A pair of shoes to:
sweep up the grass piles;
soft shoe my regret;
backpeddle my argument;
sidestep an insult.
A pair of boots to:
foothold a ladder;
2-step a bold lie;
brake pedal a bad choice;
trample my ego.
A pair of chanclas to:
footsy your heartstrings;
tiptoe a new love;
toehold the beachfront;
airwalk to heaven.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Friday, June 08, 2007
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Poem #158 of 365
The man, dressed in tight-fitting blue jeans
and a hand-tooled western-style belt watched
me from a distance and I, being the typical
lone woman traveler, eyed him eyeing me.
I couldn't ascertain if he was a station employee
or a hustler on the make for the graveyard shift,
but he seemed shifty, a bit nervous, and would
not meet my glance.
When I deliberately anchored myself to the pavement,
pretending to fiddle with the draw-cords on my pack,
it was he who had to finally approach me.
I drew in a small breath, so as not to appear stunned
or disturbed and listened as he finally spoke out loud.
Where are you going? Where have you been?
Are there drugs in that pack?
Who wants to know, I responded in a semi-retort,
looking him square in the face without meeting
his eyes.
I continued, you should never approach a woman
alone, traveling by herself, and ask such questions
without identifying yourself first.
If you are an honorable man, you will always do her
this courtesy. I don't, after all, speak to just any man.
He seemed taken aback, but kept eyeing my pack,
and he said he was with a drug trafficking unit of
the local police.
Well, show me some i.d., you think I am so stupid
that I would take a stranger at his word?
He pulled out his badge and authenticated himself,
and I straightened my posture a slight little bit.
I said, well, I have no drugs and don't use them either, and
if you need to check my pack you have plenty of time
for I am held up here for my next connecting bus. A
few hours' time.
And, furthermore, when a woman is traveling alone and
it is the middle of the night, you as a man will always
be perceived as an aggressor if you approach in such
a sneaky suspicious manner as you did to me.
How am I to feel safe around here when you as security
or local police are acting so shifty and cold?
The officer might have been impressed by my candor
and my upstart words, but for a moment I thought
I might have offended.
Instead, the officer presently smiled, and gave me his
name, and promised me he'd safeguard me closely.
He said, while you're here in the station, for however
long that will be, you have my word that I will do anything
and everything possible to make you feel safe.
And, he concluded, if any person troubles you, even
in the slightest, just let me know, and I'll handle it quick.
I let him stare at me, without glaring or retorting, I knew
when to retreat and go about my way. I pulled the big
pack up onto my back and felt his sincere concern
radiate around me like a protective wall.
We never spoke again, but I could catch glances of
him in the corner of my eyes, and for the next few
hours, while I waited and waited, I was proud of myself
for telling a policemen his job.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
and a hand-tooled western-style belt watched
me from a distance and I, being the typical
lone woman traveler, eyed him eyeing me.
I couldn't ascertain if he was a station employee
or a hustler on the make for the graveyard shift,
but he seemed shifty, a bit nervous, and would
not meet my glance.
When I deliberately anchored myself to the pavement,
pretending to fiddle with the draw-cords on my pack,
it was he who had to finally approach me.
I drew in a small breath, so as not to appear stunned
or disturbed and listened as he finally spoke out loud.
Where are you going? Where have you been?
Are there drugs in that pack?
Who wants to know, I responded in a semi-retort,
looking him square in the face without meeting
his eyes.
I continued, you should never approach a woman
alone, traveling by herself, and ask such questions
without identifying yourself first.
If you are an honorable man, you will always do her
this courtesy. I don't, after all, speak to just any man.
He seemed taken aback, but kept eyeing my pack,
and he said he was with a drug trafficking unit of
the local police.
Well, show me some i.d., you think I am so stupid
that I would take a stranger at his word?
He pulled out his badge and authenticated himself,
and I straightened my posture a slight little bit.
I said, well, I have no drugs and don't use them either, and
if you need to check my pack you have plenty of time
for I am held up here for my next connecting bus. A
few hours' time.
And, furthermore, when a woman is traveling alone and
it is the middle of the night, you as a man will always
be perceived as an aggressor if you approach in such
a sneaky suspicious manner as you did to me.
How am I to feel safe around here when you as security
or local police are acting so shifty and cold?
The officer might have been impressed by my candor
and my upstart words, but for a moment I thought
I might have offended.
Instead, the officer presently smiled, and gave me his
name, and promised me he'd safeguard me closely.
He said, while you're here in the station, for however
long that will be, you have my word that I will do anything
and everything possible to make you feel safe.
And, he concluded, if any person troubles you, even
in the slightest, just let me know, and I'll handle it quick.
I let him stare at me, without glaring or retorting, I knew
when to retreat and go about my way. I pulled the big
pack up onto my back and felt his sincere concern
radiate around me like a protective wall.
We never spoke again, but I could catch glances of
him in the corner of my eyes, and for the next few
hours, while I waited and waited, I was proud of myself
for telling a policemen his job.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Poem #157 of 365
Polynesia, dude
it was the people
from Polynesia
they were the first
to get here
to America
and they brought
their chickens
grabbed 'em by
the necks and probably
flung 'em
up on their
papyrus-type boat
vessels for that
long-ass ride
man
that's the way it was
i heard it dude
and when they got
here it was like oh
yeeeeah, check this
place out, good to
get out that boat, huh
and they plopped down
and made a picnic right
then and there
chicken and sauces
and maybe some sort
of squash cassava root
type side dish, you
know those island people
got to get their root vegetable
freak on
man like totally
anyways
so that's how they ended
up having a picnic there
seaside in colombia or
chile, i think it was,
eatin' chicken and
leaving the bones
that's what that scientist chick
just dug up or found
on one of her bone digs
over there
in the south, dude
chicken bones, can you
believe it, man
leave it to the chicken
to be the one
gonna turn this on
its head, becuz it
turned into some freakin
clue about who might
have made
it here first
to the new so-called
world, man
whoever would have guessed
that bones from barnyard
fowl could become so
freakin important,
right
so next time you got a
box of KFC under your arm
and you're hiking over to some
luau or hangin out in Costa Rica
or some shit
try leavin the bones around
and maybe someday way in
the future, man, maybe some
hot scientist chick might get
her pickax down in some dig
and find your freakin KFC
dinner bone leftovers, the
evidence, dude. we're all
leaving evidence. it's like,
if you think about it, you
know, man,
everytime you leave some
trash behind, it's like you've
discarded civilization,
you've put a 21st century
mcnugget or
chunk of history there
where somebody might
eventually, like, come
up after you,
years and years later dude
and tell it
like it was
so lesson learned #1,
dude, be careful where
you leave your chicken
bones or else history,
our freakin' human
history, might have
to be damn well rewritten.
that's intense. dude,
i mean it. like.
go google it
read it yourself,
man, look under
"chickens polynesia".
you're mind'll get
fuckin freakin blown
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
it was the people
from Polynesia
they were the first
to get here
to America
and they brought
their chickens
grabbed 'em by
the necks and probably
flung 'em
up on their
papyrus-type boat
vessels for that
long-ass ride
man
that's the way it was
i heard it dude
and when they got
here it was like oh
yeeeeah, check this
place out, good to
get out that boat, huh
and they plopped down
and made a picnic right
then and there
chicken and sauces
and maybe some sort
of squash cassava root
type side dish, you
know those island people
got to get their root vegetable
freak on
man like totally
anyways
so that's how they ended
up having a picnic there
seaside in colombia or
chile, i think it was,
eatin' chicken and
leaving the bones
that's what that scientist chick
just dug up or found
on one of her bone digs
over there
in the south, dude
chicken bones, can you
believe it, man
leave it to the chicken
to be the one
gonna turn this on
its head, becuz it
turned into some freakin
clue about who might
have made
it here first
to the new so-called
world, man
whoever would have guessed
that bones from barnyard
fowl could become so
freakin important,
right
so next time you got a
box of KFC under your arm
and you're hiking over to some
luau or hangin out in Costa Rica
or some shit
try leavin the bones around
and maybe someday way in
the future, man, maybe some
hot scientist chick might get
her pickax down in some dig
and find your freakin KFC
dinner bone leftovers, the
evidence, dude. we're all
leaving evidence. it's like,
if you think about it, you
know, man,
everytime you leave some
trash behind, it's like you've
discarded civilization,
you've put a 21st century
mcnugget or
chunk of history there
where somebody might
eventually, like, come
up after you,
years and years later dude
and tell it
like it was
so lesson learned #1,
dude, be careful where
you leave your chicken
bones or else history,
our freakin' human
history, might have
to be damn well rewritten.
that's intense. dude,
i mean it. like.
go google it
read it yourself,
man, look under
"chickens polynesia".
you're mind'll get
fuckin freakin blown
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Poem #156 of 365
I heard him on the radio,
he said and i quote
"Bilingual countries don't work!"
and I imagine a nice little
mudfight I'd like to invite
him to, wherein I'd let him
have it with a few bursts of
truth in his face, along with
the mud, of course,
and i'd speak
to him with a
multilingual tongue
in between the shoving
and sloshy dunking:
so, you don't want us to
speak another language, eh?
so, i guess you better not
say WOW from now on
cuz that originates from
a Senegalese language
you didn't know that, now
did you?
and why don't we just eliminate
BANJO from the "official"
language while you're at it
cuz it just might be a word
we got from--
AFrica!
and what are you going
to order at the restaurant
to dip your friggin chips
into, if you won't say QUESO
anymore, not that you ever knew
how to properly pronounce it!
and all those French phrases
you pride yourself on being
able to sprinkle into your conversations
"je nois se quois", "comme ci comme ça "
to appear as if you're a world-traveled
cognoscente on the Rhine,
well, spit 'em out, cuz remember you
don't WANT this to be a bilingual
country, and so you need to remember
this the next time you're tempted to
say "faux pas" or "au contraire"
while you're drinking your sha-blee,
in between bites of ESCARGOT.
You're slicing your tongue
to spite our race
uh, the human one,
because it should never be considered
declasse or ghetto or damn pobre tirado
to be able to eloquently
and resoundingly
speak words of different origins!
and then, i'd give his befuddled
mug one quick flick of mud
from my can't-be-bothered hands
and i sashay my big
booty, nalgas, derrière
outta there with my
cabeza, noggin, head
proudly held high
fait accompli.
!hasta la victoria!
(dedicated to the dreadfully-confused Tancredo)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
he said and i quote
"Bilingual countries don't work!"
and I imagine a nice little
mudfight I'd like to invite
him to, wherein I'd let him
have it with a few bursts of
truth in his face, along with
the mud, of course,
and i'd speak
to him with a
multilingual tongue
in between the shoving
and sloshy dunking:
so, you don't want us to
speak another language, eh?
so, i guess you better not
say WOW from now on
cuz that originates from
a Senegalese language
you didn't know that, now
did you?
and why don't we just eliminate
BANJO from the "official"
language while you're at it
cuz it just might be a word
we got from--
AFrica!
and what are you going
to order at the restaurant
to dip your friggin chips
into, if you won't say QUESO
anymore, not that you ever knew
how to properly pronounce it!
and all those French phrases
you pride yourself on being
able to sprinkle into your conversations
"je nois se quois", "comme ci comme ça "
to appear as if you're a world-traveled
cognoscente on the Rhine,
well, spit 'em out, cuz remember you
don't WANT this to be a bilingual
country, and so you need to remember
this the next time you're tempted to
say "faux pas" or "au contraire"
while you're drinking your sha-blee,
in between bites of ESCARGOT.
You're slicing your tongue
to spite our race
uh, the human one,
because it should never be considered
declasse or ghetto or damn pobre tirado
to be able to eloquently
and resoundingly
speak words of different origins!
and then, i'd give his befuddled
mug one quick flick of mud
from my can't-be-bothered hands
and i sashay my big
booty, nalgas, derrière
outta there with my
cabeza, noggin, head
proudly held high
fait accompli.
!hasta la victoria!
(dedicated to the dreadfully-confused Tancredo)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Monday, June 04, 2007
Poem #155 of 365
Presently I am not reading the autobiography
of Hilton. Paris, that is. Alas,
"Confessions of an Heiress:
A Tongue-in-Chic Peek Behind the Pose"
will remain at-large inside a chain bookstore
as I spend my days engaging in more intellectually-stimulating activities,
including:
gathering my toenail clippings in equi-distant piles,
watching the ice inside my frozen beer bottle melt,
checking my cat for fleas,
and
trying to figure out what the world is coming to
when Paris can easily publish a book
but Valerie Plame cannot.
(after learning that the CIA is interfering with Plame's attempt to publish her memoir "Fair Game")
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
of Hilton. Paris, that is. Alas,
"Confessions of an Heiress:
A Tongue-in-Chic Peek Behind the Pose"
will remain at-large inside a chain bookstore
as I spend my days engaging in more intellectually-stimulating activities,
including:
gathering my toenail clippings in equi-distant piles,
watching the ice inside my frozen beer bottle melt,
checking my cat for fleas,
and
trying to figure out what the world is coming to
when Paris can easily publish a book
but Valerie Plame cannot.
(after learning that the CIA is interfering with Plame's attempt to publish her memoir "Fair Game")
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Poem #154 of 365
When the mace hits your throat you want to run away from your body and that's the same thing as panic but you stay with your nose and your tongue and all the other sinus involvement as the burning icy feeling begins to grow and extend and you wonder if or when your legs might subside under you melting you to the walkway of concrete and you won't certainly won't be able to run away from your body at that point you'll just have to sink into that whole array of uncertainty and the icy cold burn will become the whole of who you are and what you feel and the words you've read about central nervous system start spewing from your memory as you also recall that when one subway car in the tunnel breaks down well that pretty much mucks up the rest of the day for the other cars and so it's that kind of worry that sets in your face and as tunnel vision encroaches you almost forget about other people when that's precisely what you should be doing to stop the over-involvement with your own waxing distress you should be thinking about others so i look at other people keep talking to them through the papers i have cupped up to my nose and mouth i am asking them if their small children are okay and what was that stuff anyway that they sprayed and so i am kept in the loop and i fight to keep my peripheral vision expansive and selfless that's how it works that's how i keep from sinking and soon there's another outbreak it explodes in a few seconds when i see a girl bent at the waist in a geometry you don't see in public often and i think someone's pulled at her hair or arm or shirt and there's a sudden vortex of movement to the portable toilet section of that world and my toes point otherly and i take hold of my friend's arm to make sure she toes herself in the right direction too because she is not as quick to gauge the shifting increase in tension over there and so we move together with things sharp in our mouths an odorless taste that makes me not want to swallow for a long time and i believe in fresh air even when we act in opposition to the perpetuation of that in our modern lives and i cannot wait to fill my lungs with something that doesn't cut my throat or impugn my precious lung tissue on an evening that was not supposed to go this way in dallas no it definitely wasn't supposed to be like this
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Bill Daniel brings films/photos/spectacle to 1919 tonight!!
HIGHLY RECOMMENDED * HIGHLY RECOMMENDED * HIGHLY RECOMMENDED
Tonight, at 1919 Hemphill, in Fort Worth!
7pm-10pm.
$5 - but never let money keep you away from a 1919 Hemphill event.
Punk rock photos by Bill Daniel and Kat Shimamoto * experimental films * visual art * music by Cadillac Fraf
backstory:
I met Bill Daniel, back in 1985-86, when I moved to Austin for the second time. I was already friends with that whole Austin underground film scene that eventually spawned the Austin Film Society. Rick Linklater, Lee Daniel--I used to hang out at a house in Hyde Park across the street from where Lee and Rick lived. Rick was a film obsessive, who lived in tight blue jean cut-offs and t-shirts and seemed to eat only canned food. He saved his money for films at the Union on UT's campus. I had a huge crush on Lee, who seemed to have a huge crush on super-8 films, public swimming pools, local punk rock, and conjunto music.
