt, buttons open,
short, tweed skirt hiked up to her waist,
sheer black lacy stockings, stilettos climb the wall.
She can’t get Mickey Rourke out of her mind.
Finally, she gives in.
Do you think we’ll ever stop pretending?
This is not easy for me.
I am as reluctant as I am fascinated.
Literary auditory voyeurism works for me.
I’ve never been good at relationships,
or gadgets or balanced meals or tying shoes.
I only fall in love on federal holidays.
I am as distractible as I am immovable.
This is not easy for me.
Do you think we’ll ever stop pretending?
© puma perl, 4/17/11
Friday, April 15, 2011
Poem 16/30 Chance Happening
CHANCE HAPPENING
(I’ve been lucky, I’ll be lucky again – Bette Davis)
Luck - just a matter of chance meeting opportunity. You make your own luck my mother always said There’s no such thing as luck the teachers chimed in, study hard, make something of yourself, You wanna know from lucky? added my grandmother. A nice piece of chicken. See how lucky? Neither fortune nor Miss Fortune, I continue because the option is to quit, Luck never gives, it only lends - that’s what the Swedes say though what do you know, Sweden, you smorgasbord, you Greta Garbo, you kill yourself it’s winter again, Adolf Hitler on luck: What luck for the rulers that men do not think after all the shit I’ve done I’ve concluded that I’m lucky to be alive, it’s like dessert every day, and then and then and then I’m examining a photograph of a hot burlesque dancer, and notice that that the silk patch covering her vagina has slid to the side and you can actually see her pussy lips and WHAT’S THAT it’s the hood of her clitoris, you can see the hood of her clitoris, not only is this girl smoking hot and enormously talented, she wears her fucking clit outside her body, she probably cums the second you rub against her while mine stubbornly hides deep in the recesses of G Spot Street, I need teams of excavators mountain climbers tireless erections I need Viagra driven dicks determination commitment I don’t need love I need a flashlight and a map and a little bit of luck…but hot dancer girl took all the luck for herself that is my definition of luck, a perky, friendly, outgoing clitoris, you don’t earn it, work for it, choose for it, bet on it…it just is. I’d be born again if I was promised one in my next life, I’d be really really lucky…
© puma perl, 4/16/11
(I’ve been lucky, I’ll be lucky again – Bette Davis)
Luck - just a matter of chance meeting opportunity. You make your own luck my mother always said There’s no such thing as luck the teachers chimed in, study hard, make something of yourself, You wanna know from lucky? added my grandmother. A nice piece of chicken. See how lucky? Neither fortune nor Miss Fortune, I continue because the option is to quit, Luck never gives, it only lends - that’s what the Swedes say though what do you know, Sweden, you smorgasbord, you Greta Garbo, you kill yourself it’s winter again, Adolf Hitler on luck: What luck for the rulers that men do not think after all the shit I’ve done I’ve concluded that I’m lucky to be alive, it’s like dessert every day, and then and then and then I’m examining a photograph of a hot burlesque dancer, and notice that that the silk patch covering her vagina has slid to the side and you can actually see her pussy lips and WHAT’S THAT it’s the hood of her clitoris, you can see the hood of her clitoris, not only is this girl smoking hot and enormously talented, she wears her fucking clit outside her body, she probably cums the second you rub against her while mine stubbornly hides deep in the recesses of G Spot Street, I need teams of excavators mountain climbers tireless erections I need Viagra driven dicks determination commitment I don’t need love I need a flashlight and a map and a little bit of luck…but hot dancer girl took all the luck for herself that is my definition of luck, a perky, friendly, outgoing clitoris, you don’t earn it, work for it, choose for it, bet on it…it just is. I’d be born again if I was promised one in my next life, I’d be really really lucky…
© puma perl, 4/16/11
Poem 15/30 cut to ribbons
cut to ribbons
gratefully,
in dreams,
I destroy
my life’s work
ribbons stream
from my eyes
no words
more powerful
than a sleeping
child
please,
forget me
I am not
your role model
do not become me
no cluster
of letters
deserves
your tears
© puma perl, 4/15/11
gratefully,
in dreams,
I destroy
my life’s work
ribbons stream
from my eyes
no words
more powerful
than a sleeping
child
please,
forget me
I am not
your role model
do not become me
no cluster
of letters
deserves
your tears
© puma perl, 4/15/11
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Poem 14/30 Trunk in the Middle of the Room
TRUNK IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM
Brown steamer trunk
sits in the middle
of the room
Don’t open it
Just because it’s there
says the voice
I open it just
because it’s there
Newspaper
Old shoes
Beneath the lining,
black/silver striped
shirts, all the same,
size Small
A note pinned
to fabric:
This is our code word
When I call you:
20/20
The trunk remains
wedged into the middle
of the room
© puma perl, 4/10/11
Brown steamer trunk
sits in the middle
of the room
Don’t open it
Just because it’s there
says the voice
I open it just
because it’s there
Newspaper
Old shoes
Beneath the lining,
black/silver striped
shirts, all the same,
size Small
A note pinned
to fabric:
This is our code word
When I call you:
20/20
The trunk remains
wedged into the middle
of the room
© puma perl, 4/10/11
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Poem 13/30 Making More
MAKING MORE
(Reflections from Jon Sands’ book release party)
Triple 14A’s meander up the avenue.
I’m reading The New Clean -
circle-eyed dogs, grandmother Grace,
a crisp sun-filled bench –
I believe that you are a great poet
because I’ve said
How the fuck did you do that???
at least three times, out loud,
schoolboy’s backpack knocking
into my shoulder, Adele loving
the last one in my ears
I read, and I remember moments.
Screaming poems off 10th Street rooftops
Before I gave it all to heroin
Writing a story that began
It was me and Louie
Before I gave it all to heroin
The box of drawings I left in Martin Wong’s
Ridge Street 6th floor walk-up apartment
Before I gave it all to heroin
The ghetto dollhouse with the tiny police lock
Before I gave it all to heroin
Windows open briefly, allowing
friends to fall in love with being friends,
create familiy, the lucky ones
transfused with blood brothers, the rest
of us hoping that maybe the world
was wrong, maybe we are not doomed
The iron gates once turned silver
Before I gave it all to heroin
I listen to your brilliance
Jon, Adam, Angel, Jeanann
I watch you shine
And envision the before,
Before I gave it all to heroin,
Before I learned how
to go make some more
© puma perl, 4/13/11
(Reflections from Jon Sands’ book release party)
Triple 14A’s meander up the avenue.
I’m reading The New Clean -
circle-eyed dogs, grandmother Grace,
a crisp sun-filled bench –
I believe that you are a great poet
because I’ve said
How the fuck did you do that???
at least three times, out loud,
schoolboy’s backpack knocking
into my shoulder, Adele loving
the last one in my ears
I read, and I remember moments.
