Untitled

Last Wednesday Sid read a poem he wrote last year for Seattle Arts & Lecture's Writers in the Schools program. The poem was part of their 2009 compilation titled "Wake Up In Brightness" ...

"Wake up! these writers shout. Pay attention, they say, look around. Listen.

Here, we find stories and lessons learned the hard way and we find clever turns of phrase and beautiful moments. Here, we are reminded that in 23 schools, in 148 classrooms, it is possible to find all the jumbled sorrow and joy there is in the world..."

Initially, we thought Sid would be reading "The Commercial Breakdown" but instead they chose another poem and he only found out which one on the night of the reading. He quickly explained to me that the poem "Untitled" was written as a practice in taking lines from other poems or writings (I found a few of them and linked them up) and starting each stanza with those lines, then completing the stanza with your own inspired writing. What he came up with is, I think, interesting, bizarre, and I must admit, a bit cynical. Very Sid-like!

BTW, this event was free to the public and amazing. The 40+ kids who read were impressive and entertaining. I was glad to be there.

thank you Wyatt for the footage!

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Untitled

Green, how I want you green.
Like the flaky grass and
the budding trees and
the shining clovers and
the shirts in your closet and
the head of the clown and
the woman on the roof.
Green, how I want you green.

What was I doing with my white teeth exposed
really is none of your business, ma'am.
But if you must know
why my white teeth were exposed,
I woke early this morning
and stumbled here from home.
I waited with the flashy magazines
and droned in the dentist's chair
and he pried open my mouth
and he cleaned my mouth
and he washed my mouth
and that was what I was doing with my white teeth exposed.

I want to become like one of those
roaming timberwolves,
like one of those
laptop businessmen,
like one of those
clamorous Vikings,
like one of those
sleepy clams.
Like one of those
funny chairs.
Like one of those
rambling, wandering, sleeping, eating hobos.

What a strange creature you are.
You live in tall glass boxes.
You sit in rolling metal carts.
You lie in cloth squares.
You keep some as pets.
And others in factories.
You worship the paper in your pockets.
You worship those you never met, a thousand miles away, a thousand years ago.
You sit and stare at your box of pictures.
You arrange the flowers and feed them and consume them.
You die in boxes in the ground.
You love yourself.
You hate yourself.
What a wonder, what a strange
creature you are.