Around the time that Rick and Lee decided to start an underground monthly film series at the Dobie Theater, for which I was a regular attendee from the beginning (sometimes i'd pay with a smile and a freshly-picked wildflower), Bill Daniel showed up. He was gregarious and informative, and I remember he had a 35mm (no such thing as digital cameras back then) slung around his neck every time I saw him, and he and I seemed to be digging on the same literature (JG Ballard, Philip K. Dick, for instance). A bunch of us seemed to be onto that whole '100th Monkey' thing as our habits and fascinations segued quite magically.
Later, in the 1990s, when I was living in Austin again, I had chance to run into Bill now and again. He frequented the Alternate Current arts space, run by David and Susan (wonder how they're doing...), both as an exhibitor and friend, and he always had a good word/hello for me. Bill was also running the Funhouse Cinema, with film screenings downtown, featuring the latest cinematic works of the independents.
I always trust that the people I'm meant to know/work with/follow will always show up in my path. It happens again and again. So it came as no great surprise when I was an artist-in-residence at Headlands Center for the Arts for the month of March 2003, that I found out that Bill Daniel had also been an artist-in-residence there. I was shown photos of an installation that Bill created--in collaboration with the late great Margaret Kilgallen--which featured his hobo culture-themed films and images. It excited me to know that Bill and I were still on similar paths, if on different timetables.
Now, if only I could get one of them coveted Creative Capital grants like Bill has been awarded. (Actually, I got close once, making it to the pool of finalists back in 2004.)
His new project is titled "Sunset Scavenger," but I'm not sure if that's what he's bringing to us tonight at 1919 Hemphill. He potentially might present another recently-completed short, a kind of follow-up and response to that jarring & unforgettable 13-minute 16mm film that fucked me up one night back in 1985 or '86 when I saw it at the Dobie: "Selective Service System". A young California student, called up for selective service, basically shoots himself in the foot, and it's all on film. Mind-numbing, sad, disturbing. I remember walking home at two in the morning with my friend Clarke, all shocked and choked up, freezing up when we heard emergency response sirens in the distance. I can understand why Bill would've wanted to speak to the men who made this film.
So, to wrap this up, I want folks to know that Bill Daniel is one of Texas' (native Texan) most consistent and prolific outsider underground artists who is getting acclaim and funding for doing just what he originally set out to do. Show up and meet him tonight @ 1919 Hemphill; he's alot more than the "hobo films" that he's touted for producing.
Links to:
a pretty recent interview;
some descriptive text and photos on "Who is Bozo Texino?";
the site for Bill's book of punk rock photos; and
yep, his personal website.
Tonight, at 1919 Hemphill, in Fort Worth!
7pm-10pm.
$5 - but never let money keep you away from a 1919 Hemphill event.
Punk rock photos by Bill Daniel and Kat Shimamoto * experimental films * visual art * music by Cadillac Fraf
backstory:
I met Bill Daniel, back in 1985-86, when I moved to Austin for the second time. I was already friends with that whole Austin underground film scene that eventually spawned the Austin Film Society. Rick Linklater, Lee Daniel--I used to hang out at a house in Hyde Park across the street from where Lee and Rick lived. Rick was a film obsessive, who lived in tight blue jean cut-offs and t-shirts and seemed to eat only canned food. He saved his money for films at the Union on UT's campus. I had a huge crush on Lee, who seemed to have a huge crush on super-8 films, public swimming pools, local punk rock, and conjunto music.
Around the time that Rick and Lee decided to start an underground monthly film series at the Dobie Theater, for which I was a regular attendee from the beginning (sometimes i'd pay with a smile and a freshly-picked wildflower), Bill Daniel showed up. He was gregarious and informative, and I remember he had a 35mm (no such thing as digital cameras back then) slung around his neck every time I saw him, and he and I seemed to be digging on the same literature (JG Ballard, Philip K. Dick, for instance). A bunch of us seemed to be onto that whole '100th Monkey' thing as our habits and fascinations segued quite magically.
Later, in the 1990s, when I was living in Austin again, I had chance to run into Bill now and again. He frequented the Alternate Current arts space, run by David and Susan (wonder how they're doing...), both as an exhibitor and friend, and he always had a good word/hello for me. Bill was also running the Funhouse Cinema, with film screenings downtown, featuring the latest cinematic works of the independents.
I always trust that the people I'm meant to know/work with/follow will always show up in my path. It happens again and again. So it came as no great surprise when I was an artist-in-residence at Headlands Center for the Arts for the month of March 2003, that I found out that Bill Daniel had also been an artist-in-residence there. I was shown photos of an installation that Bill created--in collaboration with the late great Margaret Kilgallen--which featured his hobo culture-themed films and images. It excited me to know that Bill and I were still on similar paths, if on different timetables.
Now, if only I could get one of them coveted Creative Capital grants like Bill has been awarded. (Actually, I got close once, making it to the pool of finalists back in 2004.)
His new project is titled "Sunset Scavenger," but I'm not sure if that's what he's bringing to us tonight at 1919 Hemphill. He potentially might present another recently-completed short, a kind of follow-up and response to that jarring & unforgettable 13-minute 16mm film that fucked me up one night back in 1985 or '86 when I saw it at the Dobie: "Selective Service System". A young California student, called up for selective service, basically shoots himself in the foot, and it's all on film. Mind-numbing, sad, disturbing. I remember walking home at two in the morning with my friend Clarke, all shocked and choked up, freezing up when we heard emergency response sirens in the distance. I can understand why Bill would've wanted to speak to the men who made this film.
So, to wrap this up, I want folks to know that Bill Daniel is one of Texas' (native Texan) most consistent and prolific outsider underground artists who is getting acclaim and funding for doing just what he originally set out to do. Show up and meet him tonight @ 1919 Hemphill; he's alot more than the "hobo films" that he's touted for producing.
Links to:
a pretty recent interview;
some descriptive text and photos on "Who is Bozo Texino?";
the site for Bill's book of punk rock photos; and
yep, his personal website.
Poster design contest: for She: Bike/Spoke/Love - deadline: June 22nd, 2007
Sound Culture is now accepting submissions of original art/designs (camera-ready or in digital form) which will be used for the She: Bike/Spoke/Love promotional poster (and subsidiary promo print/electronic materials).
I know there are a ton of visually-creative people out there with a little time on their hands right now (school's out, summer's here, you're bored...).
Please send all submissions, if in electronic form, via jpg, pdf, or html link to Tammy Gomez, Sound Culture producer/director, at
sound_culture@hotmail.com.
If you have only a hard-copy to submit, please contact me at the same email address or post a comment here.
We will be accepting submissions until the cold, hard dead-line of June 22nd!
Oh--$100 will be awarded to artist with the selected (winning) design.
(Note: If the winning submission is from an artist team, the cash award will have to be split between/among the artists on that team.)
Also, please feel free to ask your questions BEFORE you submit to assure that your design is both appropriate and relevant.
Thank you, all you energetic creatives!
__________________________________________________________
more details about She: Bike/Spoke/Love:
The main characters are women, Latina women. They're young and intelligent urban bicyclists who challenge all kinds of boundaries (cultural, political, gender). The play will involve lots of images of bicycling and bicycles, and a few other alterna-cultural issues. Feel of the work is spoken word/hiphop/downtempo ambient/raw and bilingual. Men/teens/transgendered&bi/punk rockers/urban artists/spoken word poets will also, mos definitely, be involved.
I know there are a ton of visually-creative people out there with a little time on their hands right now (school's out, summer's here, you're bored...).
Please send all submissions, if in electronic form, via jpg, pdf, or html link to Tammy Gomez, Sound Culture producer/director, at
sound_culture@hotmail.com.
If you have only a hard-copy to submit, please contact me at the same email address or post a comment here.
We will be accepting submissions until the cold, hard dead-line of June 22nd!
Oh--$100 will be awarded to artist with the selected (winning) design.
(Note: If the winning submission is from an artist team, the cash award will have to be split between/among the artists on that team.)
Also, please feel free to ask your questions BEFORE you submit to assure that your design is both appropriate and relevant.
Thank you, all you energetic creatives!
__________________________________________________________
more details about She: Bike/Spoke/Love:
The main characters are women, Latina women. They're young and intelligent urban bicyclists who challenge all kinds of boundaries (cultural, political, gender). The play will involve lots of images of bicycling and bicycles, and a few other alterna-cultural issues. Feel of the work is spoken word/hiphop/downtempo ambient/raw and bilingual. Men/teens/transgendered&bi/punk rockers/urban artists/spoken word poets will also, mos definitely, be involved.
Enlisting/inviting participant artists for world premiere of She: Bike/Spoke/Love
She: Bike/Spoke/Love is a multidisciplinary spoken word theater work which celebrates the bicycle (as alternative transportation and thruway to nature) and bicyclist (as empowered low-tech activist and freewheeling rebel) featuring original poetry, freestyle and choreographed bicycling, video sequences, and live/dj musical score.
Because Texas’ history reveals it to be an automobile-dependent and oil industry-friendly state, bicycling Texans are often perceived as law-breaking, car-hating misfits. It is increasingly important, therefore, to present the positive aspects of bicycling and to celebrate the bike communities that are sprouting up all over Texas at this moment in time.
During and around the time of World Car-Free Day (September 22nd, 2007), Sound Culture (a young network of artists, performers, bicyclists, and activists) will premiere a radically new performance concept of bicycle theater to the state of Texas with performances of She: Bike/Spoke/Love in Fort Worth and other cities.
Between now and October 2007, Sound Culture will be auditioning and inviting many local/regional folks to join in the effort to present this original work. With the support of grants from NALAC (National Association of Latino Arts and Culture)—funded in part by the Ford Foundation—and the Puffin Foundation, we’re hoping to have enough resources to allow this project to realize its potential of unifying audience and performers in a cross-cultural cutting-edge community art experience in Texas.
For more information, or to offer resources/advice/skills, please email:
sound_culture@hotmail.com
or via this myspace profile.
Thanks!
Poem #153 of 365
When you waved towards me,
i looked at you and tried
to figure out how to help.
as you approached, i saw the
light had not yet turned green.
your mouth moved, but the radio,
i looked confused, so you came close.
a folded bill, a dollar bill
was held high up in your hand.
still on red, i held the brakes,
and tried to see what you said.
you asked me if i wanted to
drive around, had some time.
i merely squinted, it was bright,
so you asked if i sucked dick.
i gripped the wheel, and held
my poise, you said you could pay.
shook my head, and eyed the light,
i don't make my money that way.
you turned to go, and so did i,
but the red kept me in that lane.
what to do, i felt my heart race,
got to scream, or to help someone else.
i was scared, the blood pumped fast,
it was shock that i felt.
the man in white shorts, head is balding,
i would not forget.
i drove in circles, like a stunned bird,
until i stopped at a store.
call the police, give my details,
make the man go away.
-make the man go away
-it was shock that i felt
-got to scream or to help
-i would not forget.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
i looked at you and tried
to figure out how to help.
as you approached, i saw the
light had not yet turned green.
your mouth moved, but the radio,
i looked confused, so you came close.
a folded bill, a dollar bill
was held high up in your hand.
still on red, i held the brakes,
and tried to see what you said.
you asked me if i wanted to
drive around, had some time.
i merely squinted, it was bright,
so you asked if i sucked dick.
i gripped the wheel, and held
my poise, you said you could pay.
shook my head, and eyed the light,
i don't make my money that way.
you turned to go, and so did i,
but the red kept me in that lane.
what to do, i felt my heart race,
got to scream, or to help someone else.
i was scared, the blood pumped fast,
it was shock that i felt.
the man in white shorts, head is balding,
i would not forget.
i drove in circles, like a stunned bird,
until i stopped at a store.
call the police, give my details,
make the man go away.
-make the man go away
-it was shock that i felt
-got to scream or to help
-i would not forget.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Poem #151 of 365
Peaches
i have peaches
on two trees
hanging thick
Come
eat the peaches
on two trees
juicy sweet
Pick
up the peaches
from the ground
fallen down
Bake
hot the peaches
in the dish
swallow up
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
i have peaches
on two trees
hanging thick
Come
eat the peaches
on two trees
juicy sweet
Pick
up the peaches
from the ground
fallen down
Bake
hot the peaches
in the dish
swallow up
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Beautiful B.I.K.E. ride tonight - yep it was!
About 50 folks came out to Hemphill 1919 for a group ride to our movie-screening site. We rode from South of downtown to Northwest of downtown and it felt like nothing, no effort, little exertion, no time, no sweat. Why? Cuz it was with a group of laidback though hard-peddling youngsters, midsters, and oldskoolsters on an assortment of two-wheeled conveyances that made us look like a night-time circus act. Some mutant bikes were definitely in the mix. I love those tall bikes, and watching the smooth dismounts from those elevated seats, well, it's pretty cool. I think only one person skidded out, but that was only a minor mishap.
The film itself (B.I.K.E. -- the documentary about subterranean bike culture in NYC, Minneapolis, and other places, was provocative and lively, with plenty of tall bike jousting sequences--if you're into that kind of thing) was projected onto the exterior wall of a FW studio art building (Studio 817) and we all sat outside popping open our carefully-packed bottles and cans for relaxing consumption. When the night clouds pulled back like theater curtains, you could see the full-ish blue moon (yep, it's officially full tomorrow, but it's blue right now, if you know what that means) peeking out for a shine over the top of the building.
Eventually, the lightning chimed in for its equally-inspiring display which competed with the film for our attention. Some folks peeled off to head home (Denton people came out for this, dudes!) before any rain could sour the proceedings, but at least 20 of us stuck it out 'til the end. Then, we quickly unplugged, coiled up the cables and cords, packed up the stuff we'd brought with, and climbed back on our steeds to outrun the storm. It never came: the rain, the hail, the winds. Nothing like that impeded our flow, and neither did the motorists who had thinned out on the roads by midnight, and we seemed to have Henderson to ourselves. There is care and concern when you ride in a group, and we made sure we got home in one piece.
Thanks to Ramz and Trae and all the other individuals who worked collectively to organize this mad rad monthly bike ride.
Stay tuned for info on the next. !Hasta la proxima!
The film itself (B.I.K.E. -- the documentary about subterranean bike culture in NYC, Minneapolis, and other places, was provocative and lively, with plenty of tall bike jousting sequences--if you're into that kind of thing) was projected onto the exterior wall of a FW studio art building (Studio 817) and we all sat outside popping open our carefully-packed bottles and cans for relaxing consumption. When the night clouds pulled back like theater curtains, you could see the full-ish blue moon (yep, it's officially full tomorrow, but it's blue right now, if you know what that means) peeking out for a shine over the top of the building.
Eventually, the lightning chimed in for its equally-inspiring display which competed with the film for our attention. Some folks peeled off to head home (Denton people came out for this, dudes!) before any rain could sour the proceedings, but at least 20 of us stuck it out 'til the end. Then, we quickly unplugged, coiled up the cables and cords, packed up the stuff we'd brought with, and climbed back on our steeds to outrun the storm. It never came: the rain, the hail, the winds. Nothing like that impeded our flow, and neither did the motorists who had thinned out on the roads by midnight, and we seemed to have Henderson to ourselves. There is care and concern when you ride in a group, and we made sure we got home in one piece.
Thanks to Ramz and Trae and all the other individuals who worked collectively to organize this mad rad monthly bike ride.
