how we're directing 'em: notes on the 7 Suzan-Lori Parks' plays i'm producing at the Jubilee Theater

potential theatrical musicians:

Rachella Parks ?
Theater Fire ?
Shannon Jackson ?
Swirve ?
young Rebecca Montalvo ?

David & Quincy / as twins?


Titles of the Constants:

1. Remember Who You Are

2. Action in Inaction

3. Inaction in Action

I WILL BE DIRECTING a
trio of short plays--also by Parks, which are called THE CONSTANTS. These 3 short short plays have 1-2 characters each, and I had you in mind for one of them. (These scripts, mind you, are more about mood, tempo, and blocking than about DIALOGUE.)

I also was HOPING that Chris could bring his musicianship
to the project by playing soundtrack music for the THREE
CONSTANTS i am directing. Each play has a different mood,
so there would be variety. With his effects pedals, etc., it
would be very interesting to have him accompany the performances.

Rehearsals would be minimal, probably on Saturdays (morning, afternoon, early evening???)


I have (as production organization SOUND CULTURE) signed up to produce 7 plays by Suzan-Lori Parks, the Pulitzer Prize-
winning (the first African-American Woman to win, by the way) playwright. She wrote TOPDOG UNDERDOG. and has written
many other, lesser known, plays. Her stuff rocks.

The 7 plays we are producing will be DIRECTED BY 7 DIFFERENT DIRECTORS, who i've already selected and who are all locally-based. I am not one of those 7 directors, but

THE ACTUAL SHOWS are on a MONDAY AND TUESDAY NIGHT, SHOWTIME AT 7PM OR 8PM (PROBABLY 8PM), AND the running
time of the entire program will be about 1 hour, 20 minutes.

Downtown FW location----very established African-American theater called the Jubilee Theater.

to Tamitha Curiel:
It seemed, because you are in Dallas and couldn't rehearse
alot with me in person, and also because you have a theater
background, that I should just give you creative "authority"
and "space" to make choices about INACTION IN ACTION.
It just seemed practical, also, because you were going to
pull in props & things from your household (like kids' toys, etc.),
and know better what you have to choose from.

The plate-spinning concept occurred to me because it is my
personal image of how I feel when I'm overwhelmed with
multi-tasking and deadlines staring me in the face.
That sheer panic of having so so much to do, and being
deathly aware of the clock eternally ticking, edging us
to inclusion of our work, ambitions, and ultimately, our lives.
I always felt really sorry for the circus guy trying to keep
all those plates going.--- For a performance, I liked the
notion that those sticks (with paper plates perched atop or taped
atop) would be banging to the floor a few seconds after
you turned away from them.  What an insult to your effort...and
the hopelessness of the situation strikes me as a mix of
pathos and humor.

2-3 minutes duration will probably be long enough to get the point across.

++++++++++++++++++++++

set is limited ---- so environment has got to be interesting.

structually everything is light, minimal.


Greek Tragedy & Jerry Springer - to be directed by Yvonne Duque
toga & tablets look - would like some chant-ey chorus intro.

First Beginning - to be directed by KelleyDianne

would love music for “performances” sections

The look is very simple. I was thinking only blue light  as if we were outside under the star and moon. Two chairs or stools (if stools varying heights). and Bro. Chris.With each scene the lights should fade on us and go the chris in his performance and fade back up on us. when that happens we will be in a different tableaux/chairs(or stools) re-positioned. and so on.


I met with musician Chris Curiel
(CurielC@primesourcebp.com)
last week and he is happy to
play live music for your segment
of the show, FIRST BEGINNING.

Chris has a fantabulous sequin-y
multicolored gown which he will
wear for this particular play, to
distinguish him visually from
the other plays.

He is an amazing one-man musical wonder.

I would also LOVE to read any notes you may share about the LOOK of this piece. Am trying to get a feel of each work, in order to ascertain how much variety and complexity is emerging from our processes of production.

Look - to be directed by Stormi Demerson
performed by Paul Doucet, Michele Renee, Reign.

two speaking characters - are in an art gallery
artpiece is performed by an actor (pre-set)

Stitches - to be directed by Rob Bosquez
performed by Rob Bosquez and Annie

Home TV show actor will wheel in a cart of fabrics to demonstrate.
War sounds audio will be suggestive, rather than representational.

6’4” - to be directed by Laney Yarber
Each rung on a ladder will have a different sound, up and down.  maybe 5 minutes for entire play.

Poem #85 of 365

Some days I got words at my beck and call
and others, well some days I can't summon
any word at all. And it's not always the
words that stimey, it's the combination
thereof, the thematic constraints, the urge
to make sense, to sensitively connect the
verbs and the vowels, make my fingers
speak as a gardening trowel, digging beneath
and deep in the dirt to exhale and expel the
the story to tell. A spun little yarn
of my choosing, of living and dying, of
winning and losing. What to share and what
to reveal, how much of my memory is locked
under seal?

I want to not waste the moments I spend pecking
keys on a board, and lastly, but not leastly, this
space that I hoard, here on this page, I don't want
it ill-used like a key in a cage, I want it substantial
and radiant and relevant, not leftover
junk, idle white elephant.

I must earn my readership, spur rereads of the
words I write, cuz I want them to savor every
passage, every byte. Not one verb will be extra,
I'll delete the superfluous noun, if I work hard,
unceasingly, these lines might grow profound.



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #84 of 365

I let a net catch me once
as if a spider had gotten me snared,
and it felt tight, it was snug
and for a minute it feel right.

When you resist, that's when
trouble begins, when free will
ain't stronger than the vise
or the cuffs, and because you
like to squirm, well there's
problems with that.

The more you move, the
louder you yell, somehow it's
connected to black baton compel,
and sooner than later, your neck's
under a boot and your heart's in
a hold, no mercy in begging.

I've tried to be tough, and suffered
the webs and got floundered for
lunch, and the spiders that got me
are large as men, and yet i go back
and go back, again and again.

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #83 of 365

Wouldn't you like to wake with your bed made up,
and your lawn mowed down,
and gas tank topped off,
wouldn't you like for it to just get done?

Wouldn't you like to never have a dish to clean,
and dog to feed, and a mother to phone,
a garden to tend, and a mouth to feed,
no job undone?

Wouldn't you like the chores all complete,
the taxes filed, the floormats neat,
a tub and no ring, welcome mat clean,
wouldn't you like no reason to wake?

Wouldn't you like to sleep in dreams,
never to rise, and have no suffering,
puff in the eyes, no air to breathe,
no water to drink, no life to live,
wouldn't you like to just be dead?

maybe, fool, you would rather just be dead.

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

MY FORT WORTH: Make Love, Not War - Sunday benefit for Peaceful Vocations

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

PEACEFUL VOCATIONS fundraiser on March 25, 2007, to feature North Texas jazz legends Dennis Gonzalez and Jhon Kahsen


MAKE ART, NOT WAR is the title of the fundraiser scheduled for Sunday, March 25th, 2007, 6-9pm, at Arts Fifth Avenue (1628 5th Avenue), which will benefit Peaceful Vocations, a local organization which serves high school youth--who are of military recruitment age--by offering info and resource options to enlistment.

MAKE ART, NOT WAR will bring to the stage, for the first time on the same bill, two North Texas avant-garde jazz veterans: Dennis Gonzalez with Yells at Eels, and Jhon Kahsen (nee Johnny Case) with his Anarkestra.

Kahsen, longtime resident pianist at Sardine’s Italian Ristorante and visual artist, and Gonzalez, the Dallas-based trumpeter and educator, will each perform with their bands, but may also perform an impromptu improvisational segment together for the first time.

Notable local spoken word artists Silence, Froze, and Zoe Pardee will each perform an original poem. Video art, visual art, and information about Peaceful Vocations will also be presented.

Admission: $10 sliding scale--includes hors d’oeuvres.

For more information:

on DENNIS GONZALEZ and Yells at Eels:

http://www.dennisgonzalez.com/htmlfiles/biography.htm
http://myspace.com/yellsateels
http://members.aol.com/yellsateels/who.html
http://www.onefinalnote.com/reviews/g/gonzalez-dennis/home.asp

on JHON KAHSEN:

http://www.myspace.com/johnnycase  
http://www.pegasusnews.com/bands/johnny-case/
http://cdbaby.com/cd/jhonkahsen
http://www.sardinesristorante.com/music.asp

on PEACEFUL VOCATIONS:

http://www.dallasnews.com/sharedcontent/dws/news/nation/stories/111805dnnatrecruiting.1b5fe1c8.html
http://www.myspace.com/peacefulvocations
_______________________________________

Last day to see "The Journey is the Destination" exhibit in FW

DAN ELDON: THE JOURNEY IS THE DESTINATION--IMAGES OF WAR AND CELEBRATION

Fort Worth Community Arts Center
(the old Modern Art Museum)
1300 Gendy Street, 76107

9am to 5pm ONLY! Today is the last day to catch it!

"Dan Eldon was a world traveler who chronicled his life in a series of journals crammed with the ephemera of his adventures. By age 22, he had traveled to more than 40 countries and become one of the youngest Reuters news photographers ever. Just shy of his twenty-third birthday, he and three colleagues were stoned and beaten to death by an angry mob (who mistook them for Americans, actually, cuz this happened shortly after the "Black Hawk down" incident) in Mogadishu, Somalia. His journals and photographs testify to his prolific, boundless, energy and his love of Africa and her people."