Screaming poems off 10th Street rooftops
Before I gave it all to heroin
Writing a story that began
It was me and Louie
Before I gave it all to heroin
The box of drawings I left in Martin Wong’s
Ridge Street 6th floor walk-up apartment
Before I gave it all to heroin
The ghetto dollhouse with the tiny police lock
Before I gave it all to heroin
Windows open briefly, allowing
friends to fall in love with being friends,
create familiy, the lucky ones
transfused with blood brothers, the rest
of us hoping that maybe the world
was wrong, maybe we are not doomed
The iron gates once turned silver
Before I gave it all to heroin
I listen to your brilliance
Jon, Adam, Angel, Jeanann
I watch you shine
And envision the before,
Before I gave it all to heroin,
Before I learned how
to go make some more
© puma perl, 4/13/11
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Press Release
Sent by Michele McDannold, Editor-in-Chief, Red Fez Publications
Greetings,
Why not celebrate National Poetry Month by featuring the talent of a local poet? Below is a press release from Red Fez Publications regarding Puma Perl, a NYC resident and author. I have been following Puma's literary career for several years and I am very pleased to have her work in an upcoming anthology from Red Fez. Her poetry and short stories appeal to a wide audience. For more information about Puma and her work, you can visit her website at http://pumaperl.blogspot.com/. I hope this information can be useful to you.
If you would like more information, to schedule an interview with the author or to receive an advance reading copy of the book mentioned, please contact me.
Regards,
Michele McDannold
Editor-in-Chief
Red Fez Publications
OFFICIAL PRESS RELEASE
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Local Author To Be Published in Anthology
NEW YORK. Sunday, April 10, 2011 – Puma Perl, New York City resident and author, is one of fourteen authors featured in the upcoming publication of "Red Reader #1", a collection of literature and art published by Red Fez Publications. The book is the first in a series of print publications aimed at promoting the work of underground and under-recognized writers and artists.
Puma Perl is a NYC based writer, performance artist, producer, and curator. Her poetry and fiction have been published in over 100 print and online journals and anthologies. She is the author of the award-winning chapbook, Belinda and Her Friends, and a full length collection, knuckle tattoos. She lives and writes on the Lower East Side and has facilitated writing workshops in community based agencies and at Riker's Island, a NYC prison. She is a founding member of DDAY Productions, which presents poetry and performance events.
Red Reader #1 includes two poems, a short story and photography by Puma Perl. Editor Michele McDannold says 'Van Horn, Texas' is an excellent example of the type of writing they look for at Red Fez. “Puma's writing is clear, candid and earnest.”
The story is set in the small but enduring town of Van Horn, Texas and follows a woman as she strikes out on her own. It's a bumpy ride but she needs little and takes even less. The fascinating characters she meets along the way might be reason enough to stay, at least for a little while.
“Red Reader #1” will be available for free at the Zygote in my Fez event being planned for August in Dayton, Ohio. Advance reading copies are available for book reviewers and journalists.
For more information please visit http://redfez.net or http://pumaperl.blogspot.com.
About Red Fez Publications:
Established in 2002 and founded by Leopold McGinnis, Red Fez Publications is an Independent publisher committed to bringing recognition to underground and under-recognized writers and artists. Red Fez publishes an online literary journal featuring literature and art outside of the narrow, academic stream and has published over 350 authors from around the world. Poems and short stories that have first appeared on Red Fez have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, storySouth Million Writers Award, Sundress Publications Best of the Net and Dzanc Books Best of the Web.
Greetings,
Why not celebrate National Poetry Month by featuring the talent of a local poet? Below is a press release from Red Fez Publications regarding Puma Perl, a NYC resident and author. I have been following Puma's literary career for several years and I am very pleased to have her work in an upcoming anthology from Red Fez. Her poetry and short stories appeal to a wide audience. For more information about Puma and her work, you can visit her website at http://pumaperl.blogspot.com/. I hope this information can be useful to you.
If you would like more information, to schedule an interview with the author or to receive an advance reading copy of the book mentioned, please contact me.
Regards,
Michele McDannold
Editor-in-Chief
Red Fez Publications
OFFICIAL PRESS RELEASE
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Local Author To Be Published in Anthology
NEW YORK. Sunday, April 10, 2011 – Puma Perl, New York City resident and author, is one of fourteen authors featured in the upcoming publication of "Red Reader #1", a collection of literature and art published by Red Fez Publications. The book is the first in a series of print publications aimed at promoting the work of underground and under-recognized writers and artists.
Puma Perl is a NYC based writer, performance artist, producer, and curator. Her poetry and fiction have been published in over 100 print and online journals and anthologies. She is the author of the award-winning chapbook, Belinda and Her Friends, and a full length collection, knuckle tattoos. She lives and writes on the Lower East Side and has facilitated writing workshops in community based agencies and at Riker's Island, a NYC prison. She is a founding member of DDAY Productions, which presents poetry and performance events.
Red Reader #1 includes two poems, a short story and photography by Puma Perl. Editor Michele McDannold says 'Van Horn, Texas' is an excellent example of the type of writing they look for at Red Fez. “Puma's writing is clear, candid and earnest.”
The story is set in the small but enduring town of Van Horn, Texas and follows a woman as she strikes out on her own. It's a bumpy ride but she needs little and takes even less. The fascinating characters she meets along the way might be reason enough to stay, at least for a little while.
“Red Reader #1” will be available for free at the Zygote in my Fez event being planned for August in Dayton, Ohio. Advance reading copies are available for book reviewers and journalists.
For more information please visit http://redfez.net or http://pumaperl.blogspot.com.
About Red Fez Publications:
Established in 2002 and founded by Leopold McGinnis, Red Fez Publications is an Independent publisher committed to bringing recognition to underground and under-recognized writers and artists. Red Fez publishes an online literary journal featuring literature and art outside of the narrow, academic stream and has published over 350 authors from around the world. Poems and short stories that have first appeared on Red Fez have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, storySouth Million Writers Award, Sundress Publications Best of the Net and Dzanc Books Best of the Web.
Poem 12/30 Songs for the woman who falls in love too easy
SONGS FOR THE WOMAN WHO FALLS IN LOVE TOO EASY
It comes, one way or another.
Won’t let it stay away too long.
Ghost dances, firewalk shuffle,
it comes, at last, for that woman
who falls in love too easy, afraid
to get close to the banana man,
it comes, one way or another.
How it hurts, oh, she wonders
whatever happened to Silver City,
I won’t lie, you are my brother,
lost in a crazy Gold Forest.