Stay tuned for info on the next. !Hasta la proxima!
Poem #150 of 365
Daddy, I can't remember having
a beer with you, once you were
blind and I was finally legal.
Did we forget that we could bond
in celebration as easily as we did
in pain and suffering?
Daddy, I would have gladly paid
for the beers and opened them
up, letting the caps clatter so
you could count up the bottles.
I cannot remember ever laughing
and tipsy, sharing a joke or
whistling bad songs, once the
tumor had taken its toll.
But I do recall as a kid,
sitting in the baby blue Impala
on a Friday night, waiting for
mama to finish in the store.
She was smart to not let you drive,
because you had had way too much
of those beers after work. And she
was buying groceries as you sat
shotgun in the car, hiccuping and
hiccuping without much of a pause.
We thought it was so funny, me and
Miranda, when you numbered
your hiccups out loud, and the whole Impala
was a big counting shout with giggles
and our heads tossed about.
But mama was not thrilled
by your hiccup performance,
she clamped us shut
all quiet for the drive home.
And you tried to stifle your hiccups
but every one or so out of five
exceeded the limit on volume
she'd newly-imposed, and we'd giggle
under cupped little girl hands.
These days there is one bottle
I buy yearly for you, my painstaking
hunt some times yields just one
quart. A Schlitz just for you,
just like you once liked, I place it
atop the day of the dead altar
I build in October. The one you
really liked. The beer that made
my daddy famous.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
a beer with you, once you were
blind and I was finally legal.
Did we forget that we could bond
in celebration as easily as we did
in pain and suffering?
Daddy, I would have gladly paid
for the beers and opened them
up, letting the caps clatter so
you could count up the bottles.
I cannot remember ever laughing
and tipsy, sharing a joke or
whistling bad songs, once the
tumor had taken its toll.
But I do recall as a kid,
sitting in the baby blue Impala
on a Friday night, waiting for
mama to finish in the store.
She was smart to not let you drive,
because you had had way too much
of those beers after work. And she
was buying groceries as you sat
shotgun in the car, hiccuping and
hiccuping without much of a pause.
We thought it was so funny, me and
Miranda, when you numbered
your hiccups out loud, and the whole Impala
was a big counting shout with giggles
and our heads tossed about.
But mama was not thrilled
by your hiccup performance,
she clamped us shut
all quiet for the drive home.
And you tried to stifle your hiccups
but every one or so out of five
exceeded the limit on volume
she'd newly-imposed, and we'd giggle
under cupped little girl hands.
These days there is one bottle
I buy yearly for you, my painstaking
hunt some times yields just one
quart. A Schlitz just for you,
just like you once liked, I place it
atop the day of the dead altar
I build in October. The one you
really liked. The beer that made
my daddy famous.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
MY FORT WORTH: Bike to the Movies - Wednesday, May 30th
Join the mad hot biciclistas of cowtown (the 817, tejas, man) on Wednesday evening for a cool (and maybe wet) ride on two-wheels together. We meet up at 9ish pm at 1919 Hemphill and push off as one at 9:30pm. The word has been sent out about this to the hinterlands of Denton & Dallas, so we might have some new friends along for the ride. Our destination is a surprise location for an outdoors film screening party; the film for the night is B.I.K.E.
FREE AND OPEN TO ALL! See ya manana en la noche!!
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Poem #149 of 365
There's a foot traffic jam
on Everest today, because
summer climbing season
starts in May, and the
life-risking pedestrians
from all over the world
show up for an extreme
vertical hike.
I am younger than the eldest to
accomplish this summit, as I am
also older than the youngest to
reach the same.
If I climbed it myself, what would
be my claim to fame?
The first left-handed, bilingual Tejana poet with scoliosis?
The first Buddhist Texan with a college education?
The shortest adult female from Fort Worth?
I dunno, but I feel myself drawn
to this highest of heights
and start budgeting in
my head for the gear and the fees.
One day I may again find myself
in the kingdom of that
magical mountain,
Everest, Sagarmatha.
Once more, I will sip the hot
lemon drink, once more get lost
in the evening fog, once again
fall in love with the sherpas,
and weep at the sight of the sites.
I wanna get high, at least a little bit high,
in the mountains again.
(Missing Nepal and giving kudos to Samantha Larson, who at just 18 years of age recently became the youngest American to reach the summit of Mt. Everest)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
on Everest today, because
summer climbing season
starts in May, and the
life-risking pedestrians
from all over the world
show up for an extreme
vertical hike.
I am younger than the eldest to
accomplish this summit, as I am
also older than the youngest to
reach the same.
If I climbed it myself, what would
be my claim to fame?
The first left-handed, bilingual Tejana poet with scoliosis?
The first Buddhist Texan with a college education?
The shortest adult female from Fort Worth?
I dunno, but I feel myself drawn
to this highest of heights
and start budgeting in
my head for the gear and the fees.
One day I may again find myself
in the kingdom of that
magical mountain,
Everest, Sagarmatha.
Once more, I will sip the hot
lemon drink, once more get lost
in the evening fog, once again
fall in love with the sherpas,
and weep at the sight of the sites.
I wanna get high, at least a little bit high,
in the mountains again.
(Missing Nepal and giving kudos to Samantha Larson, who at just 18 years of age recently became the youngest American to reach the summit of Mt. Everest)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Monday, May 28, 2007
Poem #148 of 365
Someone should really
stop Miguel from
playing disc golf
in those black stretch
pants i painted with
skeleton bones
for him to wear
exclusively, mind you
for that dia de los muertos
wacky performance
we staged at metrognome
last november
but Miguel, actually
should stop himself and
cover his ass with
something less clingy
and revealing when
he's flinging discs
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
stop Miguel from
playing disc golf
in those black stretch
pants i painted with
skeleton bones
for him to wear
exclusively, mind you
for that dia de los muertos
wacky performance
we staged at metrognome
last november
but Miguel, actually
should stop himself and
cover his ass with
something less clingy
and revealing when
he's flinging discs
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Poem #147 of 365
there are a few people i'd like to:
throw pickles at
give my money to
share a boxcar with
teach to throat sing
make films with
cook soup for
invite to penny springs
send to sing sing
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
throw pickles at
give my money to
share a boxcar with
teach to throat sing
make films with
cook soup for
invite to penny springs
send to sing sing
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Poem #146 of 365
damn sentimental
you cannot write
about anything
without throwing
emotion and feelings
all up in it
it complicates the
themes and the page
when you weep
why don't you
suck it all in
just like them
you tear-eyed fool
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
you cannot write
about anything
without throwing
emotion and feelings
all up in it
it complicates the
themes and the page
when you weep
why don't you
suck it all in
just like them
you tear-eyed fool
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Friday, May 25, 2007
"An Idiot Divine" in Cowtown this weekend (May 24-26)
Herb Levy--experimental & new music fan and founder of an org that produces shows of such music--is hosting yet another avant-garde artist: this time a 2007 Pulitzer Prize nominee.
From Herb's emailed announcement:
"I'm bringing Rinde Eckert, a great singer & performer, to Fort Worth for a three-night run of "An Idiot Divine", a concert length performance of two solo music-theater pieces: Dry Land Divine & Idiot Variations. The show is really wonderful, I've appended a quote from a NY Times review below that describes it better than I could. I hope that you'll come to see the performance. And please forward this to anyone you think may be interested."
Rinde was a finalist for the 2007 Pulitzer Prize for Drama (for his play Orpheus X) and is also a 2007 Guggenheim Fellow for music composition. He's performed his own work throughout North America, Europe and Japan; he's also collaborated with many composers, musicians, and choreographers including Paul Dresher, Bill Frisell, Jerry Granelli, Margaret Jenkins, Steven Mackey, Sarah Shelton Mann, and John Oliver.
An Idiot Divine runs at 8pm on Thursday, Friday & Saturday, May 24-26 in the Sanders Theater of the Fort Worth Community Arts Center (the old Modern). Tickets are $20/$15 for seniors/students.
If you have questions, or wish to make reservations, you can e-mail Herb Levy at: herb@eskimo.com.
By the way, Herb's new organization is OTHER ARTS. Herb tells me that he will be producing a full year of concerts and shows starting in the fall of 2007. A new website is forthcoming...
Here's a photo
of Herb (with Carol) at the Fellini birthday party earlier this year. (Uh, that's your typical wood faun lurking in the background.) Hosted by Don Young (of the wildly popular Fellini film festival (2006) AND the Fort Worth Prairie Fests), this celebration of all things Fellini featured a costume contest. Yep, Herb and his lady Carol won--this year. That night, Herb slapped a slammin' 2-disc "mix tape" cd into my hand. It was the best thing you'd never hear on the radio. From Gang of 4 and John Zorn to Four Tet and Caetano Veloso, these songs were savory and unique. Move over, Paul Slavens. Herb Levy's the guy for 90.1 at Night--if you ask me. At least Paul and Herb could host on alternate Sundays, right? I go dreamin'......
Okay, the recommended show for this weekend:
"An Idiot Divine"
8pm
Friday & Saturday, May 25-26
Sanders Theater (at the Fort Worth Community Arts Center--y'know, the old Modern) Tickets are $20/$15 for seniors/students.
For more information on Rinde, you can check his website here.
_________________ critic's notes _________________________
Ben Brantley of the New York Times, on "An Idiot Divine":
"The line between man and music curves, squiggles, blurs and dissolves in 'An Idiot Divine,' Rinde Eckert's inspired set of performance pieces. Eckert is an instinctive showman who preens his considerable skills with contagious enjoyment. The idea of an instrument as something that is passively played upon takes on a swirl of shades of meaning: mechanical, cosmic, anatomical and psychological. Therein lies the essential premise and the great joy of Mr. Eckert's work. The music is everywhere, just waiting to be tapped, with results that may be beautiful or ungainly. This remarkable performer has the humility to acknowledge his own human awkwardness as well as his divine grace. How indeed, Mr. Eckert seems to be asking with equal parts earnestness and irony, do you separate the singer from the song?"
The New Yorker Magazine on "An Idiot Divine":
"With an assortment of musical instruments and his otherworldly voice, Rinde Eckert channels two 'edjits'. The first is a murderer doing time in prison, who teaches himself how to play the accordion and dowse for water. The second is harder to pin down: he speaks with a brogue, dresses like an Indian guru, plays a horn, a guitar, and various bells and whistles beautifully, and discourses amusingly on the individual personalities of his five fingers. With these talents, and his ability to perform one-man duets, Eckert elevates incoherence to a poignant clarity."
Poem #145 of 365
I never thought you'd say that.
The soggy thing with no bones,
only vowels. When you looked
twice away, I knew you had some
doubt, needed to spit, find your
gut.
Don't worry, I've forgiven you since.
And other soggy things have been
flung my way. No matter, I dodge
and I duck, or else carry a rag to
wipe away the soot of the smear.
But one day, all of yous will find
that your teeth have gone soft
and the jaws of your mouth
have clamped tightly shut, for the slurs
that you spoke that cut to my bones
have eaten you from the inside to out.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
The soggy thing with no bones,
only vowels. When you looked
twice away, I knew you had some
doubt, needed to spit, find your
gut.
Don't worry, I've forgiven you since.
And other soggy things have been
flung my way. No matter, I dodge
and I duck, or else carry a rag to
wipe away the soot of the smear.
But one day, all of yous will find
that your teeth have gone soft
and the jaws of your mouth
have clamped tightly shut, for the slurs
that you spoke that cut to my bones
have eaten you from the inside to out.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Poem #144 of 365
In the distance I
saw 4 young elephants
They passed the hill
to walk towards me
Their skin was blue
painted ever so lightly
I wondered who, what painter
could have reached so high
They had followed my footprints
and could smell my scent
I watched to see what
they might do next
My tent was anchored
in the deep hot sand
They would be welcomed
if they came as friends
When they spoke it shocked me
I never knew that
4 young elephants
could speak with grace:
We are four young wishes
we must grant to you.
I did not believe them
it seemed untrue
I want it to rain then,
demanded I
With a laugh I waited
for nothing to change
Instead the clouds broke
upon my head
I dashed for cover
for 40 days
The sand became mud
and my tent was soaked
I looked at the elephants
only three were there
It was all too much
The rain was a plague
The three who were left
stood stoic and blue
And reminded me of
three wishes to make
I wished it to stop
for all rains to stop
Impatient was I for
my tent to be dry
And before I could blink
I saw two elephants now
The one who just vanished
left drought in his wake
The land became dust
and I shriveled with it
The sun did its part
to parch us with heat
I hungered for drink
and wanted the rain
But recalled my luck
the first time that I wished
With caution I spoke
no fool would I be
My words would be chosen
with prudence and thought
For wishes last long
and can turn out all wrong
If one does not pause
with internal debate
And so when I spoke
it was careful and slow
I said make things go
the way of before
I want life the same
as before you came
My wish is for things to
be the same and for nothing
for nothing ever to change
And for my last wish
the final elephant blue:
I want you to leave
just vanish and go
I wish to never see
another elephant like you
And so, just like that
no blue elephants now
The landscape is vast
but those wishes are gone
and things are the same
no river, no rain, no
drought and no plague
but instead of relief and joy
my mind is clogged and vague
for i have killed a species
because i thought it easier
to not have to think of
the consequences of my choices
I’m drunk with prayer
and yet change won’t come
and yet nothing
no change at all
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
saw 4 young elephants
They passed the hill
to walk towards me
Their skin was blue
painted ever so lightly
I wondered who, what painter
could have reached so high
They had followed my footprints
and could smell my scent
I watched to see what
they might do next
My tent was anchored
in the deep hot sand
They would be welcomed
if they came as friends
When they spoke it shocked me
I never knew that
4 young elephants
could speak with grace:
We are four young wishes
we must grant to you.
I did not believe them
it seemed untrue
I want it to rain then,
demanded I
With a laugh I waited
for nothing to change
Instead the clouds broke
upon my head
I dashed for cover
for 40 days
The sand became mud
and my tent was soaked
I looked at the elephants
only three were there
It was all too much
The rain was a plague
The three who were left
stood stoic and blue
And reminded me of
three wishes to make
I wished it to stop
for all rains to stop
Impatient was I for
my tent to be dry
And before I could blink
I saw two elephants now
The one who just vanished
left drought in his wake
The land became dust
and I shriveled with it
The sun did its part
to parch us with heat
I hungered for drink
and wanted the rain
But recalled my luck
the first time that I wished
With caution I spoke
no fool would I be
My words would be chosen
with prudence and thought
For wishes last long
and can turn out all wrong
If one does not pause
with internal debate
And so when I spoke
it was careful and slow
I said make things go
the way of before
I want life the same
as before you came
My wish is for things to
be the same and for nothing
for nothing ever to change
And for my last wish
the final elephant blue:
I want you to leave
just vanish and go
I wish to never see
another elephant like you
And so, just like that
no blue elephants now
The landscape is vast
but those wishes are gone
and things are the same
no river, no rain, no
drought and no plague
but instead of relief and joy
my mind is clogged and vague
for i have killed a species
because i thought it easier
to not have to think of
the consequences of my choices
I’m drunk with prayer
and yet change won’t come
and yet nothing
no change at all
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Poem #143 of 365
We flirt with the sharpest things, our knives
and our blades to clean and to cut, to
trim up our trails.
We bleed with the thickest blood, our pulse
in red suds to drip and to surge, to
clog up our towels.
We swim in the deepest sea, our fins
and our gills to breathe and to dive, to
float up our tears.
We read in the darkest room, our words
and our books to think and to grow, to
pile up our truths.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
and our blades to clean and to cut, to
trim up our trails.