Go see this today! Or go find the amazing documentary book Eldon wrote: THE JOURNEY IS THE DESTINATION.

Poem #82 of 365

Curtis leaned out the window
with a whiskered grin
thrusting an enveloped card
into my palm

a card from a shaman
in Austin, a poet with
diabetes named Ariel.

She is an initiated daykeeper
in the Mayan tradition and
pounds on the house
when the chimes are too loud.

I know the strangest people
with the most delicate
of temperaments, the quirks
and the quips of yearning,
learning destitute times.

Ariel read my back in a
night on the floor, measuring
my muscles with precise
pressure and surmising
that I carry my mother's
conscience in my hump
my hump my hump.

She, as housemate, cooked
one egg and set it on the
smallest plate, and she
wore her safari hat
to Chicago House on
dark nights with no a/c.

Someday I'll be that strange
and beloved, with many more
pals and admirers jesting my ways,
and it will come
again to mind that GM's
theory will possibly be true:

we love people and make them
our friends, despite their neuroses,
precisely because it is those neuroses
that endear them, dearly, to us.

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #81 of 365

You're splashing the kitchen
with a happy laugh
and I imagine that your daddy
is smiling down at
your little girl face
or maybe instead
looking away to wipe down
the microwave plate.

Other fathers are cussing
and drunken, sudsing in
jowls of hollow bitters,
and grabbing their
daughters strongly,
too harshly, at the
delicate
wrists.

Oh, to wash them down,
oh, to rinse away the
residue of daughterly
tears. Oh, to smite
the daddys who drink
and make their case
on six-packs, bellowing
epithets of authority
while they lose control.

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #80 of 365

we moved away from the parkway, and climbed up the parapet-wall to our upper yard, and into the house, breezy and unlocked, in a trusting manor. we swept to our respective rooms, as one does after a day at the beach. to wash, to groom, to doze, to eat. all to do something alone. i moved into a room, past the open french-style doors and lazy white curtains gently swirling under a light breezy fan, to find a pink-lettered note [see attached] on my bed. it was charming and kind, attractive and soothing, and i thought oh, what a surprise. reading it for comfort, rather than for i.d., many seconds flew by.

another person came to my side, with a cylinder in her hand, lovely painted and feminine in style. “yes, this came with my letter! you got a letter too, i see. where is your gift?” i pulled the object from her gentle grip, and imagined it was a stylized candle of some sort. a candle, i told her, maybe that’s what it is. at that, i tugged at the fastening at the tip, the obvious top, to unleash the wick, certainly every gift candle--left in a house--should have a wick. as i pulled at the side foil and decorative top, a swelling began inside the canister. too late, i realized that this thing was more than a candle and worse, a quite unkind gift. i didn’t wait for smoke to begin emanating, as i quickly stepped towards the outdoors, and those following behind, putting their thoughts in order and coming to the same dismaying conclusion, called out suggestions and beckoned me to hasten my steps, but also to be safe and careful.

the cylinder of danger vibrated with potential and it throbbbed at its tip like a turned-on penis, and then i tossed it, hard as i could, away away, to another world, safe away from me and us.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #79 of 365

Fascinated by the proper burial
and where it takes place,
you marvel at bodies in
boxes, bones in dirt,
when i've only seen humans
on riverside ghats
burning to the last
charred moment.

And, Al, my ex-housemate,
who worked a crematorium,
saw how oil flowed from the dead,
the fatter the body, the
higher the tide.

One day I'll be in Tibet to
see vultures at high table
and the ultimate ritual
flinging of bones.

And then there are the curtains
at night, keeping out shadows,
but always whispering softly
the remains of the day.

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #78 of 365

I have a green football in my shoe
I have a yellowjacket in my coat
I have a salad green in my golf

You want a green day in your week
You want a pink slip on your girl
You want a purple heart in your cow

They sing a blue streak in their jazz
They sing a black hole in your soul
They sing a black and tan in my mouth.



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #77 of 365

When the orange-jerseyed
Buddhist monks did a head-to
head with the accolytes from
Burma, I knew a battle was
forthcoming.

At the lip-off, the monk from
Dharamsala uttered lyrical
lines from the Dhammapada
while the Tibetan rinpoche
used a wisened tongue to
outline his mouth

as if he was sounding
a singing bowl at a stupa.

It was dizzying, the flashy
frenzy of the saffron robes
swishing this way and that,
as the bare-legged men
hugged and danced
from the starting whistle

to the mid-way timeout
at which point they feasted
on momos and butter tea
and debated the finer points
of Buddhist history.

I saw two monks from
Bhutan battle it out
over the last of the rice,
spitting smiles that could
charm a lion and frothing
with delight in the midwinter's
sun as the Shambhala in
their hearts became
a city for real.

(if Buddhist monks did exhibition sports on ESPN)

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #76 of 365

climate-controlled

on days like today---it's gorgeously sunny
and NOT too cold---i get so angry seeing
drivers with their windows rolled up. i have
to assume that many of them have the a/c
or heat on.

those young frat Greek types, who live in
shorts and flipflops year-round, you can
imagine that they move from their perfectly
climate-controlled condo/apartments through
their heated/cooled garages and into an
automobile which can be quickly adjusted
for perfect temperature. they don't wear
coats or socks, and live in a constant
70 degree-temperature bubble.

they don't sweat, they don't shiver, i imagine.
evolutionarily speaking, they're becoming
maladaptive.

and then one day, they might decide to go
summit a mountain in a far-off state, where
even the dumbest of the locals know that
you NEVER attempt to climb that particular
mountain after November snows begin. but
what do they know, they're swaggering
Texans who forget that it's NATURE that
calls the shots.

there's a quote i've saved from my first trip
to Nepal:

about the mountain---learn to honor its
way, or it will have its way with you.

punto.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #75 of 365

I remember the summer i was in love
with Sherman Alexie.

It was so nice to be in love that
way, with someone's writing, someone's
bookflap photo.

Then, i went online one day and found
an audio file of Alexie doing a reading,
so i listened, and you could hear the
sound

like air quickly escaping through a
slash in a car tire,

that's how it sounded when my heart
deflated.

I just didn't dig his voice, and there
was a little bourgie tint in it
that also put me off.

Thank god that Jerzy Kosinski and Kafka
and Dorothy Parker, and so many others
I admire, are long dead....

Hmmm, I wonder if people feel that about
me sometimes, wishing that they had
never met me in person...?

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #74 of 365

She bade me lie
upon my back
and never mind
the world:

just close your
eyes and see
white light.

I heard the sound
of broken stems
as she pulled off
the flowerheads

and placed some
on my torso

then i felt sudden
pressure
as she rubbed
me down with blossoms

brushing the petals
into my skin with
short swift strokes
like erasing a name

striking a match.

The scent of the flowers
made my room
a midday garden,
a bed of serene
and quiet prayer.

The last one then,
a carnation white,
she perched between
my lips,

and it was that one,
that last flower,
that set me singing
tears melodic
down my face
in two racing liquid trails.


[recalling the flower limpia that Patrisia performed on me]



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #73 of 365

el tiene un mojo
atop his head
a hair magic
dispersing
the firmament
of godliness.

he has a mohawk
hair with indian name
that bisects his
skull and thrusts
middle fingers
to the sky.

el tiene un mojo
asi se dice en
mexico cuando
hablan del
haircult de punks
in el Defe.

yo tomo un mojito
my first in this
life and the herbal
infusion takes me
to Colorado thirsts
and hot springs
dips.

puede ser que
mojito significa
'little mohawk'
and when we sip
this Cuban elixir
it makes our
stunned hair
stand up on end.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #72 of 365

Carrie this, Carrie that.

I watch her type the
life's cruel joke
or paradoxical question
for the episode.

And I am growing weary
of her pedantic murmurs,
the frantic asides
between Manhattan mixed drinks.

Yet I also have moments
of fascination, which I honor
and anticipate within the
30-minute spurts.

It gives satisfaction, I
suppose, to know that
I didn't have to type no
damn column to figure
out whether I'm lonely
or just horny.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #71 of 365

The mother wondered about
her daughter's dirt mustache

mentioning it several times
in gentle teasing tone,

and I thought to myself
did it matter more
because the kid was dirty

or because the kid
obviously
didn't give a shit.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #70 of 365

Save you, those who can.
Save yourself now, if you.

There are ropes and things
so fragile as spider silk,
something like that
wherever you can find it

throw it down
i can throw it down
cut off the dead parts
take off the rough cuts
save you.

Save you, those who can.
Save yourself now, if you.

Mamas wrap their babies
in beds and toss them
out windows from fire
and fights

throw them down
i can throw them down
save all the good parts
stave off the bad bites
save you.

Save you, those who can.
Save yourself now, if you.

Use water to think of a
better way, wash face
to bring a new look

splash it up
i can splash my face
squint all the ache off
clean out sad eyes
save you.

Save you, those who can.
Save yourself now, if you.


[listening to Juana Molina again.]