It comes, one way or another.
Get back on your feet again,
everybody loves you, nobody cares;
let’s slowdive till we’re blind
race the dogs around the park
smoke up the garden roses.
It comes, one way or another.
© puma perl, 4/12/11
PS THANKS MAUX!!
It comes, one way or another.
Won’t let it stay away too long.
Ghost dances, firewalk shuffle,
it comes, at last, for that woman
who falls in love too easy, afraid
to get close to the banana man,
it comes, one way or another.
How it hurts, oh, she wonders
whatever happened to Silver City,
I won’t lie, you are my brother,
lost in a crazy Gold Forest.
It comes, one way or another.
Get back on your feet again,
everybody loves you, nobody cares;
let’s slowdive till we’re blind
race the dogs around the park
smoke up the garden roses.
It comes, one way or another.
© puma perl, 4/12/11
PS THANKS MAUX!!
Monday, April 11, 2011
TattoosDay
Poem 11/30 Night Slices
NIGHT SLICES
1:45 AM
Wake up.
Toothache is back.
Swollen face?
No health insurance.
Antibiotics.
Motrin.
Worry.
Fall asleep.
2:55 AM
Wake up.
Empty bed.
What are you doing?
Drinking Coca-Cola.
What are you watching?
Young Liz Taylor.
`
Go to sleep.
Look! Sal Mineo!
3:10 AM
What movie was that?
Giant.
Rock Hudson.
James Dean, Dennis Hopper, Sal Mineo. Everybody’s dead except Earl Holliman.
And Carroll Baker. She’s not dead.
But she’s fat. That counts as dead.
It does not! Go to sleep.
3:30 AM
Are you still up?
It’s going to be 107 degrees tomorrow.
No, it’s not!
You calling me a liar? 107 degrees!
You’re lying and you’re mean.
Oh, it’s my fault the earth is spinning closer to the sun?
No, but you don’t have to sound so pleased about it.
3:40 AM
Are you still up?
Yeah…can’t get comfortable.
Does your leg hurt?
It’s not a pain exactly, it’s more like an ache, you know when something is stiff, and you try to move it and…
Go to sleep.
Okay.
My face hurts.
107 degrees tomorrow.
Go to sleep.
© puma perl, 4/11/11
1:45 AM
Wake up.
Toothache is back.
Swollen face?
No health insurance.
Antibiotics.
Motrin.
Worry.
Fall asleep.
2:55 AM
Wake up.
Empty bed.
What are you doing?
Drinking Coca-Cola.
What are you watching?
Young Liz Taylor.
`
Go to sleep.
Look! Sal Mineo!
3:10 AM
What movie was that?
Giant.
Rock Hudson.
James Dean, Dennis Hopper, Sal Mineo. Everybody’s dead except Earl Holliman.
And Carroll Baker. She’s not dead.
But she’s fat. That counts as dead.
It does not! Go to sleep.
3:30 AM
Are you still up?
It’s going to be 107 degrees tomorrow.
No, it’s not!
You calling me a liar? 107 degrees!
You’re lying and you’re mean.
Oh, it’s my fault the earth is spinning closer to the sun?
No, but you don’t have to sound so pleased about it.
3:40 AM
Are you still up?
Yeah…can’t get comfortable.
Does your leg hurt?
It’s not a pain exactly, it’s more like an ache, you know when something is stiff, and you try to move it and…
Go to sleep.
Okay.
My face hurts.
107 degrees tomorrow.
Go to sleep.
© puma perl, 4/11/11
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Poem #9/30 Moaning Lisa & Poppin Chulo
MOANING LISA AND HER POPPIN’ CHULO
Moaning Lisa woke up early, sleep
disrupted by her Poppin’ Chulo, hiding
in the bathroom, talking on the phone.
I’m just asking you if I can stay there
She heard him whisper hoarsely,
but she turned and saw him lying
innocently beside her as always,
snoring, drooling, smelling like himself.
Moaning Lisa examined him closely,
muttered fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,
swung her feet to the floor, avoided
all mirrors prior to make-up and coffee,
washed her clothes but not his,
still disturbed by her dream.
It was sunny. She’d hoped for rain.
Poppin’ Chulo slept on, hugging her pillow,
she once thought it was sweet, but learned
it meant nothing. She dropped a few pots
and finally disturbed him, he tumbled
from bed, he showered he dressed,
circled the room, perplexed and irate…
What’s the matter? she asked,
ready to fight – Lost my phone
he replied,
Check the bathroom, she said.
© puma perl, 4/9/11
Moaning Lisa woke up early, sleep
disrupted by her Poppin’ Chulo, hiding
in the bathroom, talking on the phone.
I’m just asking you if I can stay there
She heard him whisper hoarsely,
but she turned and saw him lying
innocently beside her as always,
snoring, drooling, smelling like himself.
Moaning Lisa examined him closely,
muttered fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,
swung her feet to the floor, avoided
all mirrors prior to make-up and coffee,
washed her clothes but not his,
still disturbed by her dream.
It was sunny. She’d hoped for rain.
Poppin’ Chulo slept on, hugging her pillow,
she once thought it was sweet, but learned
it meant nothing. She dropped a few pots
and finally disturbed him, he tumbled
from bed, he showered he dressed,
circled the room, perplexed and irate…
What’s the matter? she asked,
ready to fight – Lost my phone
he replied,
Check the bathroom, she said.
© puma perl, 4/9/11
Friday, April 8, 2011
Yippie: TAX TIME Poetry & Performance
Yippie Museum Cafe
9 Bleecker, bet. Bowery & Elizabeth
New York, NY
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Created By Puma Perl, Maux Kelly Nolan
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
More Info TAX TIME or WHY IS THIS NIGHT DIFFERENT FROM ALL OTHER NIGHTS!!!!
BECAUSE BIG MIKE IS HOSTING NOT ONE, NOT THREE, BUT SIX, COUNT THEM, SIX!!!! GOURGEOUS GIRLS!!!!!!!
Modest donation of $2 to the Yippie Cafe - support the space!
...
No alcohol, but coffee, tea and random desserts are available! ....VERY Limited OPEN MIC - Sign Up early!
Poetry, Performance, Music, and More!
Featuring the Beautiful, Amazing:
AIMEE DELONG - a writer of fiction and poetry and other random, yet intensely justifiable nonsense. She technically lives in Brooklyn, although theoretically lives in Manhattan. Her work can be seen in such places as 3 AM, Thieves Jargon, and Everyday Genius. It can also actually be seen in these places. She won a poetry prize, and that was awesome. Although it's starting to be far enough in the past that it would be silly to say anymore about it. Life lessons include, but are not limited to: A shit-tastic year makes for grand lucidity. There's more to this bio than meets the eye here www.aimeedelong.com
FAUX MAUX. Lifetime performance artist/actress/ playwright and writer, she took her one-woman play, Lil' Red and few burlesque acts to Holland and Scotland. Now, she does the occasional stand-up and continues to create plays, perform outragous acts of art, and creative havoc here in New York City.