We bleed with the thickest blood, our pulse
in red suds to drip and to surge, to
clog up our towels.
We swim in the deepest sea, our fins
and our gills to breathe and to dive, to
float up our tears.
We read in the darkest room, our words
and our books to think and to grow, to
pile up our truths.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Jason Eklund and Kevin Hayes--tonight @ 7th Haven in FW
These guys start jammin in a coupla hours. And I have to work tonight--waaa--so i can't be there early, if at all.
They’ll be playing at 7th Haven on Crockett Street – down 7th Street to Currie (west of Montgomery Plaza – turn south to Crockett, turn west – next to the dead Black Dog).
Tuesday, May 22nd - 8:00 PM
No cover (free & open to the public)
7th Haven
2929 Crockett St - Fort Worth
Tonight's show is a casual thing, Kevin Hayes (Old Crow Medicine Show) trading sets with Jason at the 7th Haven.
Here's the myspace places where you can sample audio files of Jason Eklund's music and Kevin with the Old Crow Medicine Show.
Jason and I have known each other for a number of years. Met through poets Kell Robertson and Kendall McCook, who did hard-time with me @ the Hop in the days of "The Miracle on Berry Street." The three of us keep crossing paths, either here in North Texas or in Albuquerque (or "I'll be quirky" as Jason likes to call it), Santa Fe or Taos or Kell's tiny shack on Refugee Ridge up off the Turquoise Trail. I love the Turquoise Trail. That's the back highway btwn. Santa Fe and ABQ that you can take if you are into--and I am--hilly, winding roads and ole sleepy former mining towns where you can buy good but cheap turquoise jewelry and find a place that sells organic coffee and somebody serving it to you who remembers when Bob Dylan used to have a house there in Madrid (and they say it like MAD-rid, not like the Spanish do). Me and a coupla different boyfriends used to drive up in my blue Mazda B2000 pickup truck and just pull off the Turquoise Trail, hidden behind some brush or patch of trees, and just sleep in the bed of the truck with the New Mexico sky for a roof. I swear, everytime I tossed or turned for a comfortable position--and that's often when you're lying in a truck--I would open my eyes and catch a falling star in my momentary glimpse. Ah, those were some beautiful times...
Well, I feel lucky that these renegade troubadour types have taken a liking to me--and my poems. So much so that I stay on their radar when they're passing through town and wanna share a beer with a working class Chicana like me. Kell Robertson is getting up there in years, and Kendall McCook has been scheming for a way to get a documentary film produced for and about Kell's crazy beat poet life. This is one of my favorite photos ever taken of Kell.
I happened to be in New Mexico when they threw a big party for Kell's birthday at the Mine Shaft in Cerrillos. People drove in from different villages in the region and there was a great hoedown; Kell even sang and boot-scooted with several pretty young ladies in the bar. He turned me down when I asked him to dance; he's a persnickety codger, and I acccept that all right. But he always calls me "dahr--lin." No matter what.
Well, anyway, tomorrow Jason and Kevin are gonna come by my porch to videotape me for the documentary film they've decided to start on their own--funding or not. I'll read from some of the letters that Kell has sent me over the years, and I'll get to share a poem I wrote for him, and whatever else I can think to say. Maybe I'll talk about the Christmas day I spent at his house here in Fairmount--when he lived in Fort Worth. Kell was drunk, no surprise, but on beet wine--of all things. Tasty stuff, but it could stain your clothes forever. He was crooning some old Vicente Fernandez rancheras in the hallway, pacing back and forth in the cowboy boots he seems to wear 24-7, with the oven door open cuz that was the only source of heat in the house that winter. My new boyfriend--at the time--seemed amazed that I could be friends with an old grizzly like Kell. Let nothing surprise you.
Jason and Kevin will be out on Refugee Ridge, taping video of/with Kell by Thursday. No doubt, there will be cases of beer and songs aplenty involved.
About my old buddy Kell: He "has been a rodeo cowboy, a country & western singer, and is the first man on a horse to get killed off in Sam Peckinpah's The Wild Bunch. He has always been a poet."
Here's a link to more info about Kell Robertson.
They’ll be playing at 7th Haven on Crockett Street – down 7th Street to Currie (west of Montgomery Plaza – turn south to Crockett, turn west – next to the dead Black Dog).
Tuesday, May 22nd - 8:00 PM
No cover (free & open to the public)
7th Haven
2929 Crockett St - Fort Worth
Tonight's show is a casual thing, Kevin Hayes (Old Crow Medicine Show) trading sets with Jason at the 7th Haven.
Here's the myspace places where you can sample audio files of Jason Eklund's music and Kevin with the Old Crow Medicine Show.
Jason and I have known each other for a number of years. Met through poets Kell Robertson and Kendall McCook, who did hard-time with me @ the Hop in the days of "The Miracle on Berry Street." The three of us keep crossing paths, either here in North Texas or in Albuquerque (or "I'll be quirky" as Jason likes to call it), Santa Fe or Taos or Kell's tiny shack on Refugee Ridge up off the Turquoise Trail. I love the Turquoise Trail. That's the back highway btwn. Santa Fe and ABQ that you can take if you are into--and I am--hilly, winding roads and ole sleepy former mining towns where you can buy good but cheap turquoise jewelry and find a place that sells organic coffee and somebody serving it to you who remembers when Bob Dylan used to have a house there in Madrid (and they say it like MAD-rid, not like the Spanish do). Me and a coupla different boyfriends used to drive up in my blue Mazda B2000 pickup truck and just pull off the Turquoise Trail, hidden behind some brush or patch of trees, and just sleep in the bed of the truck with the New Mexico sky for a roof. I swear, everytime I tossed or turned for a comfortable position--and that's often when you're lying in a truck--I would open my eyes and catch a falling star in my momentary glimpse. Ah, those were some beautiful times...
Well, I feel lucky that these renegade troubadour types have taken a liking to me--and my poems. So much so that I stay on their radar when they're passing through town and wanna share a beer with a working class Chicana like me. Kell Robertson is getting up there in years, and Kendall McCook has been scheming for a way to get a documentary film produced for and about Kell's crazy beat poet life. This is one of my favorite photos ever taken of Kell.
I happened to be in New Mexico when they threw a big party for Kell's birthday at the Mine Shaft in Cerrillos. People drove in from different villages in the region and there was a great hoedown; Kell even sang and boot-scooted with several pretty young ladies in the bar. He turned me down when I asked him to dance; he's a persnickety codger, and I acccept that all right. But he always calls me "dahr--lin." No matter what.
Well, anyway, tomorrow Jason and Kevin are gonna come by my porch to videotape me for the documentary film they've decided to start on their own--funding or not. I'll read from some of the letters that Kell has sent me over the years, and I'll get to share a poem I wrote for him, and whatever else I can think to say. Maybe I'll talk about the Christmas day I spent at his house here in Fairmount--when he lived in Fort Worth. Kell was drunk, no surprise, but on beet wine--of all things. Tasty stuff, but it could stain your clothes forever. He was crooning some old Vicente Fernandez rancheras in the hallway, pacing back and forth in the cowboy boots he seems to wear 24-7, with the oven door open cuz that was the only source of heat in the house that winter. My new boyfriend--at the time--seemed amazed that I could be friends with an old grizzly like Kell. Let nothing surprise you.
Jason and Kevin will be out on Refugee Ridge, taping video of/with Kell by Thursday. No doubt, there will be cases of beer and songs aplenty involved.
About my old buddy Kell: He "has been a rodeo cowboy, a country & western singer, and is the first man on a horse to get killed off in Sam Peckinpah's The Wild Bunch. He has always been a poet."
Here's a link to more info about Kell Robertson.
Poem #142 of 365
Dress Obama in a Scottish kilt,
give Hillary a Oaxacan huipil,
tell McCain to sport a dashiki,
put Giuliani in a long black burka,
and make them soak together in a melting pot,
or drop them at a border checkpoint without papers,
or have them work a convenience store graveyard shift in the meanest hood in D.C.,
or embed them with students fighting it out with the TAKS test,
or put them in a hospital without medical insurance,
or lodge them in West Bank, post-Katrina New Orleans,
or simply let them get LOST in the REAL WORLD u.s.a.
for the most bad-ass intruiging reality tv show.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
give Hillary a Oaxacan huipil,
tell McCain to sport a dashiki,
put Giuliani in a long black burka,
and make them soak together in a melting pot,
or drop them at a border checkpoint without papers,
or have them work a convenience store graveyard shift in the meanest hood in D.C.,
or embed them with students fighting it out with the TAKS test,
or put them in a hospital without medical insurance,
or lodge them in West Bank, post-Katrina New Orleans,
or simply let them get LOST in the REAL WORLD u.s.a.
for the most bad-ass intruiging reality tv show.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Monday, May 21, 2007
Poem #141 of 365
Karen, you pushed on me
and dug into my shoulders,
pulled my hair in thick tufts
between your fists, and it
was the most beautiful
cathartic full-contact fight.
I surrendered completely to
your masterful cues, crouching
in the child's pose and rising
for other salutes to my suffering
physique. Every word spoken
touched something, shifted soft
tissue, and I confessed my short
comings with long moaning breaths.
You analyzed the problem in
the soma and told me to get out
of my head and revisit my body
at least once in a while.
Yes, too, you determined that I
have been pushing too long
and too hard, for ambition is the
car that we think we must drive.
And Judy was there, watching and
laughing, at some point when she
teased, I yelled to shut up. Karen
could tell this was part of my purging,
and both of these women tolerated
me total.
Oh, now I am stretched out in relief.
Blessed breath, elongated wisdom.
Thank you poet-muses, Karen & Judy,
merciful, merciful friends.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
and dug into my shoulders,
pulled my hair in thick tufts
between your fists, and it
was the most beautiful
cathartic full-contact fight.
I surrendered completely to
your masterful cues, crouching
in the child's pose and rising
for other salutes to my suffering
physique. Every word spoken
touched something, shifted soft
tissue, and I confessed my short
comings with long moaning breaths.
You analyzed the problem in
the soma and told me to get out
of my head and revisit my body
at least once in a while.
Yes, too, you determined that I
have been pushing too long
and too hard, for ambition is the
car that we think we must drive.
And Judy was there, watching and
laughing, at some point when she
teased, I yelled to shut up. Karen
could tell this was part of my purging,
and both of these women tolerated
me total.
Oh, now I am stretched out in relief.
Blessed breath, elongated wisdom.
Thank you poet-muses, Karen & Judy,
merciful, merciful friends.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Poem #140 of 365
Jarid, I blame you for the headache,
if someone must be at fault,
for I sat and lay in bed reading
your manuscript at 5am today.
I got it from Greg yesterday
and didn't think I'd take the time
to get my eyes up in the book
because I've been so tired lately.
Yet, I woke up so early feeling good,
but didn't want to get dressed, so I
reached for GP and devoured it for
two hours straight.
I recall the various positions in bed. I shifted
with the book in hand to stay comfortable,
on my belly, on my back, sitting up,
but something locked in my neck.
And yet, I couldn't pull away, your story
answered questions and brought others,
so I flipped and turned here and there
to learn about you more.
And, too late, the pain started rising,
in my shoulders and my neck, so tight
and stiffened with contortions
was my body in reading repose.
When the headache came full force,
I cussed my curiosity and my
lascivious reading tenacity and
pressed my temples and walked
the floors, trying to come back
to my senses, get away from the pain.
I never recovered that day or night, though
I had brief spells of rest and latent ache. And
now I fear to resume the read, and Greg
thinks me superstitious, although I beg
to differ.
Lastly, I want to offer a back cover blurb:
"Reading this book gave me the worst
headache of this century, and it was
worth the pain."
Someone, though, please tell me how
it ends.
(Jarid Manos' GHETTO PLAINSMAN is due to be published sometime in 2007.)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
if someone must be at fault,
for I sat and lay in bed reading
your manuscript at 5am today.
I got it from Greg yesterday
and didn't think I'd take the time
to get my eyes up in the book
because I've been so tired lately.
Yet, I woke up so early feeling good,
but didn't want to get dressed, so I
reached for GP and devoured it for
two hours straight.
I recall the various positions in bed. I shifted
with the book in hand to stay comfortable,
on my belly, on my back, sitting up,
but something locked in my neck.
And yet, I couldn't pull away, your story
answered questions and brought others,
so I flipped and turned here and there
to learn about you more.
And, too late, the pain started rising,
in my shoulders and my neck, so tight
and stiffened with contortions
was my body in reading repose.
When the headache came full force,
I cussed my curiosity and my
lascivious reading tenacity and
pressed my temples and walked
the floors, trying to come back
to my senses, get away from the pain.
I never recovered that day or night, though
I had brief spells of rest and latent ache. And
now I fear to resume the read, and Greg
thinks me superstitious, although I beg
to differ.
Lastly, I want to offer a back cover blurb:
"Reading this book gave me the worst
headache of this century, and it was
worth the pain."
Someone, though, please tell me how
it ends.
(Jarid Manos' GHETTO PLAINSMAN is due to be published sometime in 2007.)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Poem #139 of 365
Jason, you have no idea, but you appeared
on the plasma screen the other night
at the library. I was walking towards you
and marveling at how much you resemble
John Wayne.
The black-and-white film, some old war
classic, showed the chiseled and slim
youngish Wayne. The sound was turned
down so it was easy to imagine your voice
dubbed in with that face.
Of course, I had never considered this ever
before. Your uncannily similar looks. And it
was not lost on me that this was about as
close to being like John Wayne that you could
ever possibly be.
I think you are a different kind of Americana
hero, a rambling potluck of a man. You can
sniff out the fake from the real, yet the gold
is not what makes you rich--it's your musical
barefoot soul and the way you magically keep
the gas tank full enough to careen you towards
the next rollicking roadhouse on the odometer
of your lifelong national tour.
And that, my friend, takes true grit.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
on the plasma screen the other night
at the library. I was walking towards you
and marveling at how much you resemble
John Wayne.
The black-and-white film, some old war
classic, showed the chiseled and slim
youngish Wayne. The sound was turned
down so it was easy to imagine your voice
dubbed in with that face.
Of course, I had never considered this ever
before. Your uncannily similar looks. And it
was not lost on me that this was about as
close to being like John Wayne that you could
ever possibly be.
I think you are a different kind of Americana
hero, a rambling potluck of a man. You can
sniff out the fake from the real, yet the gold
is not what makes you rich--it's your musical
barefoot soul and the way you magically keep
the gas tank full enough to careen you towards
the next rollicking roadhouse on the odometer
of your lifelong national tour.
And that, my friend, takes true grit.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Friday, May 18, 2007
Poem #138 of 365
I dream of bathing
in dimes, shiny
and cold, in summer
heat, buried in coins.
The monetary value
is not what I crave,
nor to lap at luxury
to pose or impress.
Instead, it's the din
of thin dimes crashing
in waves, smooth metal
on flesh, the sensual surge.
Perhaps too a cure for
arthritis, to swim in 10 cents,
and to waste not the water
for rinses and soaks.
To feel all the metal
abrading my skin and
sleeking me smooth
as a shimmery snake
or a moonlit miser.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
in dimes, shiny
and cold, in summer
heat, buried in coins.
The monetary value
is not what I crave,
nor to lap at luxury
to pose or impress.
Instead, it's the din
of thin dimes crashing
in waves, smooth metal
on flesh, the sensual surge.
Perhaps too a cure for
arthritis, to swim in 10 cents,
and to waste not the water
for rinses and soaks.