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #69 of 365

i'm not certain how you feel,
you're hard to read

so
i reach for your lifeline--
it bisects your palm.

it's hard to find when your hand
is a fist and your mouth
is a crushed-up cheeto's bag

a little air, a lot of noise.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #68 of 365

I must be made of honey this week
cuz the bears are lurking close
in grunts and rubs that send
big chills up my crooked crooked spine

If they only knew that I am sugar and
turbinado and sucrose willing
and the jar is overrun by bees
of the voluptuous kind

Once I stretch along the horizons
of sweet melted bedframes
perhaps then they'll know,
it took MC a minute to come to his mind

They lure and i can lure back with
a bend in the back that sure rockets
the tame, and it's the season of spring
that sets things off, making all of us intertwine.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #67 of 365

"hey little sister shotgun..."

i her this
hear this

she's my sister
could be my blood

why spill hers

i don't wanna hear no damn
man sing or speak the
words

gun and woman
kill and girl
sister and shotgun

together in the same sentence

not on any day
in my house no mo'


[clock-radio reset to some crappy station, waking me to "White Wedding" by Billy Idol on INTERNATIONAL WOMEN'S DAY]


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Events on Tuesday, March 20th - in Dallas

Paul Rusesabagina - Featured Writer
The Writers Studio
Tuesday, March 20, 7:30PM
Theatre Three 2800 Routh Street
Dallas, TX 75201
(in the Quadrangle)
$28 Members, Students & Seniors
$34 Others
Group discounts available

Ten years ago, as the country of Rwanda descended into madness, one man made a promise to protect the family he loved—and ended up finding the courage to save over 1200 people. Over the course of 100 days, almost one million people were killed in Rwanda. Hotel Rwanda, nominated for three Academy Awards, tells the inspiring story of real-life hero Paul Rusesabagina. His autobiography, An Ordinary Man, delves into Rusesabagina’s personal journey, which has since led him around the world with his message of hope, peace and “never again.”

"I've become a humanitarian and I never thought I would become one. And, as a humanitarian, I wanted to take this message on a wider scale, to raise awareness of what happened in my country so that the international community can help others who suffer now."

An Ordinary Man, was published on the 12th anniversary of the genocide in 2006. A moving story, it delves into Rusesabagina's personal journey while explaining the history behind Rwanda's Hutu and Tutsis conflict. He has also founded the Hotel Rwanda Rusesabagina Foundation (HRRF) which provides support, care, and assistance to children orphaned by, and women abused during, the genocide in Rwanda.
===============================================================================
ALSO - LUNCH with PAUL RUSESABAGINA
Tuesday, March 20, 11 am - 1 pm
In partnership with the World Affairs Council of Dallas / Fort Worth and The Black Academy of Arts and Letters.

Join Mr. Rusesabagina for lunch and engaging discussion, Tuesday, March 20th at noon. Lunch included, reservations required.

Where: The Black Academy of Arts and Letters
Dallas Convention Center Theatre Complex
650 South Griffin Street, Dallas, TX 75202

$25 for Members / $35 Others
$5 late fee for reservations made after March 17th
Call the Reservation Hotline at (214) 965-8412 for more info.

******************************************************************
Reserve your seats now for Señorita Extraviada on March 20th at the Latino Cultural Center

Oxygen, Time Warner Cable, and the Vistas Film Festival invite you to a complimentary private screening of the award-winning film, Señorita Extraviada — a gripping documentary that tells the story of the hundreds of kidnapped, raped and murdered young women of Juárez, Mexico. The murders first came to light in 1993 and young women continue to "disappear" to this day without any hope of bringing the perpetrators to justice. Who are these women from all walks of life and why are they being murdered so brutally?

Tickets are available via RSVP only. All you have to do is visit www.timewarnercable.com/dallas. There will be a small ad for the screening on the bottom of the page. Click on that ad and then click on the “Get a Free Ticket” box. All you have to do then is fill out the RSVP form and you’re set. Please note: Tickets are for one person only, so anyone who wishes to attend will need to fill out the form.

Here are just a few of the awards this film has won:

Ariel Award, From the Mexican Academy of Cinema Arts and Sciences, Best Mexican Documentary, 2003, Mexico City, Mexico.
Special Jury Prize Sundance Film Festival, 2002, Park City, Utah.
FIPRESCI Award to Best Foreign Film 2002, Thessaloniki Documentary Film Festival, 2002, Thessaloniki, Greece.
Best Documentary, Malaga Film Festival, 2002, Malaga, Spain.
Grand Prize "Coral" for Best Documentary, Festival Internacional del Nuevo Cine Latinoamericano, 2002, La Habana, Cuba.

Please don't miss this incredible film. There are only 250 seats available – RSVP today.

Señorita Extraviada film screening
March 20, 2007
Latino Cultural Center
2600 Live Oak
Dallas, Texas
Screening begins at 7:30 PM

from J. Frank Hernandez of the Vistas Film Festival

My great cookin' comrade, Karimi, stirs it up in the Twin Cities

I think I might have said this before, but my friend & fellow spoken word/performance artista, Robert Karimi, is always COOKIN SOMETHIN UP. When he helped fly me out to the Bay Area for a gig at Newark HS where he "taught" English, he kept feeding me. And when we drove out to the hot spot in San Jose, FUEL, for our cd release party/performance for RAZA SPOKEN HERE VOL. 2, Robert seemed more concerned with barbecuing the hot spicy wings than with cueing up the music and testing the mic. He's the consummate host with a wooden spoon perpetually in his fist. I love this guy forever...he can rock the mic, though, and you best not forget it.....


COOKING CON KARIMI AND THE QUEST FOR THE SECRET INGREDIENT

Featuring Mero Cocinero Karimi,
Comrade Castro and the Community Cooperative Collective of Bucko, Gutiérrez, Lundeen, Murphy and Reynolds
Directed by Meena Natarajan / Costume Design by Erin Lavelle Lundeen

March 1 - 11 (Thursdays - Sundays)
7:30 p.m.
@ Pangea World Theater Studio
711 West Lake St, Suite 101
Minneapolis, MN 55408

GET YOUR TICKETS NOW!! at www.pangeaworldtheater.org or 612-203-1088
Tickets only $18/discounts for seniors, students, and groups!!

FREE FOOD WITH YOUR TICKET

Back by Popular Demand, Pangea welcomes progressive public access chef, Mero Cocinero Karimi, the idealistic, Iranian-Guatemelan, public-access host, and chef to revolutionaries, dreamers, and community builders for Cooking Con Karimi and the Quest for the Secret Ingredient. Mero Cocinero Karimi is the host of Cooking Con Karimi, a traveling public access show, and is joined by his leftist right hand man in the kitchen: Comrade Cocinero Castro, on their War-Causes-Indigestion Tour. Both Mero and his Comrade will cook up revolutionary recipes LIVE in their quest to spread culinary consciousness and create social change one kitchen at a time.

There will be comedy, food, and politics swirled together into a feast for the senses!!!!

Don’t forget every audience member eats! Yes, free food for everyone! Post-show community discussion and food!

Get your tickets now, as this show sold out last time in the preview run in Minneapolis. And there’s only 8 shows, as Mero and Comrade Castro will take their show on the road where they will finish their tour in New York City at the 1st Annual Asian American Theater Festival in June 2007.

Come early and nominate your proletariat employee of the year (Must be present to win) and bring a recipe to the show and it may be included in our episode or in our cookbook.

about the show:
Mero Cocinero Karimi becomes overwhelmed by the continuing war in Iraq, community apathy, and the idea that the Home of the Food Co-op: St.Paul is also hosting the Republican National Convention in 2008. With the help of community friends, he seeks the secret ingredient that will bring the community together to share stories and revolutionary recipes in order to stop a war that is making everyone sick in the stomach.

Cooking con Karimi is a concept conceived by spoken word artist/performance artist Robert Karimi, Mero Cocinero’s cousin, who sees the show as a way to discuss social change and concepts of mixed culture in a project that engages audiences and performers alike. The show is written by Comrade Castro’s cousin John Castro, and Robert Karimi, who volunteered their time to help the two chefs create the show. Also as part of the creative team are the Community Cooperative Collective of Steven Bucko, Armando Gutiérrez G., Erin Lavelle Lundeen, Melissa Anne Murphy, and Scott Reynolds, who helped invite the other community members who are part of this fun-filled, yet provocative episode.

Robert Karimi is a fiscal year 2007 recipient of a Cultural Community Partnership grant from the Minnesota State Arts Board. This activity is made possible in part by a grant from the Minnesota State Art Board, through an appropriation by the Minnesota State Legislature and by a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Cooking Con Karimi is made possible in part by a grant from the National Performance Network’s Performance Residency Program. Major contributors of the National Performance Network include the Doris Duke Charitable Foundation, Ford Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts (a federal agency), Altria and the Nathan Cummings Foundation.

The National Performance Network is a group of cultural organizers and artists facilitating the practice and public experience of the performing arts in the United States. NPN serves artists, arts organizers, and a broad range of audiences and communities across the country through commissions, residencies, culture-centered community projects and other artistic activities. For more information: www.npnweb.org .

GET YOUR TICKETS NOW!! at www.pangeaworldtheater.org or 612-203-1088 or tell friends in Minneapolis.

Poem #66 of 365

i stare at 400
watts of bulb llight
with upturned voice
and face,

asking the heat
from those glass orbs

to be strong enough
to burn me hard
smite the spite
melt the chainlink
razor wire gates
that clutter
my walk
make me stumble
unsure, untrue.

the light is unblinking,
closer than stars,
and i am unashamed
to request catharsis,
and a flame that might make
me singe pure:

please make me deserve this role,
this responsibility.

and please help me remember to honor
to honor
to honor
to honor
those who can no longer do this work
alongside me on this path
(ken hunt first, then pasha and devin,
then lorenzo and then michael meyer and
those who have asked for poems and time and calls
i have not had the time to give back

please don't let me wait until it's too late
let me now
honor
and honor
and honor
the elders
and the children
and every one of my tribes
people today


[after re-reading Kamala Platt's essay "Social Justice Theories in Performance Poetry" (1994) about my literary work, written when i was still so very wet behind the ears and so fast out the chute...]

