Here's to being interesting......

I remember 

I had a family

I remember

so vividly

crawling under the covers

on winter nights

pulling her

close

She was so warm

her feet were always cold

she'd press them to my calves

I'd loop my arms about her

We whispered I love you

soft

so it didn't wake the baby

I remember trusting

this moment

I recall a time

when I didn't cry like this

by myself

in groups of friends

while writing poems

all the time

Last month

I broke down

In a deli

full of people

My body shook

It had hit me

so hard

the thought

that at 2 in the morning

on a Wednesday night

I was there

in that deli

amidst the drunks and addicts

buying a sandwich

While my daughter slept in a house

I no longer lived in

While the woman

I had planned to marry

slept in a bed

WE bought

or maybe sat in front of OUR computer

talking to men

that were not me

about things

that would never be mine again

and I

would go back to my sisters house

and sleep on a couch

in her living room

alone

I remember when I cared

about waking up

I remember when I slept

Now I stay up

all night

and when the sun rises

I stare at my wrists

The suicidal are not cowards

it takes great strength

to run the razor the length of your forearm

from wrist to elbow

I'm not there yet

But at times

I aspire to be

I feel myself becoming less

and less a man

I can tell

by how easy I can look into a woman's eyes

while they fill with water

over me

and not care

By how quickly

I can forget a partner

exchange one lover

for another

not a hair out of place

barely batting a lash

I have made my voice a net

my body a weapon

disarm

and destroy

In the last two months

I have slept with 16 women

I keep count

a perverse equation

That never adds up

to her

Cause I remember

that night

when she turned to me

and said "Baby you're my heart"

I remember believing

in hearts

I remember her

I remember what it felt like

to have a family

I don't think anything

will live up

She said she was breaking up with me

that although our conversations were brilliant

and opened her up

to her herself

and the cosmos and auras and what not

that what we were doing was wrong

She was attracted to me

It was strong

and deep

all emcompassing

She felt new and free

with me on the other end of the line

Her words came easy

she laughed more frequently

she thought about me

often

She said she knew what would happen

That eventually this would lead to sex

and that because of our already

deep, strong, all emcompassing connection

things would get messy

She was being realistic

She was going into polictics

I was a loud mouth

say what I want

lay about

artist

It just wouldn't work

She said her boyfriend vehemently disapproved of our relationship

that when she had told him about

our "connection"

he had screamed

squeezed her forearms

blurted out ultimatums

He was hurt

So we had to break up

I was devastated

It came as a complete suprise

I was thankful

that she could not see

my shocked

open mouth expression

from her end of this call

The news had come so suddenly

the verdict handed down

with such certainty

final and brutal

and I the fool

I had no idea

we were in a relationship

If had I known

I would have at least

My bladder was about to explode. I sat there, at play rehearsal, watching an actress not getting her monologue for what seemed like an eternity. I was two large coffees in and about to wet the couch. I waited and waded through awkward reading after awkward reading. Jen was struggling. The directors were losing patience and I was about to lose muscle control. She'd been overacting for twenty minutes now and seemed no closer to an honest performance than I was to sweet release.

After faking a rather violent orgasm, that was neither believable nor sexy, it was decided we all needed a break. I rejoiced and ran with knees together toward the bathroom. It was glorious, the piss of the Gods. Now relieved I was happy and ready for another painful reading. The directors had decided to be kind to us and had given Jen "a moment" to think about her choices. I took a seat next to her. She seemed to be agonizing over her script.

As our castrate launched into her monologue Jen reached her hand out to me. So...I took it. Now it is important to say that I had just come from the bathroom. Because you see, my hands were wet. There were no paper towels and denim is not that absorbent. So when Jen took my hand in hers it was still a bit moist. Suddenly she gripped my hand tight and gasped. She looked at me, her eyes wide open and said "Your hands are wet. Did you just....". She then went on to pump her hand up and down in the international sign for masturbation.

At first I thought she was kidding. I mean, honestly who would ask that. But as I took a moment to stare into her soul I realized...she was serious. She just looked at me shocked. But surprisingly enough not horrified. I had a decision to make. It was like one of those "Pick Your Adventure" books. The next few words from my mouth would decide if I found myself in a dark and gloomy dungeon or at the mountain top having saved the kingdom. So I looked her dead in the eye and said "Yes, yes I did."

It was too good an opportunity to give up. I had to see where this would go. Jen pulled her hand away slowly and reached for her Blackberry. She began typing furiously. She handed me the phone and it read "OMG thats so HOT and CRAZY. I can't believe that my performance turned you on so much you had to just run and do that". Holy shit. This narcissistic fuck thought I had run out to whack off to her acting ability. This was priceless. I wrote back "Oh yeah. You were just way too much girl. I couldn't take it anymore." As I passed the phone back to her she gently caressed my fingers. My (in her mind) cum covered fingers.