To feel all the metal
abrading my skin and
sleeking me smooth
as a shimmery snake
or a moonlit miser.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Tammy Gomez - at Paperbacks Plus on Sunday @ 7pm in Dallas
Come check me out--I'll be reading some pieces from my '365 poems' series, as well as a coupla experimental musical poems. Who knows what persona, what costumes I shall don that evening........? See ya!
WordSpace and Paperbacks Plus are proud to sponsor:
"KAREN X PRESENTS"
An ongoing series of poetry readings
on the 3rd Sunday of every month
at 7:00 p.m.
at Paperbacks Plus
6115 La Vista Drive, Dallas, TX, 75214 (in the groovy Lakewood neighborhood)
Hosted by punk poet yogini Karen X !!
THIS SUNDAY, May 20: Tammy Gomez & Kymberly Keeton (aka Black Coffee)
Tammy Gomez is an award-winning poet and performer, whose poetry and essays have been anthologized in collections including Terra Firma, Conjunctions (Bard College, NY), Cantos al Sexto Sol (Wings Press), and Hecho en Tejas (University of New Mexico Press).
Kymberly Keeton (aka Black Coffee) is a poet, playwright and visual artist. She is a Ph. D candidate at the University of Houston, where she is also artist-in-residence.
DID I MENTION FREE?! DID I MENTION YUMMY EATS & DRINKS!?? FREE!!!
!!! Carpool from Fort Worth, you loveable monsters of art, music, & literatura !!!
Read more info at this here place.
WordSpace and Paperbacks Plus are proud to sponsor:
"KAREN X PRESENTS"
An ongoing series of poetry readings
on the 3rd Sunday of every month
at 7:00 p.m.
at Paperbacks Plus
6115 La Vista Drive, Dallas, TX, 75214 (in the groovy Lakewood neighborhood)
Hosted by punk poet yogini Karen X !!
THIS SUNDAY, May 20: Tammy Gomez & Kymberly Keeton (aka Black Coffee)
Tammy Gomez is an award-winning poet and performer, whose poetry and essays have been anthologized in collections including Terra Firma, Conjunctions (Bard College, NY), Cantos al Sexto Sol (Wings Press), and Hecho en Tejas (University of New Mexico Press).
Kymberly Keeton (aka Black Coffee) is a poet, playwright and visual artist. She is a Ph. D candidate at the University of Houston, where she is also artist-in-residence.
DID I MENTION FREE?! DID I MENTION YUMMY EATS & DRINKS!?? FREE!!!
!!! Carpool from Fort Worth, you loveable monsters of art, music, & literatura !!!
Read more info at this here place.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Poem #137 of 365
After he handed me my glass
and I leaned down to thank him,
he took hold of my head
and softly whispered to me:
never, never say thank
you to me again
and I remembered that gifts
don't need a please and a gracias
it's the joy that you show
when the giving is done
that is plenty the gratitude shown.
In other cultures, it is not
mandated of children that they
speak proprieties on cue,
their expressions are fresh,
unrehearsed, the pleasure
of petals in a spring rain.
So, of course, I shall never again
thank him with socially-scripted stiff words
instead I will smile, squeeze his
hand, and disappear in the crowd.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
and I leaned down to thank him,
he took hold of my head
and softly whispered to me:
never, never say thank
you to me again
and I remembered that gifts
don't need a please and a gracias
it's the joy that you show
when the giving is done
that is plenty the gratitude shown.
In other cultures, it is not
mandated of children that they
speak proprieties on cue,
their expressions are fresh,
unrehearsed, the pleasure
of petals in a spring rain.
So, of course, I shall never again
thank him with socially-scripted stiff words
instead I will smile, squeeze his
hand, and disappear in the crowd.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Poem #136 of 365
Pretend my face is a stop sign.
Take a good look and wait.
Hesitate before you pass me,
weigh all options before you go.
In a flash, you speed off,
and you never look back.
Too busy to miss you,
I'm stopping others in their tracks.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Take a good look and wait.
Hesitate before you pass me,
weigh all options before you go.
In a flash, you speed off,
and you never look back.
Too busy to miss you,
I'm stopping others in their tracks.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Poem #135 of 365
One at a time I face them
with love, feel where they're at,
nod while they speak.
It is lunchtime on campus
and the boys and girls
go searching for food
for their minds and
their mouths.
They approach our table
which is set to entice, and they
nibble at pamphlets and
cards, information for free.
I try not to leap, but am eager
to greet and hold conversations,
treat them as adults,
young as they are.
When I say 'recruit' they
recoil and step back, as if
sprayed with hot water
until I explain, speak softly
and slow.
No way, no way, many kids
declare. I'm not going to join, won't
fight in a war. I say, I'll do what
I can to show you some options,
you don't have to dress as a soldier
to get money for school.
And so then they relax, and bring
their steps closer, and tell me their
stories and open their hands. I'm
hoping they make the best choice
for their lives.
(tabling with Peaceful Vocations at one of 13 high school campuses in the FWISD)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
with love, feel where they're at,
nod while they speak.
It is lunchtime on campus
and the boys and girls
go searching for food
for their minds and
their mouths.
They approach our table
which is set to entice, and they
nibble at pamphlets and
cards, information for free.
I try not to leap, but am eager
to greet and hold conversations,
treat them as adults,
young as they are.
When I say 'recruit' they
recoil and step back, as if
sprayed with hot water
until I explain, speak softly
and slow.
No way, no way, many kids
declare. I'm not going to join, won't
fight in a war. I say, I'll do what
I can to show you some options,
you don't have to dress as a soldier
to get money for school.
And so then they relax, and bring
their steps closer, and tell me their
stories and open their hands. I'm
hoping they make the best choice
for their lives.
(tabling with Peaceful Vocations at one of 13 high school campuses in the FWISD)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Monday, May 14, 2007
DTC's Daverse Lounge presents SPEAKOUT on Saturday, May 19
The show is free!! I just got an email from Dana Tanner yesterday, and she confirmed this.
You can try emailing for more info at: Dana.Tanner@dallastheatercenter.org,
or check the Daverse Lounge website at: www.daverselounge.com.
Call for submissions: TEXAS BOUND - deadline fast approaches!
Background: Texas Bound is part of Arts & Letters Live, the literary and performing arts series founded in 1992 and presented by the Dallas Museum of Art. (You may think of this as the North Texas version of "NPR's Selected Shorts" program.)
Here's the blurb I received a week or so ago:
Texas Bound features readings by Texas actors of short fiction by Texas-connected authors. Notable authors featured in past programs include Sarah Bird, Oscar Casares, John Bloom, Larry L. King, Steve Martin, Sandra Cisneros, Shelby Hearon, John Graves, Larry McMurtry, and Tim O’Brien. Well-known actors participating in Texas Bound have included Tommy Lee Jones, Kathy Bates, Marcia Gay Harden, Larry Hagman, and Doris Roberts.
Texas Bound has published three anthologies and four audiocassettes; to order books and tapes, call 214-922-1256. We encourage authors to become familiar with stories featured on the audiocassettes and in the anthologies in order to gain a broader sense of the series.
Texas Bound programs take place on four evenings in Dallas and one in Fort Worth during Arts & Letters Live’s programming season (January through May). There are two performances each evening, and the average attendance for each evening is 700–800 people. Typically three or four stories are read at each performance. The audience is warm and supportive and open to some challenging material. Texas Bound presents a range of fiction, from lighthearted and comic stories to dramatic narratives.
Submissions should meet these specifications:
• Short fiction on any theme written by an author who has lived in Texas OR short fiction with a Texas setting, subject, character, or theme
• Reads aloud well to an audience
• Represent your best work; no more than 2 submissions per author
• Previously published stories are accepted as well as those not yet published (if published, please note source where story originally appeared)
• Excerpts from novels will be considered as long as the author specifies an excerpt with a clear beginning, middle, and end
• 2,000–5,000 words in length
• Submissions should be in a 12-point font, double-spaced, with numbered pages throughout
• Four-hole punched copies of each story, bound with paperclips
• Include your mailing address, e-mail address, and phone number
Selection process and compensation:
Submissions will be considered over the summer. Emails confirming receipt of manuscripts will be sent. Manuscripts will not be returned. A representative from the series will contact you if your story is chosen for the 2008 Texas Bound program; no other notifications will be sent. Authors whose submissions are selected will receive a $150 honorarium, complimentary tickets to the reading, and an invitation to dinner with the actors following the program.
Deadline: May 18, 2007
Mail submissions to: Texas Bound Call for Stories, Arts & Letters Live, Dallas Museum of Art, 1717 N. Harwood St., Dallas, TX 75201.
Here's the blurb I received a week or so ago:
Texas Bound features readings by Texas actors of short fiction by Texas-connected authors. Notable authors featured in past programs include Sarah Bird, Oscar Casares, John Bloom, Larry L. King, Steve Martin, Sandra Cisneros, Shelby Hearon, John Graves, Larry McMurtry, and Tim O’Brien. Well-known actors participating in Texas Bound have included Tommy Lee Jones, Kathy Bates, Marcia Gay Harden, Larry Hagman, and Doris Roberts.
Texas Bound has published three anthologies and four audiocassettes; to order books and tapes, call 214-922-1256. We encourage authors to become familiar with stories featured on the audiocassettes and in the anthologies in order to gain a broader sense of the series.
Texas Bound programs take place on four evenings in Dallas and one in Fort Worth during Arts & Letters Live’s programming season (January through May). There are two performances each evening, and the average attendance for each evening is 700–800 people. Typically three or four stories are read at each performance. The audience is warm and supportive and open to some challenging material. Texas Bound presents a range of fiction, from lighthearted and comic stories to dramatic narratives.
Submissions should meet these specifications:
• Short fiction on any theme written by an author who has lived in Texas OR short fiction with a Texas setting, subject, character, or theme
• Reads aloud well to an audience
• Represent your best work; no more than 2 submissions per author
• Previously published stories are accepted as well as those not yet published (if published, please note source where story originally appeared)
• Excerpts from novels will be considered as long as the author specifies an excerpt with a clear beginning, middle, and end
• 2,000–5,000 words in length
• Submissions should be in a 12-point font, double-spaced, with numbered pages throughout
• Four-hole punched copies of each story, bound with paperclips
• Include your mailing address, e-mail address, and phone number
Selection process and compensation:
Submissions will be considered over the summer. Emails confirming receipt of manuscripts will be sent. Manuscripts will not be returned. A representative from the series will contact you if your story is chosen for the 2008 Texas Bound program; no other notifications will be sent. Authors whose submissions are selected will receive a $150 honorarium, complimentary tickets to the reading, and an invitation to dinner with the actors following the program.
Deadline: May 18, 2007
Mail submissions to: Texas Bound Call for Stories, Arts & Letters Live, Dallas Museum of Art, 1717 N. Harwood St., Dallas, TX 75201.
Poem #134 of 365
Were you an engineer in your home country,
land of your birth,
or a physician or lawyer,
an architect maybe?
You deftly swivel your palms
this way and that,
beneath my hood
in the middle of morn.
I hear you in Arabic when
you trade clues with Abdul,
assessing my problems
and determined to solve.
I think you said Nigeria,
but definitely Africa, though
I could be wrong, I try not
to stare at your stunning black face.
Washed up and dressed for
dinner at eight, would you
wave away wine
and the pork and my gall?
Would you open up your vast
past life to me til the waiter
says go, or would you bore
me with talk of the trade?
(with respect for my mechanic's assistant, who shall go unnamed)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
land of your birth,
or a physician or lawyer,
an architect maybe?
You deftly swivel your palms
this way and that,
beneath my hood
in the middle of morn.
I hear you in Arabic when
you trade clues with Abdul,
assessing my problems
and determined to solve.
I think you said Nigeria,
but definitely Africa, though
I could be wrong, I try not
to stare at your stunning black face.
Washed up and dressed for
dinner at eight, would you
wave away wine
and the pork and my gall?
Would you open up your vast
past life to me til the waiter
says go, or would you bore
me with talk of the trade?
(with respect for my mechanic's assistant, who shall go unnamed)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Poem #133 of 365
I will FedEx my love to you
in a box of rich fudge
bowtied with red leather
and satin stars.
I will email my heart to you
in a message of swoons
attached with pdfs of
kisses and hugs.
I will airlift my devotion to you
in a basket of love letters
drizzled with champagne of
Paris, France.
I will erase this love poem to you
for it is cheezy and unerotic, and
must soon be replaced by the
silent profound embrace I'll share
with you til dawn.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
in a box of rich fudge
bowtied with red leather
and satin stars.
I will email my heart to you
in a message of swoons
attached with pdfs of
kisses and hugs.
I will airlift my devotion to you
in a basket of love letters
drizzled with champagne of
Paris, France.
I will erase this love poem to you
for it is cheezy and unerotic, and
must soon be replaced by the
silent profound embrace I'll share
with you til dawn.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Poem #132 of 365
I spotted a bear in the adjacent garden
and left the wedding plans to the pros.
In Europe, I sought pastries and passed
some women in bridal gowns head-butting
their wedding cakes.
My man was lost in a funhouse, his sobbing
and sadness reflected in the mirrors, and when
I arrived at his side to embrace him, he smiled
when he saw me and me and me and me.
And yet the inevitable walking away, inevitable
as dawn.
Looking for bears, perhaps, only to run scared
when they pursue.
(translated from the language of dreams)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
and left the wedding plans to the pros.
In Europe, I sought pastries and passed
some women in bridal gowns head-butting
their wedding cakes.
My man was lost in a funhouse, his sobbing
and sadness reflected in the mirrors, and when
I arrived at his side to embrace him, he smiled
when he saw me and me and me and me.
And yet the inevitable walking away, inevitable
as dawn.
Looking for bears, perhaps, only to run scared
when they pursue.
(translated from the language of dreams)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Friday, May 11, 2007
Poem #131 of 365
feo foe
feo foe
you know when you know
feo foe
(to all my ugly enemies.....hehehehehe)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
feo foe
you know when you know
feo foe
(to all my ugly enemies.....hehehehehe)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Poem #130 of 365
there are no bones on this map
not even the dead have a bed,
we've paved it with concrete and tar
and not even the birds can peck
sustenance now. it is all sealed up like
a contract, with expiration for all
guaranteed, and though this map
has no bones or veins now, i believe
it is certain we'll bleed.
that is how we will suffocate
on a planet shrink-wrapped
with the asphalt of greed.
and the stars will glisten on
and the stars will glisten on
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
not even the dead have a bed,
we've paved it with concrete and tar
and not even the birds can peck
sustenance now. it is all sealed up like
a contract, with expiration for all
guaranteed, and though this map
has no bones or veins now, i believe
it is certain we'll bleed.
that is how we will suffocate
on a planet shrink-wrapped
with the asphalt of greed.
and the stars will glisten on
and the stars will glisten on
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Poem #129 of 365
Run over there with this clothespin
and clamp that snoring mouth shut,
'cause he's bound to wake the baby,
and I won't, will not have that tonight.
So then drag the red wagon
up near to his bed, before
the milkman comes to
clatter the porch, and roll his
whole body down into the wagon
and pull him quick through the
gate to the yard, where the
clotheslines are hanging back there.
And take hold of his collar
and both of his liquor-soaked
legs, and hoist him high up
over the lines, and use more pins
and the rope if you must.
O, this is pitiful tonight.
I can just see the birds all
flying down on him, 'til that
first whiff of his stinky
drunk's breath. But just so he
don't get hurt, if he happens
to fall, take some pillows to
throw down beneath.
And honey, we don't mean
to mock him a fool any
more than he made
of himself on his own.
And we can't be worrying
about the neighbors neither,
so go do what I asked and
please don't you cry,
'cause your drunk daddy right now
must be hung out to dry.