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #65 of 365

One of the final tasks before leaving
my beloved Austin was to do a
drive-by on Congress in a borrowed car.

My friends had bade me farewell with
a series of lunches, parties, and happy
hour drizzles,

and I had kissed pretty Emily in a tipi
of my own making before the storms came,

and Julia had made a Mount Everest cake
with a four-legged toy making do as a yak,

but then we split into two different houses
when the rains pelted down hard
and i phoned Julia: "we're dancin' cumbia over heah",

and she urged, "honey, the cake is over HEAH!".

But, back to the drive-by and the task at hand,
after the suds of the Woolite had slipped down
the drain, i air-dried and carefully folded the
gift for the man.

And i drove to where i'd find him, any one could
find him on the streets on the nicest of days,
primped on a chaise lounge in the barest of clothes.

Leslie was the man, the s/him of the city, an icon
poised halfway between the banklords and the
government mansion, smiling so broad through
s/his beard unbrushed.

I pulled the car swift to the curb, holding out
the black garment as s/he turned towards my words:
Take it, Leslie, it's yours. I brought you some lingerie,
before i leave town. Now i can really leave.


[Leslie is one of the most popular people in a city with the most colorful street life in Texas.]

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #64 of 365

"We must unprepare for the land"
were the last words of my final
dream this chilly morning

thanks to the ill-timed phoning
by an uptight chick with a dayplanner voice

nonetheless i lapsed back into my
reverie, remembering my dream,
once the phone was cradled and quiet.

i am seeing a boy, that is, when i squint
to recall, and he has a gingerbread
face and a thrilled ebullient laugh,

so what was i to learn from this lad?

to unprepare for the land, i supposed
meant you can't be composed when you
surrender to the breeze of an outside
excursion these days.

we must undo what we've learned,
and take off the watch, and forsake
all high-tech dependence.

my friend was just there, in forest
in tent, and perhaps that is why i
am thinking of land.

are you unprepared? are you ready
to let go the net, and leave off the
phone, and relinquish your
refrigerator for a life face to
face with the sun?


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #63 of 365

I am shivering back in Dallas
and the scratchy upholstered
seat on Flight 415 now seems
so long ago

as i step up to a glass partition
that breaks some of the cold-chill
wind as i wait for the last train at night.

I am alone, there are no other people and
it is the stars and parking lot lights
that keep me warm inside and bright

until i step up to a red lump on the
platform, inert and breathless, a red-combed
cardinal in its death.

He must have made a mortal mistake,
slapping into the glass walls that now
make my wait sufferable. I step up
and stare down at its plumage,
seemingly primped for a burial

yet I know that abandoned souls
on the tarmacs and platforms
of this world often get overlooked
and certainly stepped over

despite the beloved chirps we once
freely shared from the highest of treetops
unencumbered by plate glass
and late-train schedules.

And so i sing, i sing to the bird,
to the twinkling sky,
and the parking lot lights,
and the coin-machine fixtures,

and there is no waiting anymore.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #62 of 365

Beer for breakfast,
and why not,
the stores closed too
early the evening before

so we set off on a walking
good start today.

L and B gave me a tour,
and we passed orange
trees and chickens,
puppies with crooked gaits,
as Maxwell House aromas
swirled to our nostrils
when we approached
the factory plant.

We stopped at the Reynita
panaderia to order 100
fresh pieces of bread for
our show, and L pulled down
barstools so we could
comfortably drool in unison
at the pastries behind glass.

As we munched on conchas
and tri-colored cookies, we
continued our hike in search
of a drink. The Country Club
was the oasis that B led us to,
and i could hardly believe that
the building was not yet condemned.

We laughed over the voice of
John Fogerty and other jukebox
throwbacks, as we munched
on french fries and burgers to
salt our Modelos. Especial, so special.

I told them that this weekday
cantina moment rivaled the
delectable memory of visiting
a Chicano lounge up in Denver
during play-offs season,

where the Budweisers were cheap
and the first styrofoam bowl
of menudo was delivered
to each table
on the house.


(recuerdos de un Friday well-spent with friends Liana and Bryan in H-town's 2nd Ward)

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #61 of 365

She skims the carpet as she steps
and it occurs to consider
that there may be no footprints
once she has passed

But not because she does
not leave an impression
as we know she always does,
leaving us awed in her wake

Like a ship's figurehead
she has certainly charted miles
and sometimes troubled waters
yet she seems innocent from her travels

Until we hear her speak
which in her bassoon alto voice
becomes more like chanted
morse code than actually talking

And we are coaxed and
metamorphed into her galaxy
of vowels and her stories of
pills, multicolored as anime,
a delicious cinema
of non sequitur tales

We reach for her words as
freefalling petals without nets
hoping to piece together her
blossoms, remaking the bouquet
of her invincibility.

Stay strong, little sister,
as strong as the thunderclaps
of laughter that emit
from your crystal robinsbreast soul.


(para Tonzi, con todo respeto---for more info on my dear hermanita-en-poesia, go here. )


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #60 of 365

It wasn't as bad
as i thought
it would be

even an hour
in Dallas at
the station
was mild

and i love
anyway to
stare at the
people

surreptitiously
of course.

That one guy,
wearing a black
bowler
who kept ogling
himself in the
plate-glass
window as we
queued for
the bus

i think he
might have been
going for the
ska-meets-Kid Rock
look that
definitely gets
lost on me.

But he's fascinating
nonetheless
cuz i don't
know guys like him:
sliding off his
elaborate
black leather
coat to reveal
bare shoulders
(at 3am)
in a white undershirt
out of season.

Later, i eye him
again from my
bus seat
as he smokes
one last pre-board
cigarette and i
see him easy to
smile and do
repartee,
relaxed and
genuine,

and i turn
away with
a nod, accepting
that a young
male Greyhound
passenger
fashionista
can actually
also be nice
and
unpretentious.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #59 of 365

Multi-tasking hurriedly on the day before traveling is like

me starting a sentence that

working out a mathematical improbability

delivering a baby before time to push

making the smoking alarm go off yet again

forgetting who i dialed once the numbers are punched


and wondering if our book should have been titled HECHO EN CHAOS instead.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Nuestra Palabra Book Festival this weekend in Houston

I haven't had a Greyhound Bus experience in many a year; maybe it's about time I gave it another chance. What I have to remind myself is that, no matter the measure of unpleasantries I may have to endure just to get to this festival, it's probable that all the good times, good people I'm likely to meet with in Houston will make it all WORTHWHILE.

Poem #58 of 365

Eating a lemon bar
while others finished
a 26-mile marathon

may have made me look
piggish and sluggish,

but I must suggest that
my gratified smile
and amped-up pep

--after i ate it--

was something I shared
in common with runners
in cowtown today.


(yes, i ate a lemon bar downtown
while others panted toward the finish line
in Saturday's Cowtown Marathon.)

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #57 of 365

they opened their mouths
in unison and out flew

a bird launched from a bed of autumn;
a wave birthed of blood dewdrops;
a dance tapped on rain-pelted pavement;
a breeze coughed from a diseased dying lung.

their sounds permitted a story
to be told without words as

small chirps collapsed the silence;
gruff rumbles chewed up the scenery;
tonal beeps conjured machinery;
hummed voice cajoled labor and delivery.


(awed by the Academy Awards program segment
on sound design, as demo'ed by a vocal orchestra)

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #56 of 365

the vinyl record has traveled
in suitcases and backseats

from New York to Madison to
Fort Worth, only to be

baptised with windstorm
dust on the living room table,

and i just want to believe that
the grit in the grooves

can somehow make that music
sound even more down and dirty

than it already is.

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #55 of 365

An anthem played in the distance,
a Miles song heard for kilometers.

Words came to mind, a lyric of
contention subsided by redemption.

When you repeated the refrain
on the radio, I wanted to sing.

But I was driving on a bumpy torn
street, and traffic was brutal.

If honking horns could croon in
harmony, we might call it jazz.

If new anthems were played for this nation,
our legacy of war might get tuned out.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

WORD PLAY at the Jubilee Theater in FW - Monday night, 2/26/07

Check me out at the upcoming "Evening of Spoken Word", which is happening on Monday, February 26th, at Fort Worth's premiere African-American theater--the Jubilee. Downtown on Main Street, plenty of parking curbside along Main on a Monday, i would think.



I'm particularly honored to be performing at the Jubilee because, as far as i can tell, I'll be the first Chicana/Latina to be invited to do her original poetry at the Jubilee. Thanks to the innovative thinking of new artistic director, Ed Smith, we'll probably be seeing alot of new forums and art forms at the Jubilee in coming years.

So, call (817.338.4411) the theater today, make your reservation. I'm hoping we fill the venue for a rockin' good time. You must check out the other poets who are performing that night, particularly Chuck Jackson, the UTA undergrad who is making a name for himself in spoken word and slam scenes rather quickly. Expect him to blow me away with his eloquent utterances.

Oh, here's the 'official' press announcement:

Jubilee Theatre's 26th Season continues with "Word Play: An Evening of Spoken Word" for one night only on Monday, February 26, 2007 at 8:00 p.m. at Jubilee Theatre, 506 Main Street, Fort Worth.