JEANANN VERLEE is a poet, editor, and former punk rocker who collects tattoos and winks at boys. Author of “Racing Hummingbirds,” recipient of the Independent Publisher Book Award Silver Medal in Poetry, her work also appears in The New York Quarterly, FRiGG, kill author, and PANK, among others. Verlee has twice been nominated for a Puschart Prize, is Poetry Editor for Union Station Literary Magazine, serves as curator of the Urbana Poetry Slam reading series at Bowery Poetry Club, and is an acclaimed performance poet with a variety of local and national poetry slam tiles. She lives in New York City with a pair of origami lovebirds. She believes in you.
LAURA DINNEBEIL has appeared on Comedy Central, and has had her poetry published by several universities and poetry journals. Her non-fiction prose has appeared in NYPress. Tonite she will perform her new one-woman play,"The Adventures of Mademoiselle How Many Times," a new work that is coming to a NY venue soon. It's a comedy about American terrorism.
PUMA PERL – Poet/Writer/Performance Artist/Producer/Curator and co-creator of DDAY Productions and this event - author of the recently released book "knuckle tattoos," the award winning chapbook "Belinda and Her Friends," widely published in journals and anthologies, internationally! Creator of 6 Minutes and Cut and many other pieces!
AND...SPECIAL FEATURETTE, ALL THE WAY FROM OKLAHOMA.....
BABS MARTIN! She's a poet, lyricist, and musician from San Diego, CA via Oklahoma. She has just released her third internationally acclaimed CD of Babs Martin and The Trip, “Psychodelic Circus.”
BIG MIKE is the author of 2 books, 81 Pounds and Sibling Rivalry and appears in the anthology One Millimeter, all published by Pretty Pollution Press. Big Mike is known for his performance art and was awarded Best Neptune in the 2004 Mermaid Parade in Coney Island.
http://www.yippiemuseum.org/
Poem #8/30 Found Poem/Weird Pantoum
FOUND POEM/ WEIRD PANTOUM
(created from email sent by the one who wasn’t the one)
I’m patient, probably to a fault
Denial never stopped a drum beat
Someone’s making the world’s best pizza
Someone’s running with a bag of doughnuts
Denial never stopped a drum beat
Black collared jacket in a steel doorway
Someone’s making the world’s best pizza
My room faced southeast, right at you
Someone’s running with a bag of doughnuts
Let’s pretend to meet for coffee
Black collared jacket in a steel doorway
Coats open, jeans at our ankles
Let’s pretend to meet for coffee
Someone’s making the world’s best pizza
Denial never stopped a drum beat
I’m patient, probably to a fault
© puma perl, 4/8/11
(created from email sent by the one who wasn’t the one)
I’m patient, probably to a fault
Denial never stopped a drum beat
Someone’s making the world’s best pizza
Someone’s running with a bag of doughnuts
Denial never stopped a drum beat
Black collared jacket in a steel doorway
Someone’s making the world’s best pizza
My room faced southeast, right at you
Someone’s running with a bag of doughnuts
Let’s pretend to meet for coffee
Black collared jacket in a steel doorway
Coats open, jeans at our ankles
Let’s pretend to meet for coffee
Someone’s making the world’s best pizza
Denial never stopped a drum beat
I’m patient, probably to a fault
© puma perl, 4/8/11
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Poem 7/30 Erasure Poem from the Road
I decided to return to Rachel McKibbens April 1 prompt to create an erasure poem from a page torn out of The Road. I used all the words left, and no additional words, but not in a particular order.
ERASURE POEM FROM THE ROAD
(prompt 27, Rachel McKibbens http://rachelmckibbens.blogspot.com/)
burning city
country river
just as I conceived
it to be
the boy
the common beast
the dead snakes
no remedy
cold hard edges
exposed
on hillside grounds
rose rock
whispered
and left
a lost moon
in blackness
© puma perl, 4/7/11
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Poem #5/30 BINGO
"Faced with such paradoxes, most of us choose to accept the default
setting that makes life easiest, while reducing our exposure to
ridicule. " prompt sent by Rob Plena Irizarry
BINGO
The boys hissed fat ass, fat ass at me all summer long.
Once, I drew the winning BINGO card, but I stayed in my seat staring
at my dirty ripped white Keds while they called out my numbers.
O64. N23. B7.
Fat ass. Fat ass. Fat ass.
The prize was in a gift-wrapped box.
I wanted it badly, but my short shorts made my ass look even fatter.
I could not walk across that room.
Eventually, they gave up searching for the prize winner.
The counselor probably kept it for herself.
It took some time to learn that my big lovely ass was a gift,
greater than the other girls’ skinny legs and straight hair.
© puma perl, 4/5/11
setting that makes life easiest, while reducing our exposure to
ridicule. " prompt sent by Rob Plena Irizarry
BINGO
The boys hissed fat ass, fat ass at me all summer long.
Once, I drew the winning BINGO card, but I stayed in my seat staring
at my dirty ripped white Keds while they called out my numbers.
O64. N23. B7.
Fat ass. Fat ass. Fat ass.
The prize was in a gift-wrapped box.
I wanted it badly, but my short shorts made my ass look even fatter.
I could not walk across that room.
Eventually, they gave up searching for the prize winner.
The counselor probably kept it for herself.
It took some time to learn that my big lovely ass was a gift,
greater than the other girls’ skinny legs and straight hair.
© puma perl, 4/5/11
Monday, April 4, 2011
Poem #4 - An Erasure Poem
An Erasure Poem is a poem where you take a text, any text, black out or erase all of the words you don't want, and build a poem from what's left.
This poem was built from an article in the AAA Car & Drive magazine about games to play on the road when your radio breaks. The last time my radio broke on the road, I fixed it by banging the console with a hammer. Eventually, I broke the console.
Erasure Poem from AAA Car & Travel
Radio road trips
My little sister imagines music
We set out
on an overnight drive
Pass the time
Reminisce
Plan the future
Leave a void
Things to say
run out
Forever to cross
Virginia
A simple game
we played as kids
Whizzed by the dial
Going to a picnic
talk about food
Games
Memory
Banana and asparagus
A virtual menu
Whoever uncovers the chain
Wins
© puma perl, 4/4/11
This poem was built from an article in the AAA Car & Drive magazine about games to play on the road when your radio breaks. The last time my radio broke on the road, I fixed it by banging the console with a hammer. Eventually, I broke the console.