Your daddy must be hung out to dry.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
and clamp that snoring mouth shut,
'cause he's bound to wake the baby,
and I won't, will not have that tonight.
So then drag the red wagon
up near to his bed, before
the milkman comes to
clatter the porch, and roll his
whole body down into the wagon
and pull him quick through the
gate to the yard, where the
clotheslines are hanging back there.
And take hold of his collar
and both of his liquor-soaked
legs, and hoist him high up
over the lines, and use more pins
and the rope if you must.
O, this is pitiful tonight.
I can just see the birds all
flying down on him, 'til that
first whiff of his stinky
drunk's breath. But just so he
don't get hurt, if he happens
to fall, take some pillows to
throw down beneath.
And honey, we don't mean
to mock him a fool any
more than he made
of himself on his own.
And we can't be worrying
about the neighbors neither,
so go do what I asked and
please don't you cry,
'cause your drunk daddy right now
must be hung out to dry.
Your daddy must be hung out to dry.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Poem #128 of 365
Precisely, she voiced the songs
she'd heard in her dreams,
the yodeling songs of the hills.
A sheep-herding little lass,
that's what she dreamt she was.
A Heidi with black hair,
sleeping a new quiet life,
with a concomitant suitable song.
Yo-de-lay-dee-ee.
Yo, the lady.
Yo-de-lay-dee-ee.
Yo, the lady.
In a soft bonnet and laced
up dress, she was the picture
of childhood innocence.
And the latest, last thing
I would expect to hear is
the sound of the Amber alert.
Another girl done gone.
Another young lady laid out.
Yo-de-lay-dee-ee.
Yo, the lady.
Just keep to the mountains,
and watch for the wolves,
reminds the Heidi girl.
Stay hidden in the hills,
don't even come down for
supper, don't sing
for nuthin' or they'll hear
where to find you.
And unlace your sweet vest
and pull up your skirt,
as the bell tolls and
highway signs announce
another Amber alert.
Yo-de-lay-dee-ee.
Yo, the lady.
Yo-de-lay-hee-hee.
No, we don't laugh.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
she'd heard in her dreams,
the yodeling songs of the hills.
A sheep-herding little lass,
that's what she dreamt she was.
A Heidi with black hair,
sleeping a new quiet life,
with a concomitant suitable song.
Yo-de-lay-dee-ee.
Yo, the lady.
Yo-de-lay-dee-ee.
Yo, the lady.
In a soft bonnet and laced
up dress, she was the picture
of childhood innocence.
And the latest, last thing
I would expect to hear is
the sound of the Amber alert.
Another girl done gone.
Another young lady laid out.
Yo-de-lay-dee-ee.
Yo, the lady.
Just keep to the mountains,
and watch for the wolves,
reminds the Heidi girl.
Stay hidden in the hills,
don't even come down for
supper, don't sing
for nuthin' or they'll hear
where to find you.
And unlace your sweet vest
and pull up your skirt,
as the bell tolls and
highway signs announce
another Amber alert.
Yo-de-lay-dee-ee.
Yo, the lady.
Yo-de-lay-hee-hee.
No, we don't laugh.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Monday, May 07, 2007
Poem #127 of 365
There was no witness for me, and
no one to vouch for the scorpion either.
And so a year passed.
The next June in Mexico, I stood
in that house. In the big room.
With my same blue duffel as the summer before.
We had gathered, arriving from various states,
so many excitable women. Hugs and hellos all around.
To reach for my bag, I stepped past Lorna.
And, along the zipper that spanned its length,
there was the scorpion. Same color and
size as before.
A series of screams, but my mouth stayed closed.
It was that same scorpion, or so I believed.
Come back to greet me.
This year, everyone saw it, and regretted
their doubt.
Its body, smashed and inert, was placed
on a plate.
We'll never forget.
To check our shoes and
to better believe.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
no one to vouch for the scorpion either.
And so a year passed.
The next June in Mexico, I stood
in that house. In the big room.
With my same blue duffel as the summer before.
We had gathered, arriving from various states,
so many excitable women. Hugs and hellos all around.
To reach for my bag, I stepped past Lorna.
And, along the zipper that spanned its length,
there was the scorpion. Same color and
size as before.
A series of screams, but my mouth stayed closed.
It was that same scorpion, or so I believed.
Come back to greet me.
This year, everyone saw it, and regretted
their doubt.
Its body, smashed and inert, was placed
on a plate.
We'll never forget.
To check our shoes and
to better believe.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Poem #126 of 365
This poem is 2 coats of paint on the outside of this house.
This poem is a scrumptious lunch with the veggies in the crisper.
This poem is 5 letters, 74 emails, and 2 bulletins to post.
This poem is several overdue lunches with close friends I miss.
This poem is a visit to my daddy's grave.
This poem is a trip to AutoZone for yet another thing my car needs.
This poem is a stack of unopened gift cds that I want to hear.
This poem is a pile of films that Ramsey has lent me, don't know when I'll watch them.
This poem is the lapse in attention to my other blog.
This poem is the jewelry I neglect to polish with the silver cleaner I bought last year.
This poem is the unweeded rainforest in my backyard.
This poem is the unkept solemn promise to exercise outside.
This poem is the half-read pile of books next to my bed.
This poem is the laundry basket heaping in the corner.
This poem is the sleep I deny myself.
This poem is the poem I write instead of doing anything
else.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
This poem is a scrumptious lunch with the veggies in the crisper.
This poem is 5 letters, 74 emails, and 2 bulletins to post.
This poem is several overdue lunches with close friends I miss.
This poem is a visit to my daddy's grave.
This poem is a trip to AutoZone for yet another thing my car needs.
This poem is a stack of unopened gift cds that I want to hear.
This poem is a pile of films that Ramsey has lent me, don't know when I'll watch them.
This poem is the lapse in attention to my other blog.
This poem is the jewelry I neglect to polish with the silver cleaner I bought last year.
This poem is the unweeded rainforest in my backyard.
This poem is the unkept solemn promise to exercise outside.
This poem is the half-read pile of books next to my bed.
This poem is the laundry basket heaping in the corner.
This poem is the sleep I deny myself.
This poem is the poem I write instead of doing anything
else.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Poem #125 of 365
I clutch my pain as a thief
in grief when the sound alarm
brings security to everything
and everyone but him.
Even my hands cannot hold
my arms as the aching burn
escalates with rage.
You may think that swollen
muscles are sexy, and it may
be hot when they are plumped.
But I am tightly wound like
wood around a tiny pencil point
and there is no happy way
to write this down.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
in grief when the sound alarm
brings security to everything
and everyone but him.
Even my hands cannot hold
my arms as the aching burn
escalates with rage.
You may think that swollen
muscles are sexy, and it may
be hot when they are plumped.
But I am tightly wound like
wood around a tiny pencil point
and there is no happy way
to write this down.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Friday, May 04, 2007
Poem #124 of 365
I told my students that we
would be playing loteria,
Mexican bingo, to celebrate
Cinco de Mayo.
One of the brighter kids,
and by that I mean amped,
quickly spoke up: "I don't
speak Spanish." Fine, I replied,
this game can help you learn
some Spanish, but you can
speak English too.
Right away back at me: "I don't
speak English either." Perfect
diction, unaccented.
Well, that's cool, I continued,
whatever language you're speaking
is fine with me.
Seemingly satisfied, he smiled,
"Okay."
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
would be playing loteria,
Mexican bingo, to celebrate
Cinco de Mayo.
One of the brighter kids,
and by that I mean amped,
quickly spoke up: "I don't
speak Spanish." Fine, I replied,
this game can help you learn
some Spanish, but you can
speak English too.
Right away back at me: "I don't
speak English either." Perfect
diction, unaccented.
Well, that's cool, I continued,
whatever language you're speaking
is fine with me.
Seemingly satisfied, he smiled,
"Okay."
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Poem #123 of 365
I've been so tired that I cannot
manage my mouth at the
brim of nightfall.
At the front desk, at the library,
I told Dana she could go up to
check the 4th floor while I
stayed available to help some
students "troubleshit".
I could see her doubling over
in the hallway, laughing her
head off while my hand was
slapped over my mouth in
disbelief.
Normally, I can self-censor
pretty well on the clock, but
tonight I just couldn't fucking
manage to keep my shit together.
Godammit, I need some sleep.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
manage my mouth at the
brim of nightfall.
At the front desk, at the library,
I told Dana she could go up to
check the 4th floor while I
stayed available to help some
students "troubleshit".
I could see her doubling over
in the hallway, laughing her
head off while my hand was
slapped over my mouth in
disbelief.
Normally, I can self-censor
pretty well on the clock, but
tonight I just couldn't fucking
manage to keep my shit together.
Godammit, I need some sleep.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Poem #122 of 365
A broken tree,
2 stalled white cars,
a soaked kitchen floor---a few features of
the high-wind storm that hit tonight.
A glistening street,
some sizzles of lightning,
a swath of white cloud---a few things I
notice on the way home.
A clearing night,
a walk with my brother,
laughing in the middle of the street---a few ways
to find a good ending to this long & stormy day.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
2 stalled white cars,
a soaked kitchen floor---a few features of
the high-wind storm that hit tonight.
A glistening street,
some sizzles of lightning,
a swath of white cloud---a few things I
notice on the way home.
A clearing night,
a walk with my brother,
laughing in the middle of the street---a few ways
to find a good ending to this long & stormy day.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Poem #121 of 365
"Indonesia", one student calls out.
Another tries to say "Brunei Darussalam",
but ends up spelling it out. I've asked
60 young people to look at their shirt
labels, they are twisting about and
squirming to read.
"Japan" and "China" don't surprise me,
but "Columbia" and "Brazil" do.
Nice to know that a kid's clothes can
easily show them that they are connected
to the rest of the world.
I ask them why their clothes are mostly
made in other places. They give me answers
that are guesses, and I choose not to pontificate.
"Slave labor" and "sweatshop" are not words
I want to use so early on this morning.
Instead I point to my own shirt--made in
Thailand--and indicate the three words
prominently displayed on the front:
"Hecho en Tejas". "Made" "in" "Texas".
I ask the students if they were "made in Texas" too,
or are they from here. Quickly I throw in,
"if you got here even just yesterday, you
can still be called a Texan, at least that's
what I believe." All hands shoot up--we're
all Hecho en Tejas, even though it seems
that our clothes are not.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Another tries to say "Brunei Darussalam",
but ends up spelling it out. I've asked
60 young people to look at their shirt
labels, they are twisting about and
squirming to read.
"Japan" and "China" don't surprise me,
but "Columbia" and "Brazil" do.
Nice to know that a kid's clothes can
easily show them that they are connected
to the rest of the world.
I ask them why their clothes are mostly
made in other places. They give me answers
that are guesses, and I choose not to pontificate.
"Slave labor" and "sweatshop" are not words
I want to use so early on this morning.
Instead I point to my own shirt--made in
Thailand--and indicate the three words
prominently displayed on the front:
"Hecho en Tejas". "Made" "in" "Texas".
I ask the students if they were "made in Texas" too,
or are they from here. Quickly I throw in,
"if you got here even just yesterday, you
can still be called a Texan, at least that's
what I believe." All hands shoot up--we're
all Hecho en Tejas, even though it seems
that our clothes are not.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Monday, April 30, 2007
Poem #120 of 365
He told me to “get off the computer,
it's late” and I reply that I have to stay on,
cuz “this is when I do my best writing."
Out of the corner of my left eye, he
is moving about the house,
to the kitchen, opening and
closing various doors. After a yawn
emits, he speaks again, with a wave,
"I’m going to sleep now,
cuz that’s when I do my best kayaking."
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
it's late” and I reply that I have to stay on,
cuz “this is when I do my best writing."
Out of the corner of my left eye, he
is moving about the house,
to the kitchen, opening and
closing various doors. After a yawn
emits, he speaks again, with a wave,
"I’m going to sleep now,
cuz that’s when I do my best kayaking."
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Poem #119 of 365
I've walked into so many houses
in the middle of the night,
shown a bed and blanket,
clock and light.
Last night it happened again.
Two new people waited for me
at one in the morning. When my
bus showed at the Greyhound
station in McAllen, they pushed
forward shyly but smiling
and I knew I would make them
my friends. I love these awkward,
sudden meetings where I am touring
artist in a strange new place, with
no choice but to trust and welcome
the moment. And to open this heart
of mine, no need for hinges cuz
it has no door, and hug new people
and fall deeply deeply in love.
Until I'm gone again.
But things appear when you need them,
like beds and wake-up calls and fatty
funny cats. They make me feel at home
and wistful, like how could I ever want to
leave this home?
Dear Emmy was so kind to me, and right
on-point to make things good. I saw the
teacher and the wife and the writer in her,
in one inhalation of her aura and I wanted
always only great things for her.
When I told her that I wanted to contribute
to the local economy, and could we stop
at a liquor store, she agreed it was a good plan.
I pointed to a word she'd never read before,
it said a name and "liquor store". Bleary-eyed
from little sleep and too much public attention,
I fantasized aloud: "sometimes at liquor stores,
they have wine tastings, maybe there'll be one
here." And Emmy turned the wheel and nodded,
she's still learning the twists of my logic.
And, of course, it had to be, as I know I willed
it, there was a beautiful woman at a portable
bar offering free shots of top-label tequila.
I sang a poem for my second shot, and Emmy
marveled at my gumption. In twenty years, she'll
be poem-packin' with loaded heat of risk and rhyme.
But tonight, I was the drunk example of what
a lone Tejana woman poeta on the road could be.
Fearless, thirsty, with lyrical nerve, and a damn
big heart for the big wow now.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
in the middle of the night,
shown a bed and blanket,
clock and light.
Last night it happened again.
Two new people waited for me
at one in the morning. When my
bus showed at the Greyhound
station in McAllen, they pushed
forward shyly but smiling
and I knew I would make them
my friends. I love these awkward,
sudden meetings where I am touring
artist in a strange new place, with
no choice but to trust and welcome
the moment. And to open this heart
of mine, no need for hinges cuz
it has no door, and hug new people
and fall deeply deeply in love.
Until I'm gone again.
But things appear when you need them,
like beds and wake-up calls and fatty
funny cats. They make me feel at home
and wistful, like how could I ever want to
leave this home?
Dear Emmy was so kind to me, and right
on-point to make things good. I saw the
teacher and the wife and the writer in her,
in one inhalation of her aura and I wanted
always only great things for her.
When I told her that I wanted to contribute
to the local economy, and could we stop
at a liquor store, she agreed it was a good plan.
I pointed to a word she'd never read before,
it said a name and "liquor store". Bleary-eyed
from little sleep and too much public attention,
I fantasized aloud: "sometimes at liquor stores,
they have wine tastings, maybe there'll be one
here." And Emmy turned the wheel and nodded,
she's still learning the twists of my logic.
And, of course, it had to be, as I know I willed
it, there was a beautiful woman at a portable
bar offering free shots of top-label tequila.
I sang a poem for my second shot, and Emmy
marveled at my gumption. In twenty years, she'll
be poem-packin' with loaded heat of risk and rhyme.
But tonight, I was the drunk example of what
a lone Tejana woman poeta on the road could be.
Fearless, thirsty, with lyrical nerve, and a damn
big heart for the big wow now.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Poem #118 of 365
The seagull in the Wal-Mart parking lot
was a bit confused. Over the sea of
suvs and shopping carts, it could
spot no fish to eat.
But we found good food just two
blocks away. The best Thai lunch
I'd had in years, in a strip mall
spot with Buddha shrines and
chubby cooks with dainty smiles.
And bottomless oceans of Thai iced tea.