The evening will feature the area's hottest spoken word artist/poets, including: Tammy Gomez, nationally recognized leader in Latino Literary and performing arts; Chuck Jackson, one of the hottest young poets in Texas today; Michael Guinn, 13th in the World Poetry Slam 06 and a member and co-founder of the Emmy nominated Performance Poetry Troupe "Spoken Images;" and special guests the Fort Worth National Poetry Slam Team, ranked third in the country in 2005 and 8th at the National Poetry Slam 2006.

Tickets: general admission $10, Jubilee Theatre season ticket holders $8. For information: 817-338-4411 or check this link.

Poem #54 of 365

i'm trying to be a dearie.
that means i don't need any challenges,
cuz that complicates my niceness.

[notices a moderate irritant
in her midst and suddenly turns cold, critical]

hey, stop it!

[anger escalates]

stop it, you piece of _________!


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #53 of 365

the clompety-clomp of a
horse greeted my early morning
doze and i imagined the burly
officer in shirt sleeves on this
bright day, heaving his neck
in slight nuanced turns
towards this house and that,
sizing up the neighborhood
based on make and model
of cars parked in driveways;
quality and condition of paint job
on these old wooden bungalows;
and the chiseled precision of high-dollar lawns.

if i’d had more gumption i woulda
sprinted to the porch, disrobed under
the glorious warmth of today’s sun,
and mounted that horse clad only in
the forever length of my black hair.

we together would continue the
urban promenade, a 21st century
godiva whispering mythology
into the ears of a p.d. officer
wandering through the smitten city.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #52 of 365

Mama is burning up her past
and it's the love that she's turned
to ashes.

- Yes, they're my letters, and i need
to get rid of them before I'm dead.

- There's 300 already burned. And
300 more left to burn, some of them
five pages long.

I hold back something as i hold the phone,
it's a lump or a tear or a throb or a word.

- They're my letters, i wrote 'em for daddy,
and he can't read 'em anymore, so nobody
else should read 'em.

- I saw him every Thursday, and every weekend,
and i still wrote to him.

Is the end of love letters the end of love? I don't
ask her, but I ask myself, recalling the bundled
and boxed things he & he & he & he once wrote to me.

In that moment, I began to hate fire & flame in my mother's hands.

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #51 of 365

I used to skate and skid
drawing lines upon the ice
when girls could sing and
smile through wire braces

Letting go of the perimeter
wall felt as freeing as jumping
ino a volcano, airborne over
the bubbling hole.

And when I let go, I mashed
my soles into the blades,
drilling my pace into the
skate-chiseled floor.

My arms jerked and my face
contorted on its own, and it was strange
to be shaky toddler once again
with frequent smashing plummets.

But I never drew blood, angered
over my feeble feet. It was Sharon
who sliced her finger, red drops
dainty on the ice, cutting herself
with her own silver blade.

Crumpled and down for the anguish,
she laughed and cried, as I circled
her with mincing steps, absorbed
more by the round blood dots that
refused to freeze, refused to melt.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #50 of 365

i have to be strict-o-matic
that’s systematically strict
she says, pointing a punishing finger
because she had no ruler. they don’t
make them of wood for slapping.

anymore.

now they send edicts and dictate
their cruelties via email

but it’s all too easy to sidestep
the culpability, feign regret,
and hit delete.

a wooden ruler left you stinging,
publicly pounded,
as crowds reverberated, huddling
to pass the word.

i miss them rulers, she finished
with a shrug employed by women her age
to draw the cape of the past higher up
onto the bones of shoulders.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #49 of 365

my beautiful nights are made
of the sublime moments,
the sound moments,
when the trumpet flows through the crowd
and the air is dense with banjo.
i sing my smile to harmonize,
the hep accordion is on the rise,
and curtis he is focused plink,
plain and plink.

oh my listening soul
the ears of me so riled
and so in love
with this tone
and this tune
with this tone
in this town

and gig of songs
in the
town of sound
makes me play the keys
play the keys play the keys
the a-b-c's
with an itch to tell
to type and tell
how i fell in love
with the tone
and the tune
in this town
just now so soon

how it pleased
the little lobes when they
were drowned in the
key of rogues
sound
of song
in a bar
a sound resound
the trumpet blow
and guitar on go

begin
and end my beautiful night
with your special way
your special way
your special way
your special way
your wispy beard the air in your beard
the space within your beard
i see it
the back wall in your beard


[after a spectacular night of Theater Fire @ the Chat Room Pub]


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #48 of 365

driving her home
from the party
she gushed with
disbelief

"i have never been
served by a white
person, that was
my first time"

all she'd had was
designer water in
a wine glass and
a plastic plateful
of chic hors doerves,
but she was thrilled

"i feel like i just
read the emancipation
proclamation"


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #47 of 365

i removed my clothes for a juxtapose
and the camera stuck like luck no buck
anyway he liked and licked and generally
made me sick and i propose to him a rose

he sauntered to the drawing room
and the easel it screech no peach this teach
me not to pay the bill electricity overfill a pill
to swallow with water and lights out fodder

we hum like fur on the cat that purrs
and from the song we sing no words to ring
but pleased we are back of the car
to wink with stars in mouths a drink

i pay no mind and no clerk fined
and the barrister closed with hands held to nose
and he laughed with me to carve the tree the letter e
with hat in hand command all hourglass sand

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #46 of 365

the bar has sold to a new guy
even the cat must find a new home
they bury the mexican flag *
whistling dixie while the buffalo roam

two vatos are pouring the drinks so
now gringos have insults to sneer
i drank nearby and heard the barrage
but resisted temptation to leer

the growl in his voice was demeaning
but his neck had a pot-bellied jowl
the chilled out bartender ignored him
though i’m sure he heard every vowel

it’s annoying and wincefully painful
to hear ugliness voiced in a bar
all i wanted tonight was a pitstop to
relax with my pint of red rahr

but instead i got to hear bozos
--and that’s insulting the clown with that name--
reveal bigotry over their drinks:
so stereo-friggin’-typical lame


* beyond the vodka


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Detection of Early State Ovarian Cancer - keynote talk @ UNT Health Science Center on Thursday, Feb. 22nd

[This past weekend, I got to talk to my friend and dear compa in arts/letters, Ana Sisnett. Ana is surviving ovarian cancer at this moment in time, and it is to honor her struggle and courage that I share the following anuncio about an upcoming lecture/presentation here in FW. Please attend if you can and/or share the info with someone who might be interested. Thank you.]

David Fishman, MD, will be featured as keynote speaker in the first Distinguished Speaker presentation at the UNT Health Science Center on Thursday, Feb. 22nd in Luibel Hall of the campus of the University of North Texas - Health Science Center in Fort Worth.

Dr. Fishman will present “The Detection of Early Stage Ovarian Cancer.” He is director of gynecologic oncology and the Cancer Detection and Screening Program at the New York University School of Medicine and Cancer Institute. He received his medical training at Texas Tech School of Medicine and completed his internship and residency in Ob/Gyn at Yale University. He also completed a clinical fellowship at Yale in gynecologic oncology.

Registration for the event will begin at 4:30 p.m., with welcome and introductions at 5 p.m.

Dr. Fishman’s presentation will begin at 5:15 p.m., with a panel discussion to follow. Panel members include Alakananda Basu, PhD, professor of molecular biology and immunology; Lori Fischbach, PhD, MPH, UNTHSC assistant professor of epidemiology, UNTHSC School of Public Health; Salvatore LoCoco, MD, FACOG, UNTHSC assistant professor of obstetrics and gynecology; Ray Page, DO, PhD, director of clinical research, The Center for Cancer and Blood Disorders, Texas Cancer Care; and Donna Rankin, regional director of health initiatives, Fort Worth Metro Market, American Cancer Society.

A reception will immediately follow in the Atrium.

The Distinguished Speaker Series is an ongoing series of presentations at the Health Science Center by internationally renowned scientists for intellectual and educational exchange with UNTHSC faculty and the North Texas community.

Poem #45 of 365

They clutched 99 cent things
in the dollar store, such big
spenders they were.

I grabbed two bottles of
brake fluid for 3 dollars,
and still i skid in love.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #44 of 365

10 illicit confessions: in sets of 5

yeah, i ran the red lights - y que?
james, clarke wasn’t the only one.
that house on trail lake drive, that’s where it happened.
it was the one and only time i shoplifted.
i don’t like everybody all the time.

not even baptist church buses are virginal.
my carcass: your dumpster.
i know what you fear, and i’m saving it for later.
it was so palpable, my tongue lapping at your neck.
it was falling, i had no choice but to leave it.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #43 of 365

you walked the
straightest line,
steadfast and sure,
away from my door
and porch. your shoulders
unhunched, your footsteps
thorough, your head turned
straight, your heart locked
away.

i'd never fathomed that
watching you walk away,
in that long straight line,
could tremor my flesh,
close up my throat.

you walked so
sure that you
didn't want to stay,
no longer belonging
with me.

it hurt to see you so
certain.

you could have zigzagged,
made a loopy path, turning
your head once or twice
with second thought.

but you did not, and this
insulted, left me lonely,
made me shrink.

you left my porch and
walked so directly away,
down the steps, across
the street, and up onto
another curb, someone
else's porch.

it felt like love broken
down, depressed
by the road.

but i kept watching as
you left, and allowed new
sadness to couple me.

you never looked back.

and you were only a cat.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #42 of 365

i asked her to open
the shrink wrap
so i could see the book
and feel it in my hands.

its heft and weight, the new
book smell.

she obliged with a smile and
i inhaled, as i've done so many
times to mark the moment, to
make it last.

what swirled around me was
Chicano talk and Dago humor
and literary mumblings, backed
up by the softest of ranchera
melodies on Santiago's accordeon.

i accepted the book when she
held it up to me, saying 'i want to
see if they spelled my name right.'

my family in Chicano letters
surrounded me as my fingers swept
across their words: poems and other
writings by La Sandra and Tonzi and
raul and Carmen and so many others
who now walked this event, cheering
and applauding for our final release.

we are made here. we have spoken
and written aqui. aqui estamos y
no nos vamos. Latino/Chicano/Tejano
verse, lyric, rhyme, and story made
by us. Hecho En Tejas.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #41 of 365

This blog sucks.
This sucks blog.
Blog this suck.
Suck this blog.
This this this.
Blog.
Blog this.
Suck this.
Suck.
This blog sucks.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #40 of 365

Such a generous Macarena:
she gave me bottled water
and a ride, as we made
our way to Austin in three hours
we found our mouths, sharing
stories, open wide.