I break the spirits

of young girls

who want desperately

to own me

I walk away

from women

who call to me

lips pursed

defenses down

arms waiting for my frame

to fill them

I side step

every attempt

to make an honest man

out of this

reckless boy

I dismiss the ones who love me

because I can

because I don't owe them

anything

because if I'm going to save anyone

it's going to be myself

because the crown of thorns

doesn't sit well

I saw it shoot past the lamp

skim the drapes and then disappear

near the computer desk.

We both panicked

darting around the room

armed with tissues.

I scoured the computer desk 

she searched the floor

in a mad dash 

to find my errant ejaculate.

I could picture her boyfriend

unsuspecting, and comfortable

about to check his Facebook

when he places his digits

on a small pool

of my lost children.

So we ran wild

our eyes darting

our hands feeling the carpet

and curtains for wet spots.

She rushed me out

before I could us the Puffs Plus

to erase my having been there.

She later told me

that that night

after making love to her boyfriend

she was laying in bed

and noticed a glimmer 

a spot

above the bed.

"It must have ricocheted"

I said

"I guess so"

she said

There I was

sticky

and shiny

We are loud

Her roommates, they must hate me.

They must trade notes over

whole grain toast

and steaming tea cups

mimic the sounds she makes

laugh at my dirty talk

which gets louder

as I get closer.

They must dread

having to use the bathroom

late at night

as we howl

on the other side of the door.

We make no apologies.

I pulled out of her

in the second floor hallway

 I find myself

on the tips of my toes

pants around my ankles

my genitals in the bathroom sink

at Starbucks.

Washing away the afternoon,

so the evening wont taste it

when it goes down on me.

A tap happy coffee drinker

pounds at the door,

and I wonder

what he's in such a rush

Mark Maurer/Jersey Journal

So, recently there was an article written about Jersey City Slam's win at The NorthBeast Regional Poetry Slam. This article appeared in the local paper here in Jersey City, The Jersey Journal, and also appeared as the cover story for the Hoboken Now Magazine. Besides getting an awesome boy band-esque pic out of the deal it was some much needed press for our new slam. All of us involved from Co-Founder of J.C. Slam Vic Armooh to 2010 slam team member Mark Skrypzak were super excited to see the slam profiled in the paper.

The morning the article was to appear in the Jersey Journal I woke up early, threw on some clothes, and ran up the block to my local deli. There it was....and it was glorious. We had made the front cover of the Friday paper and the cover page of the entertainment pull out section. I could not have been happier. I floated home with several copies of the paper tucked snugly under my arm.

When I got home I sat down and tore into the article and that was when I saw it...it being the quote posted above. I had been quoted as saying that slam poetry was basically for housewives and coffee servers. Now listen, if an army of housewives and Coffee Beanery employees suddenly stormed my slam I would have no problem with it. I was a barista and respect the hell out of any one that can make a mean latte but......I didn't quite say that. I had been asked who slam poetry appealed to. In response I rattled off a list of different types of people including a stay at home mom and barista. The point I was trying to make was that it appeals to just about anyone. My point was missed. My words were picked apart. No bueno. I decided to keep reading and judge the article as a whole.

It wasn't long before I stumbled upon yet another gem of a quote, "Jersey City slam artists ruminate on ambiguous non sequiturs like unicorns and marshmallows on the stage". What the shit? Now we are writing poems about candy land and middle earth or some shit? It was bad enough that "run-of-the-mill" housewives were the only ones interested, we weren't even cool enough to attract the "cougar" or "desperate" housewife set. No not for us, it's the no frills moo-moo wearing ladies that love our slam. And everyone knows if it's one thing Starbucks employees and housewives love, it's definitely marshmallows and unicorns.

Wow, I couldn't believe it. This article was madness. It read like a piece out of The Onion. But the best was yet to come when Vic Armooh the co-founder of the slam was quoted as saying “Some rap can be considered poetry, but poetry is poetry doesn’t always have to rhyme,” Armooh, 33, said. “It doesn’t always have to make sense.” This terribly written and awkwardly worded quote was the last line of the article.

As I sat on my couch digesting what I had just read the phone calls and texts started coming in. Everyone LOVED the picture but "What's up with that article?" was the question I heard time and time again. I wasn't sure what to do. I loved the fact that we made the paper, THE COVER OF THE PAPER...but, the article....it was....terrible. But any publicity is good publicity, right?