I could feel the currents swell within
my belly after drinking so much,
and waddled like a beachfront
bird to one of those cars gleaming
like motored minnows in the sunlit
salty afternoon.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
was a bit confused. Over the sea of
suvs and shopping carts, it could
spot no fish to eat.
But we found good food just two
blocks away. The best Thai lunch
I'd had in years, in a strip mall
spot with Buddha shrines and
chubby cooks with dainty smiles.
And bottomless oceans of Thai iced tea.
I could feel the currents swell within
my belly after drinking so much,
and waddled like a beachfront
bird to one of those cars gleaming
like motored minnows in the sunlit
salty afternoon.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Friday, April 27, 2007
Poem #117 of 365
Kingsville is a place of pigs,
the revved up kind like the javelina
haunting the night
as it crosses the main road.
Kingsville is a place of Kings,
with power for the few and
good jobs for the many as
long as you toe the many lines
that twist in the county dirt.
Kingsville is a place of history,
the town of Irma Rangel and
Carmen Lomas Garza and Desperate
Eva Longoria--just to name a few.
Kingsville is a town of masks,
the ones you wear to get
high status and the ones on
Brenda's trees that stare down the fakes.
(with thanks to Marco and Brenda--and little Maya--for sharing their stories and knowledge of Kingsville with me)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
the revved up kind like the javelina
haunting the night
as it crosses the main road.
Kingsville is a place of Kings,
with power for the few and
good jobs for the many as
long as you toe the many lines
that twist in the county dirt.
Kingsville is a place of history,
the town of Irma Rangel and
Carmen Lomas Garza and Desperate
Eva Longoria--just to name a few.
Kingsville is a town of masks,
the ones you wear to get
high status and the ones on
Brenda's trees that stare down the fakes.
(with thanks to Marco and Brenda--and little Maya--for sharing their stories and knowledge of Kingsville with me)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Poem #116 of 365
The country kids have no
limits when they get
behind the wheel. They
are not bound to squares
on a city Mapsco page.
When a country kid is sixteen
with a license, it's like a racehorse
has run off from the race
and the tourney prize. All that
matters is the spree.
A rural road, whether Texas red dirt or
halved with yellow lines, is a lengthy
bullsnake daring kids to cruise
all crazy, copulate in May.
I've met those country kids, the
ones who school in Kingsville,
live in Ricardo, shop in Corpus.
They have cat eyes at night,
as they sneak through darkness
to wet county pleasures and
the allure of acceleration.
No city limits can restrict,
no high gas prices
deter them from their teen
ambition to get some
gritty mileage on their souls.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
limits when they get
behind the wheel. They
are not bound to squares
on a city Mapsco page.
When a country kid is sixteen
with a license, it's like a racehorse
has run off from the race
and the tourney prize. All that
matters is the spree.
A rural road, whether Texas red dirt or
halved with yellow lines, is a lengthy
bullsnake daring kids to cruise
all crazy, copulate in May.
I've met those country kids, the
ones who school in Kingsville,
live in Ricardo, shop in Corpus.
They have cat eyes at night,
as they sneak through darkness
to wet county pleasures and
the allure of acceleration.
No city limits can restrict,
no high gas prices
deter them from their teen
ambition to get some
gritty mileage on their souls.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Poem #115 of 365
My heroes have always
been little girls
the ones who have to
put themselves to bed
cuz their mamas passed
out stoned on the couch
the ones with hands
clenched between their knees
at the counseling sessions
cuz the perpetrators got off
for doing as they pleased
the ones who scream and cry
and throw teddy bears
at their very daddys
cuz he can't seem to stop
plowing his wife with fists
the ones who read books
at the dinner tables
while the grownups yak
cuz they've got their own
little girl thoughts to think
the ones who reach
for me and give me hugs
at the end of our first
night to meet
cuz they recognize
the survivor
little girl in me
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
been little girls
the ones who have to
put themselves to bed
cuz their mamas passed
out stoned on the couch
the ones with hands
clenched between their knees
at the counseling sessions
cuz the perpetrators got off
for doing as they pleased
the ones who scream and cry
and throw teddy bears
at their very daddys
cuz he can't seem to stop
plowing his wife with fists
the ones who read books
at the dinner tables
while the grownups yak
cuz they've got their own
little girl thoughts to think
the ones who reach
for me and give me hugs
at the end of our first
night to meet
cuz they recognize
the survivor
little girl in me
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
I am a recipient of a Puffin Foundation 2007 grant award for She: Bike/Spoke/Love !!
hella busy this month and the last.
just got another grant, yesterday, from the Puffin Foundation, in support of my upcoming spoken word bicycle theater play SHE: BIKE/SPOKE/LOVE. (that's my big focus for the next 6 to 12 months.)
i'm incredibly surprised that i'm typing this at 7:35 a.m. damn phone rang, and woke me. gonna mess w/ my schedule and biorhythms today, it is.
tomorrow i fly out to Kingsville (TX A&M) for a 3-day artist/writer residency at the university. will be lecturing, performing, and leading 2 workshops with high school students in the nearby community.
over the weekend, i'll roadtrip to McAllen for my first ever visit to the Valley. such a mythical, legendary place, it seems. will be there to promote and celebrate HECHO EN TEJAS with a reading at a Barnes & Noble and a workshop for high school teachers in La Joya ISD--to give 'em ideas for how to use our book in their classrooms. of course, bbq and other social events are pegged for all the visiting writers (Dagoberto Gilb, Macarena Hernandez, David Garza, Erasmo Guerra, Christine Granados, Roberto Ontiveros, and several others).
just got another grant, yesterday, from the Puffin Foundation, in support of my upcoming spoken word bicycle theater play SHE: BIKE/SPOKE/LOVE. (that's my big focus for the next 6 to 12 months.)
i'm incredibly surprised that i'm typing this at 7:35 a.m. damn phone rang, and woke me. gonna mess w/ my schedule and biorhythms today, it is.
tomorrow i fly out to Kingsville (TX A&M) for a 3-day artist/writer residency at the university. will be lecturing, performing, and leading 2 workshops with high school students in the nearby community.
over the weekend, i'll roadtrip to McAllen for my first ever visit to the Valley. such a mythical, legendary place, it seems. will be there to promote and celebrate HECHO EN TEJAS with a reading at a Barnes & Noble and a workshop for high school teachers in La Joya ISD--to give 'em ideas for how to use our book in their classrooms. of course, bbq and other social events are pegged for all the visiting writers (Dagoberto Gilb, Macarena Hernandez, David Garza, Erasmo Guerra, Christine Granados, Roberto Ontiveros, and several others).
Poem #114 of 365
My little audiocassette recorder
was propped on the night table,
the bedside stand. The buttons
were set on record, and the KMART
special 3-pack cassettes were
getting all used up.
I was a fifth grader in love
with KFJZ from the AM to the PM
and eventually the FM, when
they went to stereo.
The only little radio in the house,
besides daddy's transistors, was
in the other bedroom. It was a
beige, alarm clock-radio, probably
from KMART too.
I'd set my recorder up in the morning
when a new hit was destined for drive-
time play, and I never minded that the
dj banter got taped too. Edit was
a word that I had yet to hear.
I marveled at all the bands lined up in
the radio studio, waiting their turn
to play. Paul McCartney and Wings
in the wings, I could hardly believe it!
But yes I did, I truly believed that
each and every band was there at
the KFJZ station to play their song,
en vivo. Live rock and roll on my
parents' clock radio and on my
KMART cassettes for later listening.
I loved the magic of radio.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
was propped on the night table,
the bedside stand. The buttons
were set on record, and the KMART
special 3-pack cassettes were
getting all used up.
I was a fifth grader in love
with KFJZ from the AM to the PM
and eventually the FM, when
they went to stereo.
The only little radio in the house,
besides daddy's transistors, was
in the other bedroom. It was a
beige, alarm clock-radio, probably
from KMART too.
I'd set my recorder up in the morning
when a new hit was destined for drive-
time play, and I never minded that the
dj banter got taped too. Edit was
a word that I had yet to hear.
I marveled at all the bands lined up in
the radio studio, waiting their turn
to play. Paul McCartney and Wings
in the wings, I could hardly believe it!
But yes I did, I truly believed that
each and every band was there at
the KFJZ station to play their song,
en vivo. Live rock and roll on my
parents' clock radio and on my
KMART cassettes for later listening.
I loved the magic of radio.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Monday, April 23, 2007
Poem #113 of 365
the pavement gave me a penny
outside Fiesta today
and i had just left a penny
behind in the hand of the
grocery store clerk.
you can't lose for winning.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
outside Fiesta today
and i had just left a penny
behind in the hand of the
grocery store clerk.
you can't lose for winning.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Poem #112 of 365
You curled up to sleep
with the clouds during
those days you lived in the trees.
The canopy draped your every
day acts, your routine movements
and we wondered if you would
remember how to walk on
ground once you realized your
feet were for walking, not
for climbing. But you couldn't
be told nothing, and so we
focused instead on making
your life comfortable, easing
airlifts of food and water,
books and blankets up
in a basket, using
the pulley system we'd
rigged up from a diagram
you'd brought to the hardware
store. I thought about joining
you in the trees, but wanted to wait
until you actually asked me
up, which you never did, and
that's okay, cuz eventually
I surprised you with a short
visit and a promise ring, and
after that I knew there was
no forest or tree
could stop me from loving
the woman who makes me feel
like I’m walking on clouds.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
with the clouds during
those days you lived in the trees.
The canopy draped your every
day acts, your routine movements
and we wondered if you would
remember how to walk on
ground once you realized your
feet were for walking, not
for climbing. But you couldn't
be told nothing, and so we
focused instead on making
your life comfortable, easing
airlifts of food and water,
books and blankets up
in a basket, using
the pulley system we'd
rigged up from a diagram
you'd brought to the hardware
store. I thought about joining
you in the trees, but wanted to wait
until you actually asked me
up, which you never did, and
that's okay, cuz eventually
I surprised you with a short
visit and a promise ring, and
after that I knew there was
no forest or tree
could stop me from loving
the woman who makes me feel
like I’m walking on clouds.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Poem #111 of 365
The pink-and-orange push-up,
a tasty sweet confection
was actually a lady dancing
on her feet. The striped
swath of scarf draped
across her shoulders
curled and lifted with every
rhythmic step.
She liked M.I.A.,
the reggaeton, the Smiths.
The dj spun these wordlessly,
fingering the taped grooves
as he'd practiced again and
again. The lady dropped
down low, she swung her hips,
she entertained a Brasilian
boy whose smile gave light
like a sliver moon.
In flashback, she recalled
the crazy swooning night,
all the stepping fools,
the coquettish Nati, the
matador Richard, the giggling
girls, toe-tapping boys.
And she also remembered
how they danced around,
between, and above
Rodrigo's neat black shoes
in hilarious tribute.
The feet should be naked
when they pray in time to music.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
a tasty sweet confection
was actually a lady dancing
on her feet. The striped
swath of scarf draped
across her shoulders
curled and lifted with every
rhythmic step.
She liked M.I.A.,
the reggaeton, the Smiths.
The dj spun these wordlessly,
fingering the taped grooves
as he'd practiced again and
again. The lady dropped
down low, she swung her hips,
she entertained a Brasilian
boy whose smile gave light
like a sliver moon.
In flashback, she recalled
the crazy swooning night,
all the stepping fools,
the coquettish Nati, the
matador Richard, the giggling
girls, toe-tapping boys.
And she also remembered
how they danced around,
between, and above
Rodrigo's neat black shoes
in hilarious tribute.
The feet should be naked
when they pray in time to music.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Friday, April 20, 2007
Poem #110 of 365
"Listen to me, it wasn't
a possum, it was a raccoon."
Your eyes, in the dark night,
grew wide as you said "big,
it was real big."
Your fear haunts me, and I
imagine the things you do,
I do, others do, when fear
overcomes and floods
our veins, mixing with the
cheap beers and general
everyday blood of living.
I'm not bothered by raccoons,
even if they're free-ranging
on my street. They're like
the dark shadows of thought
that visit my mind, and I've
found those darknessess to
be tameable, and I let them
lurk as they like. Long as
they know who's boss.
But you, and others, I'm not
so sure how y'all stand on
shadows, cuz sometimes you
even seem afraid of your own.
So I wish a prayer or pray
a wish that you may see only
what you can handle, grip the
moment ably when it grabs
your throat.
I forget about everything,
your saucer eyes, the build-
up of worry in your face,
the musculature of fight-
or-flight, and it's the
next day or the day after
that, and I'm calmly
driving in my hood, and
I steer past a flattened
carcass, but it's not so
flat yet, so it must be
fresh kill.
And it's a raccoon, and
possibly your raccoon,
the "big" one of your
fret, but this thing
is not moving. It has
become an emblem on
the ground, like the
patches on the Boy
Scouts shirt you used
to wear. A sign of
something finished,
mission accomplished,
challenge faced. I
want that emblem, furry
and inert, dead and cold,
to be your fear done
gone. Your anxious
worry crushed to nothing
on Rosedale Street.
I wish other fears could
be so easily removed....
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
a possum, it was a raccoon."
Your eyes, in the dark night,
grew wide as you said "big,
it was real big."
Your fear haunts me, and I
imagine the things you do,
I do, others do, when fear
overcomes and floods
our veins, mixing with the
cheap beers and general
everyday blood of living.
I'm not bothered by raccoons,
even if they're free-ranging
on my street. They're like
the dark shadows of thought
that visit my mind, and I've
found those darknessess to
be tameable, and I let them
lurk as they like. Long as
they know who's boss.
But you, and others, I'm not
so sure how y'all stand on
shadows, cuz sometimes you
even seem afraid of your own.
So I wish a prayer or pray
a wish that you may see only
what you can handle, grip the
moment ably when it grabs
your throat.
I forget about everything,
your saucer eyes, the build-
up of worry in your face,
the musculature of fight-
or-flight, and it's the
next day or the day after
that, and I'm calmly
driving in my hood, and
I steer past a flattened
carcass, but it's not so
flat yet, so it must be
fresh kill.
And it's a raccoon, and
possibly your raccoon,
the "big" one of your
fret, but this thing
is not moving. It has
become an emblem on
the ground, like the
patches on the Boy
Scouts shirt you used
to wear. A sign of
something finished,
mission accomplished,
challenge faced. I
want that emblem, furry
and inert, dead and cold,
to be your fear done
gone. Your anxious
worry crushed to nothing
on Rosedale Street.
I wish other fears could
be so easily removed....
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Poem #109 of 365
As the hips and buttocks sway in front of me
there is a gentle alignment of mirth with the
maximum goal of swelling smooth. And the
swills and sips have inundated, we are as one
intoxicated. Alas, the floor is soaking wet.
In one glass, we merge and blend, the great
mixed squeeze and wink. A bubble of one
in a curvy tumbler, we dance half-asleep
in the night of foam. It is one big liquid
thing, the body mass, surging and twirling,
light and low.
We might impulse as huge, the bubble
en masse and careen up to the roof. Or
we could instead blink pop our minds
and bring ourselves to stop, aware of
sticky lubricated shoes.
(watching the beautiful people dance to the music of Sleeplab at Embargo)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
there is a gentle alignment of mirth with the
maximum goal of swelling smooth. And the
swills and sips have inundated, we are as one
intoxicated. Alas, the floor is soaking wet.
In one glass, we merge and blend, the great
mixed squeeze and wink. A bubble of one
in a curvy tumbler, we dance half-asleep
in the night of foam. It is one big liquid
thing, the body mass, surging and twirling,
light and low.