She wouldn't let me pay ten dollars,
and i objected, but polite, i didn't
holler, we drank coffee, and she
had a pill to swallow.

I got dropped off in a parking lot,
and felt fine standing there, cuz
the car had been hot, and it was near
Andrea's pad or so i thought.
I was lost but refused to be overwrought.

In a minute, I found her door,
D'Mon and she gave me a little tour,
and she made me green tea which almost
spilled on the floor, it was chill to relax
and talk, both expressing to the core.

She gave me squash spicy soup in a flash,
and burned all the bread they'd bought for cash,
then offered oat straw from her sacred herbal stash,
after i watched them give Tree a welcome thrash.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Book launch of HECHO EN TEJAS -- party down in San Marcos!!

A wonderful new anthology of Tejano literature (essays, stories, poems, and song lyrics) is out now, thanks to a wonderful collaborative effort by the UNIVERSITY OF NEW MEXICO PRESS and the SOUTHWESTERN WRITERS COLLECTION (of Texas State University in San Marcos).

My poems “On Language” and “Mexicano Antonio” (inspired by a night of dancing at the cantina formerly known as "Recuerdos de Kansas" on Hemphill Street) are included in this historic collection.

Award-winning (PEN/Hemingway and Guggenheim Fellowship) writer and raconteur, Dagoberto Gilb, took on the role of editor in this project that began in early 2006.

You can read Dago's introduction to the book, published in its entirety in a recent issue of the TEXAS OBSERVER, here.

And--you can join us at a major book launch event on Saturday, February 10th, on the TX State U. campus in San Marcos. Sandra Cisneros, raulrsalinas, Macarena Hernandez, and a slew of other Tejano lit famosos y famosas will be there for a schedule of readings, panel discussions, keynotes, and, of course, FOOD & BEER. Plus, the incredible and legendary CONJUNTO AZTLAN (they've been together since the days of the Movimiento, no lie!) will be performing for us.

For more info on the book, visit the UNM Press website.

Comments from editor Dagoberto Gilb [written in Chicano, so read on, compas!]:

A couple of years ago, I was asked by the Southwestern Writers Collection, in San Marcos, if I would be willing to edit an anthology, with its support, of Texas Mexican Literature.

HECHO EN TEJAS will be an historic publication which will include every important Mexican American writer and poet [who has lived or worked in Texas]--around 65 in total--from as far back as...well, I include Alvar Nuñez Cabeza de Vaca as the first. You will certainly recognize the rest as well, but what I am most pleased with is that even to those unfamiliar with our literary estate, and especially those outside the community itself, HECHO can be read as a story. Without having to know who any particular writer is, what will emerge is the largeness of the community as it is puzzles together--through each small piece, the land and its history, the people's sorrows and joys--what has been assimilated and what cannot be.

HECHO is a fine read. Its publication will insist on being noticed and will finally overwhelm the ignorance--and by that I would emphasize the Ignore as much as the dumb or mean or nasty connotation of the word--about raza here in Texas, the people who settled and were settled and still remain in Texas, who will soon be the largest population group in the state and region. The book will also include a page each of a singer-songwriter--from Chelo to Freddy Fender, Flaco, Santiago, Selena. HECHO EN TEJAS will be an event that will have to be covered by every newspaper and magazine in the state. My hope is that even in bookstores, etc, where the Alamo and its immigrants have been the only Texas history, this book will reclaim territory.

I am very excited about this book, and I hope you will be too. HECHO will be a book that reaches every school in Texas and almost certainly beyond. I sincerely believe this book will put an end to the passive apartheid of our literary accomplishment. The book will insist on being used by professors teaching Texas or Southwestern Literature: No longer will there be any excuse for those in power to behave unaware of the intellectual and literary power and wealth that is our community.

Mil gracias, Dagoberto Gilb

Poem #39 of 365

i live my life
at the end of the tunnel
near so many colors
brilliant
to blind,
but i lack the push to
step out and out.
round walls are soothing
and that’s the tunnel
for ya.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #38 of 365

The best upgrades
are forgotten tomorrow,
so arriverderci, baby,
cuz you been sidelined
for the latest model
of the updated bimbo
or himbo--as the case
may be. It's not your
fault that the manufacturer
designed you for obsolescence,
and your tetas are downward-
spiraling. Genetic predispositions
have left you human and vulnerable
and pulsing in a wasteland of big box
showroom exposition fairs of materialism.

Go ahead, get old. Go ahead, don your
aging flesh. Go ahead, and honor your
sweat, bleed your blood. History will show
you the better make, the diehard rain-resistant
model that people feel really really good to be around.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #37 of 365

a hotbed of pulsing palms.
a refrigerator of cool kisses:
there is no predicting our coital climate
in this universe of body smother.

and if well-versed in anecdote
you must be, then i will
listen to your stories in the dark
as you whisper in every orifice,
so many portals to my heart.

i hum in relaxed overtones,
vibrating in my rudder
as the colors behind my eyelids
melt into the beginning of time.

every caress makes me feel purple
and when you squeeze,
an explosion of sparks liquefies
this body with nocturnal narratives.

leave no flesh untouched while my hair
climbs your chest and shoulders
as a vine, and the forgotten sheets
twist in braids hot as challah.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Job opening at Poetry Foundation

Cool job up in freezing Chi-town, for those with poetry backgrounds and editorial inclinations. Thanks to Bronmin Shumway for sending this notice along.

Oh, hurry, cuz the deadline's coming up FAST!!

Associate Editor wanted for POETRY magazine, the "oldest magazine devoted to verse in the English-speaking world."
More info here.

Poem #36 of 365

wigged and inauthentic
she fouled the room
with obscenities
equal to her reek.

she is prom princess
white and ill-advised
with racist costume
for Celebrate Black History week.




(in consideration of diversity celebrations
at Highland Park HS in 2006)



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #35 of 365

The translucent bubbles
in my bottle
wear precise corners
and the
smooth facets of a
precious jewel.

But never will i drink
those diadem geometries,
never shall porter diamonds
drizzle down my throat,
gems of diaphanous thirst.

But wait---my mind changes.



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #34 of 365

i am ohm-ing
in the ohm-ent
and the clock
waits on the
drying of the cement.

we wonder why the newsman
is so penile
and wraparound vanilla plain revile
and the clock
waits on the
drying of the cement.

you are shlepping in
the vain grey daytime
with a brain jackhammer on surge wine
and the clock
waits on the
drying of the cement.

she be chumming bonedaddys on
the cell phone
with a lollipop face on a brain drone
and the clock
waits on the
drying of the cement.

he like tricking razorblades on
his wet tongue
he has to swallow harmonies sullen unsung
and the clock
waits on the
drying of the cement.

and the clock
waits on the
drying of the cement.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #33 of 365

mama, say Abdullah
don't be sloppy
with his name
it's not abdoo--
that is just not the same,

mama, stop slurring
calling asians like
they're rugs
they aren't oriental--
uh, are you on drugs?

mama, don't say the
n word unless you
ready for consequences
it's time we made some
bridges instead of
building fences

mama, say a different word
and substitute a few
extra others
cuz old-time thinking
makes your mouth so crude:
you talking 'bout MY brothers.

so, mama, if you choose to
speak with those hurtin words,
please do so at least 10 steps
from me
cuz i won't be debited for your
bigotry,
and though they say the apple
never falls far from the tree,
this piece of rebel fruit
proclaims RESPECT
can help begin
to set all people free.



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #32 of 365

Snort with impunity
sneeze effervescently,
we all have allergies
either that or a cold.

We wheeze like great windfalls
and cough like choking payphones
we must be sucking on luden's
either that or a brandy.

All the snotty people are dreadfully breathing
and rubbing their nose holes with zest
we cling to our soggy old hanky
and new tissues all ready to go.

We compete like flutes in the band hall
tooting and honking like woodwinds
but our windpipes could use a deep cleaning
or a visit to that old windbag, the doctor.


(i'm deeply congested and phlegmy this week)


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #31 of 365

I didn't mind that you phoned
it's just that i was busy
with a woman and some food
having to hide her in the closet
having to chop on the cutting board.

It was great that you noticed
enough to make you curious
and when you whizzed past
this concrete block my subtle
dog had a premonition.