Erasure Poem from AAA Car & Travel
Radio road trips
My little sister imagines music
We set out
on an overnight drive
Pass the time
Reminisce
Plan the future
Leave a void
Things to say
run out
Forever to cross
Virginia
A simple game
we played as kids
Whizzed by the dial
Going to a picnic
talk about food
Games
Memory
Banana and asparagus
A virtual menu
Whoever uncovers the chain
Wins
© puma perl, 4/4/11
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Poem #3 Pantoum for Love
No 30/30 would be complete withoout a pantoum.
Pantoum for love
Do you love me? Do you love me?
Did I ever say I didn’t?
No, but I thought you couldn’t.
That didn’t mean I wouldn’t.
Did I ever say I didn’t?
Perhaps while I was sleeping?
No, but I thought you couldn’t.
I drank ginger tea with honey.
Perhaps while I was sleeping?
I forgot to change the sheets.
I drank ginger tea with honey.
They stuck and smelled of you.
I forgot to change the sheets.
And I didn’t do the laundry.
They stuck and smelled of you.
A little like my father.
And I didn’t do the laundry.
I finished all the soda.
A little like my father.
I’ll buy you some tomorrow.
I finished all the soda.
Don’t know why I’m always thirsty.
I’ll buy you some tomorrow.
Do you think we’ll be together?
Don’t know why I’m always thirsty.
Your name sticks to my tongue.
Do you think we’ll be together?
For as long as we are breathing.
Your name sticks to my tongue.
I wish that I could change it.
For as long as we are breathing,
Do you love me? Do you love me?
© puma perl, 4/3/11
Pantoum for love
Do you love me? Do you love me?
Did I ever say I didn’t?
No, but I thought you couldn’t.
That didn’t mean I wouldn’t.
Did I ever say I didn’t?
Perhaps while I was sleeping?
No, but I thought you couldn’t.
I drank ginger tea with honey.
Perhaps while I was sleeping?
I forgot to change the sheets.
I drank ginger tea with honey.
They stuck and smelled of you.
I forgot to change the sheets.
And I didn’t do the laundry.
They stuck and smelled of you.
A little like my father.
And I didn’t do the laundry.
I finished all the soda.
A little like my father.
I’ll buy you some tomorrow.
I finished all the soda.
Don’t know why I’m always thirsty.
I’ll buy you some tomorrow.
Do you think we’ll be together?
Don’t know why I’m always thirsty.
Your name sticks to my tongue.
Do you think we’ll be together?
For as long as we are breathing.
Your name sticks to my tongue.
I wish that I could change it.
For as long as we are breathing,
Do you love me? Do you love me?
© puma perl, 4/3/11
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Poem #2 Romeo's Poem
ROMEO’S POEM
remember
we are nothing
more
nothing more than visitors
eyes meet
softly
in the big chair
learn the word for mommy
just a bunch of letters
love is your finger
wrapped around my rings
you still don’t know
where you end
and space begins
soon,
you will smile
across your shoulder
and race through
the world
© puma perl, 4/2/11
remember
we are nothing
more
nothing more than visitors
eyes meet
softly
in the big chair
learn the word for mommy
just a bunch of letters
love is your finger
wrapped around my rings
you still don’t know
where you end
and space begins
soon,
you will smile
across your shoulder
and race through
the world
© puma perl, 4/2/11
Friday, April 1, 2011
Poem #1 - Borderline
OK I am going to do the 30/30 for National Poetry Month - it's sort of a ritual; by May 1 I will have at the end have 30 pieces, and I will actually like a couple of them.
I haven't been writing much poetry, mostly prose and performance pieces, so these poems may be weird. This is the first one.
BORDERLINE
April again
A poem a day.
Madonna’s stuck in my head
Borderline
Borderline
Suddenly, Borderline
is the most meaningful piece of work
I have ever encountered
You just keep on pushing my love over the borderline
I surrender.
Never will I write a line so concise,
so powerful, so revealing…
Something in the way you love me won’t let me be
Yes!
Who needs couples counseling?
Who needs therapy?
Chubby, sleazy, social climbing Madonna has saved me!
The only problem is that Madonna no longer exists,
she’s morphed into an anorexic children’s book writing anglophile
stealing African kids sweeter than her own home-grown sociopaths…
Borderline feels like I’m going to lose my mind
Borderline
Borderline
I never crossed over,
still worship trash and tackiness
and the memory of teen-age Madonnas
wandering malls in black lace and fingerless gloves
dreaming of Danceteria while the real Madonna
cruised Avenue D with her windows wide open
Something in your eyes is makin such a fool of me
Borderline
Borderline
Borderline
© puma perl, 4/1/11
I haven't been writing much poetry, mostly prose and performance pieces, so these poems may be weird. This is the first one.
BORDERLINE
April again
A poem a day.
Madonna’s stuck in my head
Borderline
Borderline
Suddenly, Borderline
is the most meaningful piece of work
I have ever encountered
You just keep on pushing my love over the borderline
I surrender.
Never will I write a line so concise,
so powerful, so revealing…
Something in the way you love me won’t let me be
Yes!
Who needs couples counseling?
Who needs therapy?
Chubby, sleazy, social climbing Madonna has saved me!
The only problem is that Madonna no longer exists,
she’s morphed into an anorexic children’s book writing anglophile
stealing African kids sweeter than her own home-grown sociopaths…
Borderline feels like I’m going to lose my mind
Borderline
Borderline
I never crossed over,
still worship trash and tackiness
and the memory of teen-age Madonnas
wandering malls in black lace and fingerless gloves
dreaming of Danceteria while the real Madonna
cruised Avenue D with her windows wide open
Something in your eyes is makin such a fool of me
Borderline
Borderline
Borderline
© puma perl, 4/1/11
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Notes on Stupidity
STUPIDITY: AN EXPLORATION
You’re not stupid, said my Aunt Molly.
Of course not, why would I be?
Your mother always said you were stupid, but you’re not stupid at all. You’re very smart!
Don’t listen to what Jeanette said! Aunt Rhoda chimed in. Your mother was always ….um…different.
TRANSMISSION
Stupidity is not transmitted through saliva/
Stupidity is not transmitted through French kissing/
Strands of stupidity are present only in minute amounts/
Insufficient to label saliva as a dangerous fluid/
MORE NOTES ON STUPIDITY
Little Cassie has more brains in her pinky finger than you have in your entire body, said my mother.
“Little Cassie” was my youngest cousin and I wouldn’t have minded the insult as much if she wasn’t so dim-witted.