We might impulse as huge, the bubble
en masse and careen up to the roof. Or
we could instead blink pop our minds
and bring ourselves to stop, aware of
sticky lubricated shoes.
(watching the beautiful people dance to the music of Sleeplab at Embargo)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Poem #108 of 365
Huff left us with the idea
that one could choose to be
a successful artist
or to be an artist successfully.
i think you have chosen (well) the latter.
and you are leaving this town,
shaking its southwesterly dust
off your shoes this week.
all your dreams and cushions, lost
keys and boyfriends,
they all must choose as well.
to be alone, successfully,
or to be successfully alone w/ you.
i think they too may choose the latter.
how can we know?
how will we tell?
all the canvases in this city cannot paint the goodbye
i want to give. you must imagine the splatters, the
Pollack pouting farewell paintspills. we’re rooting
for you, cuz we’re underground in the 817,
rooting and percolating,
awaiting our chirping emergence,
the scent-laden blossoming day.
remember to shed your skin as you leave.
Leave the discards and rejects behind.
Take only what you need. Leave us in your awake.
We will be rooting, as you can imagine.
(sayonara and come back soon to Ms. KM, who ventures to LA for a spell)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
that one could choose to be
a successful artist
or to be an artist successfully.
i think you have chosen (well) the latter.
and you are leaving this town,
shaking its southwesterly dust
off your shoes this week.
all your dreams and cushions, lost
keys and boyfriends,
they all must choose as well.
to be alone, successfully,
or to be successfully alone w/ you.
i think they too may choose the latter.
how can we know?
how will we tell?
all the canvases in this city cannot paint the goodbye
i want to give. you must imagine the splatters, the
Pollack pouting farewell paintspills. we’re rooting
for you, cuz we’re underground in the 817,
rooting and percolating,
awaiting our chirping emergence,
the scent-laden blossoming day.
remember to shed your skin as you leave.
Leave the discards and rejects behind.
Take only what you need. Leave us in your awake.
We will be rooting, as you can imagine.
(sayonara and come back soon to Ms. KM, who ventures to LA for a spell)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Poem #107 of 365
Rob hands him a walking stick
and Ricardo makes it a shotgun.
Israel shouts "missile launcher,
that's what it is!"
Even a small little prop--a plastic
handle--turns into a deadly
weapon in the hands of the children.
Once, twice, three times today
a small boy under 10 has aimed
hard and intent at my face.
Isaiah makes it a bazooka, and
he waves it across the room,
making shooting gun noises.
Acting, we are only acting,
but I let myself wonder
who taught this six-year old
the word 'bazooka'.
It is five o'clock, the dead
have not been buried, and
small boys pretend to kill.
{one day after the deadly shooting attacks at Virginia Tech)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
and Ricardo makes it a shotgun.
Israel shouts "missile launcher,
that's what it is!"
Even a small little prop--a plastic
handle--turns into a deadly
weapon in the hands of the children.
Once, twice, three times today
a small boy under 10 has aimed
hard and intent at my face.
Isaiah makes it a bazooka, and
he waves it across the room,
making shooting gun noises.
Acting, we are only acting,
but I let myself wonder
who taught this six-year old
the word 'bazooka'.
It is five o'clock, the dead
have not been buried, and
small boys pretend to kill.
{one day after the deadly shooting attacks at Virginia Tech)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Monday, April 16, 2007
Poem #106 of 365
All the croaked animals
today get splayed
and displayed on
city streets, backyard
lawns.
The last canary feathers
were white and
disparate, but the bird
who survived
now winces
on a distant branch
as Ted hovers with
butterfly net.
The guts of another species
make Main morbid as
one suv after the
next straddles the
flesh in mincing steps.
It's springtime, and all
is dead around me.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
today get splayed
and displayed on
city streets, backyard
lawns.
The last canary feathers
were white and
disparate, but the bird
who survived
now winces
on a distant branch
as Ted hovers with
butterfly net.
The guts of another species
make Main morbid as
one suv after the
next straddles the
flesh in mincing steps.
It's springtime, and all
is dead around me.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Poem #105 of 365
1. Ten things I forget to do.
2. Two prayers I neglect to say.
3. Five letters I swore to write.
4. Nine lives I thought I could save.
5. Seven ways to call it quits.
6. Six people who witnessed the deed.
7. One voice that emits from the box.
8. Four corners that still remain silent.
9. Three ways to make loving hurt.
10. Eight anchors to keep me locked down.
11. Eleven lines that teeter on edge.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
2. Two prayers I neglect to say.
3. Five letters I swore to write.
4. Nine lives I thought I could save.
5. Seven ways to call it quits.
6. Six people who witnessed the deed.
7. One voice that emits from the box.
8. Four corners that still remain silent.
9. Three ways to make loving hurt.
10. Eight anchors to keep me locked down.
11. Eleven lines that teeter on edge.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Poem #104 of 365
Richard and Cheyenne
like names for
a road trip,
they strapped me
in and geared
up the steed.
Dago and Cesar,
full speed ahead,
we dovetailed
sweetly in the
midnight court
and stood airbright
with miller breath.
(celebrando HECHO EN TEJAS in the 817...!)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
like names for
a road trip,
they strapped me
in and geared
up the steed.
Dago and Cesar,
full speed ahead,
we dovetailed
sweetly in the
midnight court
and stood airbright
with miller breath.
(celebrando HECHO EN TEJAS in the 817...!)
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Friday, April 13, 2007
Poem #103 of 365
The sirens croon as I steer towards
home, and the waters wash at the
curbs, the cement walkways. It is
as if my ears are stopped up with
fluid, I am so swollen with adrenalin
and the cars around me seem as
slow and aimless as meadow
cows. I spot a black patch in
the sky, and its bottom is
obscured by buildings to
the south. I'm sure it is the tail
of a tornado I cannot see and
towards which I am unwittingly
driving.
The rain is pelting the car, and
soon it may become hail, and
the news talk stations deny me
certainty, and the words are
cutting out. I bypass all my
plans and pitstops, cross everything
off my list to do. It only matters
that I get home, I only want to
park and breathe.
In the final mile, I feel homefree
yet a sluggish suv holds me hostage
on the road. The sky drops everything
and the car is pummeled and my
hand jerks to honk and honk. In a
panic, I yell and cuss, almost climb
a curb and scramble past. Finally,
the suv rolls away and I swim the
Buick to its block. I only want the
one thing, to stop and be safe.
To run to the house, to clutch
my cat.
At the driveway, I arrest my fear
and don't even grab my bags.
I flee to the doorway, and my
brother's hand reaches from
the porch, not to pull but to
welcome. As if to signal that
he knows my worry, feels
the storm of edge in my mind.
We rush indoors, sweaty with
rain, and throw all volumes
up to high.
We clamor for precision,
factual news, and the tv,
radio, and stereo all quell
our anxious need to know.
It is funny how we walk, in
this house during a storm,
feeling so bodily close, yet
so alone in fear. We want
to hear a voice speak with
assurance, tell us what to do.
As the winds die down, and
the roses settle on the bushes,
the volume knobs adjust and
everything gets subtle, and
the pelts reduce to drips, and
the sky opens up to blue,
and now we feel silly, sweaty,
nerve-wrack weary, but also,
finally safe.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
home, and the waters wash at the
curbs, the cement walkways. It is
as if my ears are stopped up with
fluid, I am so swollen with adrenalin
and the cars around me seem as
slow and aimless as meadow
cows. I spot a black patch in
the sky, and its bottom is
obscured by buildings to
the south. I'm sure it is the tail
of a tornado I cannot see and
towards which I am unwittingly
driving.
The rain is pelting the car, and
soon it may become hail, and
the news talk stations deny me
certainty, and the words are
cutting out. I bypass all my
plans and pitstops, cross everything
off my list to do. It only matters
that I get home, I only want to
park and breathe.
In the final mile, I feel homefree
yet a sluggish suv holds me hostage
on the road. The sky drops everything
and the car is pummeled and my
hand jerks to honk and honk. In a
panic, I yell and cuss, almost climb
a curb and scramble past. Finally,
the suv rolls away and I swim the
Buick to its block. I only want the
one thing, to stop and be safe.
To run to the house, to clutch
my cat.
At the driveway, I arrest my fear
and don't even grab my bags.
I flee to the doorway, and my
brother's hand reaches from
the porch, not to pull but to
welcome. As if to signal that
he knows my worry, feels
the storm of edge in my mind.
We rush indoors, sweaty with
rain, and throw all volumes
up to high.
We clamor for precision,
factual news, and the tv,
radio, and stereo all quell
our anxious need to know.
It is funny how we walk, in
this house during a storm,
feeling so bodily close, yet
so alone in fear. We want
to hear a voice speak with
assurance, tell us what to do.
As the winds die down, and
the roses settle on the bushes,
the volume knobs adjust and
everything gets subtle, and
the pelts reduce to drips, and
the sky opens up to blue,
and now we feel silly, sweaty,
nerve-wrack weary, but also,
finally safe.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
HECHO EN TEJAS: Palabras del Barrio - TONIGHT!
HECHO EN TEJAS (UNM Press: Albuquerque, 2007) is the first major anthology of Mexican-American literature from Texas. Our event, in Fort Worth, is scheduled for Friday, April 13th, at the Rose Marine Theater, 1440 N. Main St., from 7:30pm-9:30pm.
I became involved with this publication because Dagoberto Gilb--renowned author and creative writing instructor at Texas State University--invited me to submit some of my own poems for his consideration. He chose 2 of my poems, which are now including in the anthology. Many of us Mexican-American writers in Texas are part of an active network. We stay in touch w/ one another, offering support & collaborating in literary projects. Dago is someone I've known for many years. We've actually been to the White House together, and that's another--very interesting!--story.
I hope you can join us for the Friday, Apriil 13th event in FW. It is FREE and OPEN TO THE PUBLIC. No reservations are needed. This will DEFINITELY be a great PHOTO OPPORTUNITY as well. Copies of HECHO EN TEJAS will be for sale---30 bucks each.
Mil gracias!
Tammy
_________________________________________________________
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Contact: Tammy Gomez
Sound Culture
sound_culture@hotmail.com
817.924.9188
“Hecho en Tejas: Palabras del Barrio” to celebrate the release of new anthology of Texas Mexican literature with author readings & reception
What: Reading/performance/booksigning/reception
When: Friday, April 13th, 7:30pm - 9pm
Where: Rose Marine Theater, 1440 N. Main Street, 817.624.8333
Cost: Free admission/open to the public
HECHO EN TEJAS (UNM Press, 2007) is a groundbreaking collection of literature by Mexican-Americans in Texas which was released on February 10th of this year. Since that date, many events throughout Texas have been scheduled to celebrate and promote the book--particularly in Hispanic communities and educational institutions.
A Fort Worth literary event to celebrate HECHO EN TEJAS, is scheduled for Friday, April 13th, from 7:30-9pm, at the Rose Marine Theater.
The event, titled "HECHO EN TEJAS: Palabras del Barrio", will feature readings and performances by six authors from the anthology--including editor Dagoberto Gilb.
A video-poem by poet Tonantzin Canestaro-Garcia will be screened, and a performance by Austin musician David Garza (whose lyrics are included in the anthology), will also be offered.
Copies of HECHO EN TEJAS will be available for purchase during the reception and booksigning in the gallery.
AUTHOR/ARTIST BIOS:
There will be six authors and performers, representing HECHO EN TEJAS, in attendance at the Rose Marine Theater event:
Dagoberto Gilb (Austin) is the editor of Hecho en Tejas: An Anthology of Texas Mexican Literature. He is also the author of four books of fiction and nonfiction, including the 1994 PEN/Hemingway Award-winning The Magic of Blood, as well as The Last Known Residence of Mickey Acuña, Woodcuts of Women, and Gritos. He currently is on the faculty of the Creative Writing MFA Program at Texas State University, in San Marcos, Texas.
Macarena Hernández (Dallas) is an editorial columnist for The Dallas Morning News. She has co-produced a PBS/Frontline World documentary for PBS and written for publications such as The New York Times and The Los Angeles Times. She is a graduate of Baylor University and earned a master’s degree in journalism from the University of California at Berkeley.
Christine Granados (El Paso) is the author of the short story collection Brides and Sinners in El Chuco(2006). She works as a freelance journalist and is a recipient of the 2006 Alfredo Cisneros del Moral
Award. She earned an M.F.A. from Texas State University in San Marcos.
Tammy Gomez (Fort Worth) is a small-press publisher (Tejana Tongue Press), activist, and arts educator. A 2007 Texas Medal of Arts award nominee, she graduated from Goucher College (Maryland) in 1985. Her literary performance works include the award-winning “Maya Matematica” and “Malinchuca”.
Davíd Garza (Austin ) is a critically-acclaimed musician with a mastery of many styles and has released numerous CDs including: “This Euphoria,” “Overdub,” “The Four Track Manifesto” and “A Strange Mess of Flowers.”
José Angel Gutiérrez (Arlington), professor of Political Science at UTA, is the author of several nonfiction books, including “The Making of a Civil Rights Leader”, which is included on the New York Public Library’s list of “Books for the Teen Age 2007.”
For more information:
Dallas Morning News book review by Tom Dodge:
http://www.dallasnews.com/sharedcontent/dws/ent/books/stories/
DN-bk_hecho_0318gl.ART.State.Bulldog.43f3b7b.html
Houston Chronicle book review:
http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/life/books/reviews/4576286.html
Texas House of Representatives Declare “Hecho en Tejas” Day:
http://talbot.mrp.txstate.edu/currents/fullstory.jsp?sid=998
Texas State University - San Marcos article:
http://star.txstate.edu/content/view/2711/
Texas Observer article by HECHO EN TEJAS editor Dagoberto Gilb:
http://www.texasobserver.org/article.php?aid=2374
Newspaper Tree (El Paso) book review:
http://www.newspapertree.com/culture/1159-a-storm-made-in-tejas-
review-of-hecho-en-tejas-an-anthology-of-texas-mexican-literature
San Antonio Express-News article:
http://www.mysanantonio.com/news/metro/stories/MYSA021107.14B.hecho.19dfc22.html
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Poem #102 of 365
I feel so clear and rational that I begin
to reach for something to cloud my
mind: a fistful of snacks, a lager pint,
an online gossip. In that fog of chaos,
I find familiarity and uncanny shadows
which transfix and propel me.
Why is it that poet needs the confusion,
the dilemma of torment, the failing
brakes to create her edge?
I don't write from fact, I write from
feel, and that is why in order to reveal
such subtle strings I must peer inside
or out of the Pandora's Box.
BBC News will do just as well.
A night without sleep will summon the
fantasy. An eerie dog howl can mock
the sane.
Don't worry, poetry is always fictive.
The end.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
to reach for something to cloud my
mind: a fistful of snacks, a lager pint,
an online gossip. In that fog of chaos,
I find familiarity and uncanny shadows
which transfix and propel me.
Why is it that poet needs the confusion,
the dilemma of torment, the failing
brakes to create her edge?
I don't write from fact, I write from
feel, and that is why in order to reveal
such subtle strings I must peer inside
or out of the Pandora's Box.
BBC News will do just as well.
A night without sleep will summon the
fantasy. An eerie dog howl can mock
the sane.
Don't worry, poetry is always fictive.
The end.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Poem #101 of 365
The alphabetic brew curled in draught
enormously full glass hedonistic
and indulgent i just keenly laughed
monitoring nuggets of peanuts quietly
resting on shelves tipsy under volumes
of waxened yellow zippers.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
enormously full glass hedonistic
and indulgent i just keenly laughed
monitoring nuggets of peanuts quietly
resting on shelves tipsy under volumes
of waxened yellow zippers.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
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