Please call again or let me
hear your song whittle
at the tempered solid steel
of the buttered quelling
chambers of my heart.


after a dream of R.W.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #30 of 365

i summoned you priestess (or b.c.'s friend request)

today i submitted
my latest anthology
(i published, i edited)
to a competition
on a deadline

and was rushing
through my house
to find the perfect
packaging for the
5 sample copies
i had to include.

i reached for a
box, a perfect-sized
box, which had been
on a shelf for whoknows
howlong.

i froze the moment
when i saw your name
and return address label
on the back panel.

and i kept still, noticing
the dust that had collected
on the box flap, and wondering
wondering
where you could be
why time had elapsed

since our last talk.

still thinking of you,
i inked lines from
a sharpie
across your name
your address

feeling such regret
and a sadness too

for even marking over
your name on an old
priority box
seemed an
unfriendly offense.

AND then, 6 hours hence,
i am seeing this picture
of you on my screen,
and that skirt
that recycled skirt

that been-to-Himalayas
skirt

just twists my mind in
leaps of surprise
and glee.

some things have to be
brought back again
taken off the shelf
brung back to the valleys
of reconsideration

and there
so there

you are.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #29 of 365

Throw your guts to the wind
be the life of a dewdrop
wrestle with the lawn
toss yourself about.

Why worry the witnesses
stifling their own sacred shrieks
in diaries of oblivion?

Press play on all the panels
and lift your tongue to every sip
wiggle your mind
in the mud of curiosity.

When did you give your
body to the taxidermist
stuffing you with empty pomp?

Drink to your soul's extent
so you can drive under the
influence of dreamy thoughts
with your headlight eyes.

What gain you suffer as
you exchange a life of
excruciating ecstasy
for moribund passivity.

Drink, toss, wiggle, throw
yourself a life!


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #28 of 365

"you know so much about the blues."

she pursed her lips speaking that color.

"you know so much, them blues
gonna just rub up off on you."

still, her lips needed no primping.
the color just stuck.

"one day you gonna be at the bluebird,
with them blues socking yo' ears
and you ain't gonna hear the bell
marking your time to pass"

smacking them lips, sucking some
back teeth, she made a smuglike noise.

"and all them pallbearers gonna be
wondering why they arms don't be hurtin',
it's cuz you stuck back there still
listenin' to some blues off 'n there"

she smile big now, her lips pushed
back, and red color on her teeth.

"we all gonna be laughing, say how you
missed a free ride to allelujah cuz you got
held back diggin' them beat black blues, and
the ole preacher left to pray over
an empty pine box"

her mouth all open, head throwed back
and neck wide as earth.



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #27 of 365

A metal bracelet upon your wrist
is the worst choice for advocacy
and advice. When Jesus lived upon
this soil, if indeed he ever did, i'm
sure he never counted on mass-
marketed gimmick jewelry to stir
his movement, impel his compliance.

One day you'll have a meltdown, probably
in the heat of a Texas summer, and said
bracelet will irk and scald you, seizing
you with impatient wrath and undecorous
foul-mouth obscenities. How would
Jesus cuss? How would he flip us off?

I choose to wear no mentor's emblem
upon my arm, and no acronyms
of self-righteousness emblazon
my fashion accessories. I simply have
two simple symbols at hand, subtle
on my tabletop tonight:

a gilded decal of a green Ganesh
and a photostat of Cornel West.
West-Ganesh, they check my shit.
A radical scholar and a beloved
Hindu god, they keep me on point.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #26 of 365

When your eyes are sanpaku
i want to order more migas
make sure you fill your belly
and mostly i want you to face
down, upon the plate, so i
don't have to be frightened by
your stare,

And what it has to say. You
were only in for 10 hours, and
it was small bail we had to pay,
yet your irises float in that
alarming way i've seen in the
eyes of the most disturbed men
among us.

If you might choose to do a handstand,
tumble down the levee at the park, perhaps
your eyes would reset themselves, and
your woeful thoughts would be turned right,
so you wouldn't have to be so frantic
in your psychic layers and i could
let go of the tablecloth at breakfast.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #25 of 365

Prostitutes arguing about love in jail
is about as poignant

as

T kicking S in the head
to protest escalations in violence

is credible.




(with a nod to Hal Hartley and our sordid, sooted past)



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #24 of 365

random stacks
invade my house:
treatises, how-to handouts,
handbills, and just bills.

the paper ephemera
of my adult existence.

who knew that so many
news clippings could
take up so much room,
and my only solution
seems to be to
just stop reading.

all this information
just floors me.

with dust and cat hair all around.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #23 of 365

Serena sat on her
fecal impaction
in the other
room whilst i
sudsed dishes
in another.

Sobbing boo hoos were heard
over the tv screams
and i didn't even
rivet my spine.

Though i did cock
my head a bit for
enhanced audio definition.

Another client came
to verify. She's okay,
but you better walk over
there anyway, or she might
not ever cut out her crying.

Okay, what's wrong, Serena?
That house, burning on the
tv, makes me remember the
house I lived in when we
was little. Through
yellow wet eyes she said this.

A minute later, my hands
are dipped in the sink,
and she's screaming with
laughter about a joke
over a cigarette or the tv
story and whatever else has
gotten tangled up in the
eaves of her mind.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #22 of 365

When she breathed
into her sacrum
there was a scorch
under her,
a chair that squeaked
in the room
drawing fast attention

But she breathed once
more and turned her
head for accents
in the inhalation
as she watched the
shadow
exceed the animal

Ah, she intervened
how can i be panting
atop a clockface when
so many underfoot
furried things
are darkening my walk:

Go to the light, breathe
in like butane, follow
the flame, and all will
be made right.

Facile nonsense, a pithy
remedy of syllables never
cured a cancer. how can
you begin to believe that
ranting run-on
sentences can tithe
a tidy mortal sum?

I give up, i won’t breathe,
if that helps you come to
mind, but lung alert
on suffering can one day
sound the dawn.

OH, YAWN.

(a 4-minute poem)


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #21 of 365

B spoke of Eve and evil
and gave us an apple
each.

I circled the table
before reciting
making sure the
wine was out of reach.

Layne wore her
dress split open
for effect or for
expanded waist.

The food looked
brilliant laid all
out, yet i chose
to have no taste.

S set up the slides
to show, her drawings
took nine years.

The women all
assembled there,
well, some were moved
to tears.

The few bold men who
deigned come in
had luck if they were single,

For as a sweet minority
that night
enjoyed the mingle.

J himself was swarmed by
girls as his smile put them
at ease,

He drank no wine, nor
spun no tales, but the
ladies he did please.

We sang for love, and cried
for rights, and justice mercy too.

This Saturday soiree for grrls
did more than benefit a few.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #20 of 365

War-Bungled Anthem
(to the tune of the Star-Spangled Banner)

O say can you sing
such a difficult song

for the words to it now
are so devoid of meaning

if you think about it
it’s an unusual song

for the words make no sense
cuz a drunkard he wrote them

and you want to believe
this song reflects our lives
but the truth stares us down
cuz hypocrisy’s gleaming

o someday
they’ll find out
that
war is
not so noble

and the citizens will rise
to sing
of peace
soon.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #19 of 365

I called his name
twice aloud,
and his classmates
offered explanation.

He is always late.
He never comes on time.

When he finally slouches
in, bypassing me with
a stride of expectant
confidence,

I call him to my table,
insist on proprieties,
look into his eyes,
and he returns the respect.

I count him present,
give him a chance,
as he brings a chair
away from the others
to sit near me.

When it's time to do
work, I tell him to
distribute the papers,
which he does with
a relaxed smile,

He says, I've never been
asked to do this before.
And I let it slide, opt
not to share a favored quote *

with this
discarded boy
who just minutes before
was labeled gangster, bad.



* "Every human being is worth more than the worst thing they ever did." - Sister Helen Prejean, anti-death penalty activist and author, DEAD MAN WALKING.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #18 of 365

A week of watching wig films,
those charming Brit flicks
from archaic times,
along with hearing
so many proper English
quiply elegant
acceptance speeches
on Golden Globes night

inspires me to squat
too long
uncomfortably
in the mega-book mart
reading article
upon article
about Martin Amis
in publications
about
publications.

Quite so.



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #17 of 365

When the bit of Grace
on the table
splays out and wide

it is imperative
to speak a prayer
a beseeching psalm,
a promise tryst.

When the bite of Grace
on my hand
brings blood to bear

it is insolence
to complain my cries
a simpering sob
a plaintive mist.

Why bite back
and spew my rage
and drag all manner
of backs to fore.

Why indeed
should I implore
redress and recompense
of lost to me.



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #16 of 365

you prefer to confront
and i like to whisper
into the conch of their mind

you prefer to hammer
and i do the tapping
as finger on heart

you prefer to threaten
and i give them words
on a forgiveness receipt

how we fight our battles
how we storm our love



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #15 of 365

America showed up onstage
the audience applauded
and the women wept

We want America to win
to persevere, to grow
and be proud of herself

It has been a long time
coming for America;
she hasn't always
been so supported.

America, she won
the Golden Globe
for best actress
in a tv comedy series.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #14 of 365

(water)
heavy when
frozen
is
more
heavy
than
my
tears
when
they're
hot

though
it always
seems
that they
drag
my
face
down
when
they
bloom
from
my
eyes

pulled
down
as
the
ice-dappled
branches
crying
outside
in
the
yard


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #13 of 365

what god giveth, the
web taketh away, as
he wiped chardonnay
frm his chin again.

so, oh, you against
the premise of open source

he interrupted with
unscheduled burp, no,
theoretically, i'm not.
i mean, it's a good,
good samaritan,
level the playing field
type of worthwhile thing
to be after.

so, huh, you are
for it but yet not or

he doesn't let her finish
a sentence, as he takes
her elbow by the elbow
and spoke
i don't mind sharing
i just don't want the whole
wide world knowing that
i shared

with that
in tiptoe quiet steps
they left the bedroom
and moved back into
the din of the den
of the party



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #12 of 365

In the drizzly lunch hour,
i spill don't-get-lost crumbs
on the streets as i curl
and curve away from
yet another public school.