Furthermore, my mother persisted in calling her “Little Cassie” despite the fact that she developed a pear shape by the age of twelve and had three kids before she turned twenty.
Never mind all that, said my mother. She’s smarter than you’ll ever be.
FUN FACTS ABOUT TRANSMISSION
Semen contains insufficient strands of stupidity, but is loaded with obsessive/compulsive disorders!
Vaginal fluids carry zero stupidity but you may be justifiably wary of contraction of poor judgment and unexplainable jealous rages!
Sweat is loaded with stupidity, but must be diluted in a human growth hormone cocktail in order to be passed on!
Saliva will not transmit stupidity, although deep kissing may temporarily block neurons of brilliance, causing the recipient to assume many of the idiotic characteristics of the donor.
STUPIDITY AGAIN
I think you’re a little retarded, my mother said seriously, when I burnt my tongue on hot cocoa or misspelled a word.
I hid out in the library, reading books selected for me by the lesbian librarian, Miss Kaye, until we fell out because I desperately wanted to read Tropic of Cancer and she wouldn’t give me permission to borrow it from the adult section.
I smuggled the book out when she wasn’t looking and read it in the candy store.
Boys hung out in front, smoking cigarettes and punching one another.
Never returned to the library.
TRANSMISSION SUMMATION
It is imposible to transmit either pure stupidity or uncut brilliance through body fluids.
Genius is undetectable; however, when engaging in oral sex, the genius is often blinded by the stupid, leaving pockets of profound density, sometimes misdiagnosed as brain lesions.
Additional complications may include outbreaks of senselessness, similar to common skin rashes and allergic reactions. Bursts of creative genius mixed with Benadryl may relieve symptoms.
Prolonged, constant contact between the brilliant and the intensely stupid may cause permanent damage to both parties.
It is therefore recommended that the window be left open when the brilliant and the stupid exchange bodily fluids.
Or, better yet, the door.
You’re not stupid, said my Aunt Molly.
Of course not, why would I be?
Your mother always said you were stupid, but you’re not stupid at all. You’re very smart!
Don’t listen to what Jeanette said! Aunt Rhoda chimed in. Your mother was always ….um…different.
TRANSMISSION
Stupidity is not transmitted through saliva/
Stupidity is not transmitted through French kissing/
Strands of stupidity are present only in minute amounts/
Insufficient to label saliva as a dangerous fluid/
MORE NOTES ON STUPIDITY
Little Cassie has more brains in her pinky finger than you have in your entire body, said my mother.
“Little Cassie” was my youngest cousin and I wouldn’t have minded the insult as much if she wasn’t so dim-witted.
Furthermore, my mother persisted in calling her “Little Cassie” despite the fact that she developed a pear shape by the age of twelve and had three kids before she turned twenty.
Never mind all that, said my mother. She’s smarter than you’ll ever be.
FUN FACTS ABOUT TRANSMISSION
Semen contains insufficient strands of stupidity, but is loaded with obsessive/compulsive disorders!
Vaginal fluids carry zero stupidity but you may be justifiably wary of contraction of poor judgment and unexplainable jealous rages!
Sweat is loaded with stupidity, but must be diluted in a human growth hormone cocktail in order to be passed on!
Saliva will not transmit stupidity, although deep kissing may temporarily block neurons of brilliance, causing the recipient to assume many of the idiotic characteristics of the donor.
STUPIDITY AGAIN
I think you’re a little retarded, my mother said seriously, when I burnt my tongue on hot cocoa or misspelled a word.
I hid out in the library, reading books selected for me by the lesbian librarian, Miss Kaye, until we fell out because I desperately wanted to read Tropic of Cancer and she wouldn’t give me permission to borrow it from the adult section.
I smuggled the book out when she wasn’t looking and read it in the candy store.
Boys hung out in front, smoking cigarettes and punching one another.
Never returned to the library.
TRANSMISSION SUMMATION
It is imposible to transmit either pure stupidity or uncut brilliance through body fluids.
Genius is undetectable; however, when engaging in oral sex, the genius is often blinded by the stupid, leaving pockets of profound density, sometimes misdiagnosed as brain lesions.
Additional complications may include outbreaks of senselessness, similar to common skin rashes and allergic reactions. Bursts of creative genius mixed with Benadryl may relieve symptoms.
Prolonged, constant contact between the brilliant and the intensely stupid may cause permanent damage to both parties.
It is therefore recommended that the window be left open when the brilliant and the stupid exchange bodily fluids.
Or, better yet, the door.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Journal of Heroin Love Songs
Thank you JACk hENRY for starting up one of my two favorite online Journals again (the other is Jack Marlowe's Gutter Eloquence, referenced in my previous post), the Journal of Heroin Love Songs and for choosing three of mine to publish first.
This is the link...http://heroinlovesongs1.wordpress.com/2011/03/25/puma-perl/
The first one is dedicated to my German Friend, Golde...appropriately named Hot German Chick!
Hot German Chick
Happy umbrellas cover street endings
on Broome and we make more fun
more fun more fun, stand naked
on deserted streets, I will change
the sheets when I return and you
will make more fun, more fun
Not entirely his or mine, lies
uncover truth on broken beds,
the couch is fully dressed
I wear pillowcases, you’re a peek
a boo girl, crazy genius him, you say,
more fun make, more fun more fun
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dedicated Dope Fiends
Before technology,
there were no cell phones
Hell,
we didn’t even have land lines
except for times of great scores
or unusual industriousness
They never lasted
and eventually wires
were torn out of walls,
used to unclog works
copper sold for pennies
Candles lit half empty
stairwells, climbed six flights
or waited for buckets
to drop before cries
of bajando hit stale air
One guy sat on an easy chair,
glassine bags stashed
between bricks
Sometimes a hand
came up
from a broken toilet
On Second Street.
we climbed through holes
in abandoned buildings
Property values
no longer allow space
for zombies or welfare
NYU grads pay thousands,
live in rooms haunted
by dope fiend eyes, shared
needles, OD’s, dead junkies
saved by their partners,
stories of lifeless bodies
tossed from windows
highly exaggerated
I was there for 20 years,
even I would have noticed
Only passion replaces drugs.
Everything else
is just another dead-end
choice.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Death by F Train
I’ve heard that on a near daily basis
somebody commits suicide
by jumping beneath an F train.
Always, an F train.
The heat index is 107,
my hair is frizzy, and I wonder
if today might be my turn
to play Death by F train.
I am talked out of it.
It would cause subway havoc,
I’m told, endless circulatory re-routing;
people would not reach the library;
a man might kill his wife because
he promised he would if she was late
just one more time.
It would all be my fault.
Again.
I guess I’ll get through another day,
body parts intact, mind scrambled,
like yesterday’s Church Avenue
This is the link...http://heroinlovesongs1.wordpress.com/2011/03/25/puma-perl/
The first one is dedicated to my German Friend, Golde...appropriately named Hot German Chick!
Hot German Chick
Happy umbrellas cover street endings
on Broome and we make more fun
more fun more fun, stand naked
on deserted streets, I will change
the sheets when I return and you
will make more fun, more fun
Not entirely his or mine, lies
uncover truth on broken beds,
the couch is fully dressed
I wear pillowcases, you’re a peek
a boo girl, crazy genius him, you say,
more fun make, more fun more fun
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dedicated Dope Fiends
Before technology,
there were no cell phones
Hell,
we didn’t even have land lines
except for times of great scores
or unusual industriousness
They never lasted
and eventually wires
were torn out of walls,
used to unclog works
copper sold for pennies
Candles lit half empty
stairwells, climbed six flights
or waited for buckets
to drop before cries
of bajando hit stale air
One guy sat on an easy chair,
glassine bags stashed
between bricks
Sometimes a hand
came up
from a broken toilet
On Second Street.
we climbed through holes
in abandoned buildings
Property values
no longer allow space
for zombies or welfare
NYU grads pay thousands,
live in rooms haunted
by dope fiend eyes, shared
needles, OD’s, dead junkies
saved by their partners,
stories of lifeless bodies
tossed from windows
highly exaggerated
I was there for 20 years,
even I would have noticed
Only passion replaces drugs.
Everything else
is just another dead-end
choice.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Death by F Train
I’ve heard that on a near daily basis
somebody commits suicide
by jumping beneath an F train.
Always, an F train.
The heat index is 107,
my hair is frizzy, and I wonder
if today might be my turn
to play Death by F train.
I am talked out of it.
It would cause subway havoc,
I’m told, endless circulatory re-routing;
people would not reach the library;
a man might kill his wife because
he promised he would if she was late
just one more time.
It would all be my fault.
Again.
I guess I’ll get through another day,
body parts intact, mind scrambled,
like yesterday’s Church Avenue
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
3 Poems in Gutter Eloquence Magazine
Gutter Eloquence is my favorite online zine. Editor Jack Marlowe is my kind of guy. Mean, gravelly and big. Actually, I've met him, in Texas. Everything's bigger in Texas. Or so they say.
http://www.guttereloquence.com/issue14/puma14a.html
http://www.guttereloquence.com/issue14/puma14a.html
Monday, February 21, 2011
Yippie Tonight!
ALL THE PRESIDENTS WOMEN, POETRY AND PERFORMANCE
Yippie Museum Cafe
9 Bleecker Street, bet. Bowery & Elizabeth
New York, NY
Another DDAY Production!
No admission or minimum, please donate $3 or so to the Yippie Cafe - support the space!
No alcohol, but coffee, tea and random desserts are available!
Limited OPEN MIC - Sign Up early!
Poetry, Performance, Music, and More!
Hosted by the one and only BIG MIKE!
Featuring the Beautiful, Amazing:
FAUX MAUX (Mo Kelly) - The consummate performance artist/actress/ playwright/writer - she has brought her awesomeness all over the world! Creates plays, performances, one-woman shows, and creative havoc of all kinds!!!! Author of NUDE ARTIST MODEL and many other performance pieces! A member of the DDAY Productions trio!
FIONA HELMSLEY - a thirty- something momshell, navel-gazer and recovering fun slut. Her first book, There Are A Million Stories In The Naked City When You’re A Girl Who Gets Naked In The Naked City was released last year. A writer of creative non- fiction and poetry, her work can be found scattered about the print and online worlds while her fashion sense stays static at whatfionaworetoday.tumblr.com.
NICOLE PEYRAFITTE - a performance artist born and raised in the French Pyrenees. She considers herself a Gasco-Rican (1/2 Gascon, 1/2 American) & citizen of Brooklyn. Her work draws on her eclectic heritage and addresses the experiences of negotiating her identity across two continents and four languages. Peyrafitte pursues related multi-cultural and multi-media investigations inspired by places, history, and gastronomy often integrate her voice, texts, visuals and cooking. She has two CD’s out “The Bi-Continental Chowder” & “Whisk! Don’t Churn”.
PUMA PERL – Poet/Writer/Performance Artist/Producer/Curator and co-creator of DDAY Productions and this event - author of the recently released book "knuckle tattoos," the award winning chapbook "Belinda and Her Friends," widely published in journals and anthologies, internationally! Creator of 6 Minutes and Cut and many other pieces!
REBECCA SCHUMEJDA - the author of Falling Forward, a full-length collection of poems (sunnyoutside, 2009); The Map of Our Garden (verve bath, 2009); Dream Big Work Harder (sunnyoutside press 2006); The Tear Duct of the Storm (Green Bean Press, 2001); and the poem "Logic" on a postcard (sunnyoutside). You can find her online at www.rebeccaschumejda.com. Currently, she is working on a collection of poems exploring the pool hall subculture, inspired by her short-lived experience as a co-owner of a pool hall.
BIG MIKE is the author of 2 books, 81 Pounds and Sibling Rivalry and appears in the anthology One Millimeter, all published by Pretty Pollution Press. Big Mike is known for his performance art and was awarded Best Neptune in the 2004 Mermaid Parade in Coney Island.
http://www.yippiemuseum.org/
Sunday, February 13, 2011
New Poem
Only writing about one a week lately. This is it, maybe a few more edits to come.
THAT CRAZY GOMEZ FAMILY
Crossing the plaza with my beautiful young husband
Pink Houses, East New York, I was twenty-two,
second child on the way, heard that hair dye
hurts babies, so I let the wild silver streak
through my black curls, neighbors watched
and gossiped, You know the brother from 2H?
His wife’s a vieja with white hair!
Don’t listen to them! sniffed my sister-in-law,
and she turned off her favorite movie,
opened the kitchen window and yelled,
We’re mad as hell and we’re not going to take it anymore!
Go ahead, your turn, she said, and we all
screamed into the courtyard, people laughed,
It’s just that crazy Gomez family again, all in fun
until the pot hit the pavement, and our party
ended like they all did in those days…
police sirens, bloody heads, fists cuffed, bail money
Friday nights, how quickly the sky fell into Saturday
I remember Carmen’s café con leche,
bunk beds and linoleum, long subway rides
back to my lower east side rooms, and then..
junkie death masks knocked, I answered, yes,
come in, life only lasts a minute, but
I was wrong again, neither my tracks
nor my memory expired
I still face the wall, close my eyes,
morning turns my face to glass,
my blood’s a transient boarder,
my body’s single room occupancy, doubles
for rent, my thoughts are king-sized lies,
the windows are nailed shut, the Gomez
family moved to Florida, my back’s
against walls, doors, and yesterday’s
windows, didn’t know it would hurt,
didn’t know it would hurt so much
Across the river, I hear your warning:
The tides turn, Puma, the tides turn…
THAT CRAZY GOMEZ FAMILY
Crossing the plaza with my beautiful young husband
Pink Houses, East New York, I was twenty-two,
second child on the way, heard that hair dye
hurts babies, so I let the wild silver streak
through my black curls, neighbors watched
and gossiped, You know the brother from 2H?
His wife’s a vieja with white hair!
Don’t listen to them! sniffed my sister-in-law,
and she turned off her favorite movie,
opened the kitchen window and yelled,
We’re mad as hell and we’re not going to take it anymore!
Go ahead, your turn, she said, and we all
screamed into the courtyard, people laughed,
It’s just that crazy Gomez family again, all in fun
until the pot hit the pavement, and our party
ended like they all did in those days…
police sirens, bloody heads, fists cuffed, bail money
Friday nights, how quickly the sky fell into Saturday
I remember Carmen’s café con leche,
bunk beds and linoleum, long subway rides
back to my lower east side rooms, and then..
junkie death masks knocked, I answered, yes,
come in, life only lasts a minute, but
I was wrong again, neither my tracks
nor my memory expired
I still face the wall, close my eyes,
morning turns my face to glass,
my blood’s a transient boarder,
my body’s single room occupancy, doubles
for rent, my thoughts are king-sized lies,
the windows are nailed shut, the Gomez
family moved to Florida, my back’s
against walls, doors, and yesterday’s
windows, didn’t know it would hurt,
didn’t know it would hurt so much
Across the river, I hear your warning:
The tides turn, Puma, the tides turn…
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Coney Island is for Lovers
I have not one, but two love stories on the blog and the video. One is an ex-boyfriend and the story of how we met at the Siren Festival in Coney Island. The other is me and Big Mike and the Mermaid Parade.
http://www.lolasdiary.com/puma-perl-big-mike/
I included photos to accompany the story and am now shown, breasts hanging like a National Geographic centerfold. They didn't look so bad in green, but the ones with the body paint dripping off are rough. She didn't include the photo where we look the happiest in the blog, but it's in the video.
The story of me and my ex-boyfriend, Louie, is here:
http://www.lolasdiary.com/puma-and-louie/
It's a simpler story and the ending is that it ended. I don't have an ending with Big Mike yet.
There is a video too.
http://www.facebook.com/#!/video/video.php?v=10150099624409323&oid=138587312872199&comments
Coincidentally, I know the winners of the love story contest, Christine and Chris. It is a really sweet story. Mine is more bittersweet, one relationship gone and the other - future unknown at this point. I probably have done everything possible to sabotage and self-sabotage. I have acted as impulsively as I did sending in those photos, which are also in the window of the Broome Street location. I don't feel brave at all right now.
http://www.lolasdiary.com/puma-perl-big-mike/
I included photos to accompany the story and am now shown, breasts hanging like a National Geographic centerfold. They didn't look so bad in green, but the ones with the body paint dripping off are rough. She didn't include the photo where we look the happiest in the blog, but it's in the video.
The story of me and my ex-boyfriend, Louie, is here:
http://www.lolasdiary.com/puma-and-louie/
It's a simpler story and the ending is that it ended. I don't have an ending with Big Mike yet.
There is a video too.
http://www.facebook.com/#!/video/video.php?v=10150099624409323&oid=138587312872199&comments
Coincidentally, I know the winners of the love story contest, Christine and Chris. It is a really sweet story. Mine is more bittersweet, one relationship gone and the other - future unknown at this point. I probably have done everything possible to sabotage and self-sabotage. I have acted as impulsively as I did sending in those photos, which are also in the window of the Broome Street location. I don't feel brave at all right now.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
ALL THE PRESIDENTS WOMEN
Next show at the Yippie! Presidents Day, 2/21/11! 6:30-8:30!
Yippie Museum Cafe, 9 Bleecker St, bet Bowery & Elizabeth, NYC
FREE, but please throw something in the can for the Yippies! Coffee, tea, soft beverages available. Limited open mic, sign up early!
Poetry, Performance, Music, and More!
...Hosted by the one and only BIG MIKE!
...
Featuring the Beautiful, Amazing:
FAUX MAUX (Mo Kelly) - The consummate performance artist/actress/ playwright/writer - she has brought her awesomeness all over the world! Creates plays, performances, one-woman shows, and creative havoc of all kinds!!!! Author of NUDE ARTIST MODEL and many other performance pieces! A member of the DDAY Productions trio!
FIONA HELMSLEY - a thirty- something momshell, navel-gazer and recovering fun slut. Her first book, There Are A Million Stories In The Naked City When You’re A Girl Who Gets Naked In The Naked City was released last year. A writer of creative non- fiction and poetry, her work can be found scattered about the print and online worlds while her fashion sense stays static at whatfionaworetoday.tumblr.com.
NICOLE PEYRAFITTE - a performance artist born and raised in the French Pyrenees. She considers herself a Gasco-Rican (1/2 Gascon, 1/2 American) & citizen of Brooklyn. Her work draws on her eclectic heritage and addresses the experiences of negotiating her identity across two continents and four languages. Peyrafitte pursues related multi-cultural and multi-media investigations inspired by places, history, and gastronomy often integrate her voice, texts, visuals and cooking. She has two CD’s out “The Bi-Continental Chowder” & “Whisk! Don’t Churn”.
PUMA PERL – Poet/Writer/Performance Artist/Producer/Curator and co-creator of DDAY Productions and this event - author of the recently released book "knuckle tattoos," the award winning chapbook "Belinda and Her Friends," widely published in journals and anthologies, internationally! Creator of 6 Minutes and Cut and many other pieces!
REBECCA SCHUMEJDA - the author of Falling Forward, a full-length collection of poems (sunnyoutside, 2009); The Map of Our Garden (verve bath, 2009); Dream Big Work Harder (sunnyoutside press 2006); The Tear Duct of the Storm (Green Bean Press, 2001); and the poem "Logic" on a postcard (sunnyoutside). You can find her online at www.rebeccaschumejda.com. Currently, she is working on a collection of poems exploring the pool hall subculture, inspired by her short-lived experience as a co-owner of a pool hall.
BIG MIKE is the author of 2 books, 81 Pounds and Sibling Rivalry and appears in the anthology One Millimeter, all published by Pretty Pollution Press. Big Mike is known for his performance art and was awarded Best Neptune in the 2004 Mermaid Parade in Coney Island.See More
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