I am in pursuit of a meal,
a noontime challenge
that has me regretting
my lack of good planning,
with homemade snacks
and healthy grub.

A man stands in the parking
lot, opens a door to a truck
by mistake. Wonder if he
waits for a ride or a fix,
the connection to wealth
or a nod.

I wish he would ask me a
question, put me on the
spot with a quip. But
he just stands there,
waiting, without umbrella
or money or song.



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #11 of 365

I asked her to tell me her challenge.
She was starting an essay.

I want to be a lawyer.
I have a history with the police.

She is 13.

What is your history with the police?

My father, he's been in jail, in and out, a lot.

So you miss him, it hurts to be without him.
Is that your challenge?

No, he doesn't care about me. He left us
a long time ago. He doesn't give me anything.
I just want to help people, and kids, so they
won't have to hurt like I did.

So you actually want to help people.
That's your challenge.

Yes, that's why I am going to be a lawyer.
I'm good at arguing.



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #10 of 365

i am the bull in the ring, snorting nostrils, scuffing hooves,
i am as unbloodthirsty hyena, all chuckle and no bite:

awaiting the call, your merciful summons.

will you ask me to dance
even choreograph the dance?
will you ask me to teach
or to learn how to learn?

here i am, muscled and awaiting,
nourished on love muffins and wine,
i am as ready as you'll ever find

astounding recall, my memory beckons.

will you invite me to tea
or to plan the ceremony?
will you lay out red carpet
or have me show you the weave?

here am i, sipping good hope*,
divining wednesday's footsteps,
i am eager to walk to the stars

amazing freefall, my arms blossom alive


* Good Hope is also the brand name for a tea---today's flavor was vanilla.



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #9 of 365

I stepped onto my front stoop
and voices called to me
from a porch on the other side:

"Is this your cat? It's friendly!"

I paused my thinking, squinted
at the fur in the distance, and
they offered, "It's wearing a collar."

No, my cat wears no collar, i told
them, and swinging my gaze to
the north down the street, i noticed
two hens pecking away.

"Are those your chickens!?"

Those are vultures, there are three,
my neighbors explained.
And, to my amazement, i peeled
my eyes better and indeed saw
carnivorous birds on the street.

Doggedly, they worked at fresh carcass,
the small furry corpus of a black alley cat.
When an auto swooped down their way,
they took flight, showing wingspans of
at least my own height.

They flew around, encircling this historic
barrio, casting elongated shadows upon
rooftops, sidewalks, smaller animals.

I twitched a little, braced myself on the
neighbor’s porch, wondering what coat of
symbolic meaning to paint upon this sight.
Carnivorous birds upon my street,
making banquet in destruction.

There are two empty holes a little further down,
and the disembowelment happens largely at
night. There used to be houses where
the big holes gape, pecked and disappeared
by unflinching machines. My little barrio is getting
its body devoured and the ones who make this happen
do not meet my eyes with theirs. I do not know how to
stop them, arrest their shadows darkening my ‘hood.

Twice, I tried to photograph the vultures
as they flew over the house across the street,
but their paths were jagged, unpredictable.
Developers and destroyers, urban and
unaccountable, become singleminded
when those of us below are afraid even in the light of day.



[We need more paved lots, yah, right. We need high-density, upper-income housing, oh, really. Will the barrio survive?]



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #8 of 365

Flounder is a fish and a verb.
Myspace is selfish and wordy.
Rockfish gives shellfish for free.

Confirm all of this online.



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #7 of 365

i.
my father cups his chin
to reassure that it's there

ii.
i cannot read that sign from a distance
but car flow shows how to go

iii.
a blind grandfather stood on the porch
and warned his boy about the tree

iv.
could sense air pressure shifts and
currents of wind

v.
so how could my father walk
into a parking meter outside the National Shrine

vi.
wasn't he a praying man?


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #6 of 365

I got spit on twice tonight:
Gabriela excitedly rejected by the Altoids tin
and then, later, Ricardo making mirth across
the Embargo mesa.
G's baby soon coming home to roost
and R's used as a pawn in an icky divorce.
Two things they have in common,
but they will never know:
beloved girl daughters and spraying while sayin'.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

I have the best friends in the world

I have come to see the gift in good friends. Over the years, I have traveled, relocated, migrated to various places (Balto-D.C., Austin, Santa Fe, Boulder, Aspen, Nepal), reinventing myself each time--revealing yet another layer of self, inspiration, ambition, acceptance. So, as I've been anchoring myself here in FW (7 years now--wow), there has been a turnabout of sorts. I get to be the harbor, the open door, welcome mat, and friendly porch. Friends, fellow artists and travelers, sometimes stop in--without notice in some cases. When this happens, it is a blessing, better than Chippendale dancers at the door with fistfuls of candy and flowers.

On Thursday night, I was working quietly at home, when the phone rang. Hello, a call from Patrisia Gonzales--writer, columnist, Ph.D candidate at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and fellow Chicana Texas girl, who went to the same Catholic school with me back in the 70s. She and life partner, Roberto--who also pens COLUMN OF THE AMERICAS, a syndicated column of politics, post-colonialism, indigenous healing and arts and other fortifying flavors, were on their way to stop in for a visit. Mere blocks from my house, and heading back to Wisconsin very soon. Of course, yes, come over, hang up so I can straighten up a little before you get here.

And so, here they were, in my humble bungalow (the local realtors' term of choice to describe small houses, circa 1920s, such as mine). Patrisia and Roberto on the sofa, checking in with me, my life, and offering stories of their recent efforts. Being "ABD" or "all but dead", as Roberto put it. They are on the job hunt now, and will be traveling around for interviews here and there. Paty herself has made it to a final selection process with a university in Toronto; if hired, she'd be teaching in the school's department of "Indigenous Healing." A perfect match for both her spiritual and scholarly interests, I'd say. She and Roberto aren't sure, however, that they're willing to become tenured "frozen academes" in Canada, particularly since they've been dealing with heavy, long Wisconsin winters for about three years now.
(Patrisia and Roberto suited up for a promo foto.)

The visit was brief, as Roberto was melting into the sofa from exhaustion and they had a long drive back to Paty's parents' home in Johnson County. It ended all too soon, and we quickly scurried for a gift exchange. I presented them with hand-made candles and a picture of my September '06 butoh performance, and Paty ran out to the car to bring back a copy of Robbie Robertson's 1998 release "Contact from the Underworld of Redboy." Cool, Robbie's been attuning to his indigenous roots (his mother's of Mohawk descent), and I've heard that he works with singers like Ulali and Joanne Shenandoah. According to a Rolling Stone critic, "...all the diverse aspects on 'Contact From the Underworld of Red Boy' cohere into a compelling whole, a national chronicle of glory and shame, a personal story ringing with conviction."

In 2007, I hope that more of my traveling and worldly comrades and colleagues have a moment to stop by my bungalow and share some tea, conversation, and hugs of amistad. So may it happen.

Poem #5 of 365

She move the ladybug
unseasonable friend
from the recycling bin

She move the auto
unseasonably warm
into january shade

She move like water

"Water stops at the proper time,
and moves at the proper time.
Is not this an emblem of the course
of the superior man
in dealing with danger?" *

and the bath drain is still clogged.


* quote from Liang Yin as appears in I CHING: THE CHINESE BOOK OF CHANGES
(Legge/Waltham interpretation, circa 1969)


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #4 of 365

omigod this hasn’t been done
it was only a dream
get up get up
answer the phone
a message awaits
the cat is to feed
the voicestra sings
i must join the y
and the t
and the a
and the m to the two
she yodels inside
-and vicki won't mind-
her ribcage expands
ideas have woken me up



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #3 of 365

I have fotos for Nata
and Juana Molina for Rupert,
that is the reason for Black Dog
on a Tuesday.

There are poets on mic
and 2 birthdays on the loose,
that is why i hug Rose Ann
and sip whiskey with Ron.

G brings an apology,
his hand easily finds mine,
that is why i will stage-sing
while he plays the guitar.

K wears a gift hat, and
asks for some insight,
that is why the room fades
and her cries become mine.

I drift to the bartop,
to lean and to buy,
that is how i meet Michael
and learn more about wine.

The bus is parked outside, and
it's covered with art,
that is why i am smiling
with non-Mexican boys.

-- about the first Black Dog poetry night of 2007



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #2 of 365

Resolving

i must not watch late-night tv.
i must not avoid exercise.

i must write more.
i must listen harder.

i watch late-night tv.
i avoid exercise.

must i write more.
must i listen harder.

Dissolving



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

Poem #1 of 365

Deck the halls
with M's sweaty balls,
he converses with fists
and bawdy epithets.

Ms. D stirs the stews
and proffers smoke,
she glistens with lipgloss
and ladylike endeavors.

S.S. poured three bowls
and slurped 'em up,
he puffens with menudo
and leaves for his bed.

Ms. T burst open a new year
with couscous for all,
she curls on the couch
and shares mash-ups with D.



copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez