undisputed backtalk champion

undisputed backtalk
champion
Collected Poems
GEORGE WATSKY
A project of Youth Speaks, Inc., First Word Press offers young writers the opportunity to publish their first
book. Each year, Youth Speaks publishes a number of young writers whose work reflects a commitment to
social dialogue and artistic integrity beyond perceived boundaries of age, race, class, sexual orientation or
culture. It is our hope that in doing so, we can help redefine the canon and firmly place these young writers
into the literary continuum that continues to define the voice of today’s American poetic.
Executive Editor, James Kass
Editor-In-Chief, Paul S. Flores
Guest Editor, Adam Mansbach
book design by Adriel Luis
ISBN 0-9779136-2-7 (pbk.)
© 2006, First Word Press & George Watsky
First Word Press, an Imprint of Youth Speaks, Inc.
San Francisco, CA 2006
All rights reserved. All of the writings in this book are the exclusive property of the Author and Youth Speaks, Inc.,
and cannot be reproduced without the express written consent of the Author and Publisher.
www.youthspeaks.org
www.georgewatsky.com
for my father, a poet
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FIRST WORD SERIES
foreword
Don’t read this book because the next generation can speak for itself and you want to
support the youth. The best way to do that is by sending a briefcase full of money to
the address listed on the copyright page. The best reason to read George Watsky is not
because he happens to be young, but because his words bob and weave, feign and duck
and jab, because his poems sweat their way to twelve-round winning decisions and rack
up first-round knockouts and pop volumes of smack at post-fight press conferences.
Because the opponents with whom Watsky steps into the ring – this skinny-lookin’
verbal pugilist with a mind on him like a diamond cutter – are conspicuous consumption and political lethargy, cultural co-option and personal disaffection – these being,
not coincidentally, the crimes of which his generation has been (unfairly) accused time
and again.
One thing I love about Watsky’s poetry is its refusal to take the easy way out by
sacrificing meaning or complexity for the sake of the hot punchline, the crowd-pleasing
turn of phrase. This is an even greater accomplishment because the Backtalk Champ has
a natural facility for hot punchlines; he delights in wordplay, in layering meaning upon
meaning, in the sheer joys and possibilities of language. He has reaped the rewards of
his cleverness, seen entire concert halls erupt with laughter and slam-judges hoist perfect
tens, but Watsky has crafted this collection to be more than a transcription of his
spoken-word identity. Undisputed Backtalk Champion is a work created for the page,
one that transcends the inherent parameters of the slam scene without sacrificing the
visceral immediacy of orality.
The other thing I love about this book is its expansiveness, the way each piece breathes
and evolves. Where so much poetry maintains an R. Kelly-like reliance on a single
emotional note, Watsky is unafraid to let his pieces progress, to cycle through a range
of tones and hues, to introduce and balance multiple themes. Thus, his poems are
journeys to which one can return time and again, rather than simple manifestos to be
read, absorbed, and left behind. I attribute this sensibility to Watsky’s years as a jazz
GEORGE WATSKY
v
drummer; it has translated as a true poetic understanding of polyrhythm. Layer that
with a hip hop-hewn linguistic dexterity, and you’ve got something serious going on.
Add an instinctive understanding of how to cut serious social commentary with so much
wit that it goes down easy, and you’ve got something dangerous. Add a commitment to
honesty and self-reflection that stops the poet from employing that humor in service of
letting himself off the hook, and you’ve got something beautiful.
- Adam Mansbach, author of Angry Black White Boy, or
The Miscegenation of Macon Detornay
vi
FIRST WORD SERIES
Contents
Foreword
v
Undisputed Backtalk Champion
Halflife
Volvotive
420 West
Daisy Chains
The Gospel of Prep School
Buy a Smile
Then Who’s the Man in the Yellow Hat?
Beirut
Shadowland
Burn Again
Chain Reaction/ Hand Me America
Same Page
I Am Cupid
3
Acknowledgements
About the Author
First Word Press
About Youth Speaks
6
10
12
17
20
28
33
38
39
44
47
54
59
63
65
67
69
undisputed backtalk champion
Undisputed Backtalk Champion
I know what you’re thinking
and yes
I do work out.
You may find this hard to believe
but I was not always the
mentally muscled pencil pusher
you see flexing his mind before you.
You see back in the day I was super super lightweight
back-talking-elementary-school-teachers champion.
With one raise of my scrawny arm
I could hit Mrs. Ames with the colloquial plural of octopus
list every Venezuelan Vice-President
in reverse alphabetical order
and correct a subject-verb disagreement
in her original question
our phones were ringing like a save the whales telethon
back then.
Inquiring teachers wanted to know
how could such a skinny little kid
be filled with so much hatred and contempt?
Back talkers don’t win many blacktop boxing matches
scrawny arms raised for throwing sand and exacting scratches.
Because educated fourth-grade playground mercenaries know—
creating pain is easier than creating
Whiteboy’s narrower than Urkel!
This imagination’s fertile
but you can’t fit a square into a social circle
GEORGE WATSKY
3
Though stuffed into a locker
one tends to get philosophical
…blood, black and blue do make a pretty shade of purple.
In seventh grade I scrawled Neanderthal
across Takashi’s locker with a Sharpie after he lit my hair on fire to see
what it would smell like—
I left a couple blazing trails on the asphalt when he tore after me during lunch
Coulda been friends
but nerds with vendettas offend
and God prefers burning a vandal on both ends;
melted wax poetics
Doing lines of Shakespeare in the bathroom
with a library card and a twisty straw.
That lightweight Hulk Hogan who can’t bench press
the wheaties box
his face is on
I don’t think I need remind anyone
of my famous last stand in middle school
the post PE face-off in the hallway—
Mr. Minshull and his whistle blocking the exit.
My boombox was the only one that ever stuck by my side
so I cranked the janky credo-blaster to 10
If you wanna go and get high wit’ me
Smoke an L in the back of the BenZ
Oh why must I feel this way?
Started rhyming over the top
of his head
I can’t remember exactly what was said
just that it was epic.
Brought in references to Machiavelli
4
FIRST WORD SERIES
and post-civil war reconstructionism
Every phrase had a sneaky metaphor
and three punchlines
Soon a crowd gathered to bear witness
Got more sauce than shoyu
a kid fainted
Watch your back ‘cause I’ll lyrically destroy you
OOOoooooooooh!
Next thing I know
Officer Krupke is reading me my Miranda Rights
in the principal’s office—
apparently according to state penal code
lyrical destruction
is still a threat
and a federal offense.
Every time I tell my friends the story
I leave out the tear that hits the ground in front of my chair,
the sobs struggling to get out of my throat.
That lightweight lightskinned grandmaster of emotional repression
I know what you’re all thinking
and please
don’t tell anyone…
GEORGE WATSKY
5
Halflife
Grandma likes to remind us of the importance of the holidays—
if you don’t nail it when God is watching you closest
how are you supposed to get it right the rest of the time?
I forgot Chanukah this year
sat in my room watching Three’s Company reruns
(the father, the son and the holy ghost)
until I came downstairs and
saw dad packing up the menorah
on day nine.
I forgot Passover last year and the year before that
and I just found out Yom Kippur existed.
Thought the Festival of Lights
was the electrical parade down Main Street
in Disneyland—
I can still shut my eyes
and see Rabbi Silver holding hands with Dopey.
I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad
if I were a goy—
came from a Baptist mispocha
and asked for my daily leavened bread during the holidays
I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t Jewish
(Well, half Jewish)
but I’ve only been to one Bar Mitzvah—
it wasn’t mine,
and to be honest,
I was only there for the candy.
Sometimes I get concerned
That my gentile halflife
6
FIRST WORD SERIES
lasts 365 days a year.
I think if half Jewish meant I only had to remember
half the holidays
I might be a little more motivated
If it meant my left hand only knew
what my right hand said
so with my right I’d hold the torah
and my left I’d raise the dead
Or I could half believe in Jesus
and half believe he’s fraud
and believe the Red Sea opened just for half the Jews to cross
I’d be a model Jew
(built to half scale)
But I can’t picture myself
with a yarmulke and curly sideburns
pounding scripture and Jägermeister
at a Bar Mitzvah with an after-party
at the Hustler club
I tend to have more sobering fantasies—
standing at the altar
altering the torah
and dishonoring decorum:
Baruch Ata I dunno
Elevator melancholy Chomsky Noam
Shechechiyanu, Vikings, Randy Moss and Superbowl.
I forgot Chanukah this year
and there’s no one to potch the leck
out of my mouth
GEORGE WATSKY
7
or sew up the holes in my reasoning.
I’ve been thinking if a full Jew comes of age at 13
then maybe I’ve been a man since 6 1/2
and I can blame my forgetfulness on Alzheimer’s
Or I could get faded at the Seder
drink a fifth of Manneschevitz
and an eighth of Tequila
slurring words until I can’t sing
Halfa Nagila
Cry into my Borsht—
I’m just half and half
that make a whole
for me to crawl into and die
But I’m just overthinking
All too alive and kicking
And lately my heart hasn’t been beating
my head
to the punch—
my cranium my atrium
my temple is my temple
my skull is my confession booth.
I can’t admit the real problem to myself—
that if I remembered eight Chanukahs
a year
it wouldn’t make me a mench
Root sellers hoard relics
I keep mine in the back of my mind
8
FIRST WORD SERIES
A piece of Moses’ collarbone
My bris
My grandma Syde
And Chanukah
(next year)
GEORGE WATSKY
9
Volvotive
The rumors are true:
I get around
in my mom’s station wagon
A big backseat always gets a good
headturning radius
but nothing screams momcar like a boxy volvo.
Although
if I cruise with enough confidence
I can sometimes play it off as hipster
or emo
.
If I pick a girl up on the side of the car
with hubcaps
I daresay it looks a little classy
Volvo Racing decal on windshield glass
Nitrous Oxide booster (cigarette lighter) near the dash
Come hither young lady your chariot awaits
*
Six weeks after I got my license
I picked up Michelle
for a pleasant Sunday drive.
Stopstarted down the street to her house
and made it through twenty miles
of winding country road
before (as so often is the case)
the curves got the better of me.
Took her a while to realize we were three wheels
10
FIRST WORD SERIES
off the ground in a trench;
the road had
ditched
us.
And I think if she hadn’t been stuck
in the passenger seat
she would have ditched too.
After a couple hours
a policeman showed up
to make sure I knew the gravity of the situation.
Looks like you spit out a bit more than you could chew boy.
*
After the second time I got towed
I went to the impound to pick it up;
found a parking ticket
and a new dim sum menu
under the wiper
Suffice it to say that now
when I walk into the Tong Palace
it feels right
The usual Mr. Watskies?
I tend to get choked up at the Palace when my vegetable dumplings come—
you just can’t buy a good friend.
And as much as I bit my lip pulling up to high school parties
these days
I’d rather pull into the middle of a cul de sac at night
pointed towards Mecca, Sweden
encircle the wagon with votive candles
and read a passage from the Good Book
Thank you for your purchase from Volvo!
You’ve got a lot of miles ahead of you.
GEORGE WATSKY
11
420 West
Pamplona
*
The crowd staggers collectively
still trashed off kalimotxo from the night before—
European bloc heads agree:
you’re not partying till you’ve drank your body weight
in equal parts coca-cola and cheap wine.
I’m not enough of a lightweight for that.
Me and Nick split the scene
but the Chupiñazo throng swallows John
Turns out he’s just kickin it
(it being a broken champagne bottle)
and lurches out into the clear
his leg drenched crimson
looking a lot like he needs a stiff drink and a Bible
Jesus
Bloody Mary
And Joseph
por la energía santa entregúeme de estos borrachos
The first man struck down in the Running of the Bulls MMV—
We pay daily homage to him
after he has the tendons to his toes reconnected.
But lying prone on the starched hospital bed,
American tenderfoot,
I can’t help but wonder
how of the thousands of sloppy drunks in the town square
the sober Americans
managed to get fucked up the worst
12
FIRST WORD SERIES
*
Two days later me and Nick
trip down the Pamplona cobblestones
at 7 AM
rocking white cotton pantalones
and scarlet bandanas
Trying to breathe life into our false bravado.
Yo Snacks, maybe if we start at the end of the course we can dive under the fence
when the bulls catch up—we can still say we ran
Nah, let’s start at the end of the course and run behind them
If we could somehow get on top of the bulls then it would be hard for
them to run us over.
10 minutes from the gun and mercy comes
in the form of our horde
of smashed Spaniards
Eurotrashed from last night’s Sangria
and ready to get bloody
¡Mas Sangre!
when the first beer bottle sails across the police barricade
I see a glimmer of hope
in the forest green glass
One martyr scales the wall
and scales back with an open head wound.
When the police pour out with riot gear
and start swinging
the heavens open up and shine
I think I see God give us a thumbs up
but he could just be waving.
I mostly get little bruises on my arms
¡Hallelujah!
Nick slips
and one officer unloads—
GEORGE WATSKY
13
goes Gary Sheffield on his back
¡Hallelujah!
Later at the hostel we call our friends
and tell them we went running
with the pigs.
*
Paris
*
Tell me it’s the greatest city on the planet
when you’re tipping a thrifty 10%
on a fourteen dollar Sprite
and the gratuity costs more than the drink should have—
I didn’t feel too worldly
trying to break into the club scene
with two teenage buddies
collectively sporting six dirty tennis shoes and a pair of crutches.
We couldn’t have crossed a velvet rope
if it was blocking the way to a vending machine.
My friends got into the spirit of the city
and stayed in the Latin Quarter
at a Best Western.
Comparatively my accommodations were quite reasonably priced
centrally located
uncrowded
but come to think of it
most elementary school stoops are.
Looking down at my hands I notice
how clean I am
Playing dress-up in Europe,
This is a game;
14
FIRST WORD SERIES
homeless for a day
I imagine myself storming the Bastille
the streets running red with the blood of my bourgeoisie
friends
but at this point
when the revolution comes
I’m gonna be taken out too.
*
Hjørring
*
There’s something beautiful
about finding a piece of home at the edge of nowhere
San Francisco is so somewhere…
I swear on the memory of Clement Street
that at 1 AM, July 22nd
the wooden bench in Hjørring, Denmark
curved into the small of my back
exactly like the one at the 6th and Fulton bus stop.
And the fishing town breeze hit my cheek
cool dry salty just like the one that blows in off the Pacific.
I know if I just try I can fold the 40th parallel over on the 60th
and twist until San Francisco shifts
onto the Jutland Peninsula.
I guess we let our guard down.
There’s something creepy about watching a small-town Danish kid
pull out a cell phone
and show you pictures
of his home-made water bong;
GEORGE WATSKY
15
tell you how he gets the best trips when he mixes
speedoxycontincocainemushrooms(caps,stems)extacybutnotheroine—yet.
I suppose I wasn’t as badass as I thought
coughing my lungs up
off the box of Js we bought
back in Amsterdam
Circled around that bench
…or maybe it was circling us…
it was swimmingly clear
that kids everywhere in the world
are trying to get away from the same place
And there’s something depressing about finding a piece of home
in Scandinavia.
But when Frederik’s eyes rolled aft in his head
I imagined he wanted a better look at something
in the back of his mind—
That maybe we were thinking the same thing;
that if we tried we could fold the 15-east Meridian over
420 west
Twist the crust of the earth up like a Philly Blunt
and feel the same breeze puffing in over the ocean
on the back of our necks
16
FIRST WORD SERIES
Daisy Chains
I pluck up one of my first memories
six years old in the outfield of a teeball game
She loves me
She loves me not
She loves me
She loves me not
Don’t forget to yell, “I got it!”
Kids around me shooting up
like weeds
like junkies
Skip
everywhere
Play hopscotch
Skip to school
Skip home
Skip to dinner
Skip to school
Skip school
Skip to meals
Skip school
Skip meals
Skip school
meals
Didn’t you hear kid?
You have a couple more years left
before your dreams are crushed by the weight of the world.
So get your kicks while you still can
How much do you weigh Sally?
GEORGE WATSKY
17
60 whole pounds?
You’re still in school?
Want to be pretty?
Cool?
She
loves me not
Innocence finds sanctuary in a blade of grass
Knows that the only way to go is to
pick a handful of daisies
covered in blood
They love me not
You could stand to lose a couple pounds
I hear chain-smoking in the bathroom during math class
helps preteens shed love handles.
And I’m taking this
sitting down
in the outfield grass
Killing daisies
Ripping them lovingly from the ground
Tearing the petals off
I uproot another bloody handful
Grave room
This is being young
Twist the trunks around each other
like they’ve learned to dance
Lock the stems together
It’s come full circle
Caress their roots up from the soil
She loves me not
Slip them around wrists
She loves me
Six years old
18
FIRST WORD SERIES
in the park
wearing daisy chains around my wrists
She loves me
She doesn’t love me anymore
She must hate me
I made some chains for you
Skip school meals
to chain smoke in the bathroom
Daisies around wrists
she pulls a handful of
razor blades
from the soil
Twists them together
learning to grind
6
7
8
17
18
19
I’m pulling
years
up from the grass
and all I ever did was take it
like a man
GEORGE WATSKY
19
The Gospel of Prep School
And now the University High School chorus presents
‘Oh Praise his Holy Name!’ by Keith Hampton!
It’s real Gospel music!
Please feel free to
snap or applaud
at a reasonable volume during this number
(Call and response is a crucial element of African American culture.)
Sometimes during 7th period I find myself doing math
while we’re huddled around the piano
Let’s see…
we have an Asian girl…
and two half Asian girls…
and 1(x) + 2(.5x),
where the variable x represents the amalgamation of human experience
East of the Ural mountains
equals…
apparently the racial quota for the admissions office
can be stretched to include white boys
with popped-collar polo shirts
and a bomb vocabulary of hip slang in black America
circa June, 1998
The sharpest kid couldn’t
dull the irony of
This polyphony.
I think I’ll put it in a research paper—
address the topical wounds with a sentence or two
and then dig deeper with some empty rhetoric
For example
1. How can we intellectualize such important issues? (see above)
2. Will we face any physical consequences from the community?†
3. Why do good white kids listen to rap music††
96 Sophomores crowd into the library for a class meeting—
20
FIRST WORD SERIES
Timbrell ditches to make a run to Sam Goody
and cops a dozen copies
of Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson’s first contribution
to the canon.
The jewel cases are propped up like bonfire logs
on the claw-foot mahogany table—
the glow lights up a cluster of huddled faces
as if the blaze had been created
by rubbing the edges of Compton and Brooklyn together
and imploring members of N.W.A to do a five man marathon
to run the torch into our library.
This is the album that busted a thousand sub woofers
And convinced more than a couple parents
That hip hop is not music,
It’s a bacterial culture.
Not that they should worry
We’ve got the sense to flip the tenses to fit Pacific Heights
Consensus:
Stay Rich and Die Trying to get Richer
Beethoven may have been the first composer
to connect two movements of a symphony
And Palestrina may have mapped out
The most complicated harmonies of the sixteenth century
but according to my Western History textbook
neither of them ever took a slug to the chest
Who hasn’t tried to hide
their jealousy of that great Caucasian C-Walk sensei?
The footquick kid who who went from poplocking at sock hops
to crip walking on prom parquet—
proving conclusively that being able to spell a word with your feet,
use it in a sentence
and provide its
classical etymology
is by no means equivalent to understanding its deeper significance.
†
GEORGE WATSKY
21
This is worship music
Bend over to the floor and touch your toes
Get your eagle on
Let me see you get low
Every prep schooler on the dance floor please assume
prayer position
Most everyone takes their Eucharist before mass
debauchery.
the formula is simple—
crackers and Old English.
Who’s to say our generation hasn’t learned
from our British forefathers?
We’ve got our copies of the King James Bible open
to Genesis
and we’re testifying
On the first day God created University High School
and it was Good
Urban legend tells us of
a heroic battle
Unlike any ancient bloody skirmish
Where two prep school ronins took to the pool table
At a killer after-dance keg party
††
Once and for all
To settle
The issue of whose school
Was of general higher quality.*
As soon as the hometeam entered the room the cheerleaders bugged
UHS!
UHS!
UHS!
*Brendan got hit with:
Check, check…You’ve got less flow than your mom after menopause
22
FIRST WORD SERIES
Praise the Lord!
On the second day God created upperclassmen
and they were Good
Praise the Lord!
It’s easy to be the focal point of your own world
in campus pangea.
All you need to do is navigate
to the student center
where the compass needle has little direction in life.
Traverse the great planes of the tennis courts
and computer lab catacombs.
Kneel at the altar
The college apse
Light sixteen candles
and ask for four more years of limbo
Some want to be students
Some want to go honeymooning
I heard from John who heard from Natalie who heard from Mister Spivack
that the student center café is switching from their Pepsi contract
to Heineken and open taps,
Daiquiri Fridays
with festive mini umbrellas for the first fifty
freshmen.
Our hands are so smooth we’ve evolved past fingerprints
and can’t pick up pennies
without sliding them off the edge of a table
and gathering a handful in our open palms
we’re accruing important life skills
like how to balance a checkbook on our heads
In class we study a picture of a woman
toting a bucket of water down to the river
everyone sympathizes
although I haven’t seen a smile as wide as hers
in a month.
GEORGE WATSKY
23
The upper courtyard stretches out to the horizon
and the naked white man statue rises up from the stone
as if to say
we too shall overcome
or
suck it disenfranchised minorities
Every kid around could tell you
the piece is reminiscent of Doryphoros
and the torque on his torso
creates dynamic diagonal composition
but most would be at a loss to give the names
of the janitors
who carried the two ton monolith
to its resting spot
Our research topics are carefully chosen.
If you’d prefer to cheat
the easy answers can all be found
in the appendix
at the back of your textbook
24
FIRST WORD SERIES
Appendix A
Is here
because lodi dodi, we likes to
sing and dance
and play dress up—
want to see our masks?
Citywide C-Walk Spelling Bee Champions
never need a word used in a sentence to give you
waist lines and
foot notes and
foot notes to the foot notes
Like C-R-I-P and N-I-G-GWait!
Maybe if we keep dancing in this direction
we’ll end up holding griot sticks and doing racist shtick,
throwing up clenched fists
like we tried to give our clueless mugs
an uppercut
and missed.
Don’t worry though
you can have a cultural enlightening and
keep the polo shirts and trust fund
after all
I had my appendix removed in fourth grade
and had no complications
Sing to the Power of the Lord come down
Shout Hallelujah
Praise his holy name!
GEORGE WATSKY
25
Glossary
In Alphabetical Order
white (hwît, wît), adj., whit•er, whit•est, n., v., whit•ed, whit•ing. –adj. 1. the absence
of all color (antonym: brown) 2. Caucasian; of the region surrounding the Caucuses
Mountains.
trust fund (trust fund)., n. 1. Property, especially money and securities, held or settled in
trust. See “silver spoon”
racist (rä•sist), n., adj. 1. one harboring hate or disdain towards racial or ethnic groups
other than one’s own.
prom (prom) n., U.S. Informal1. [short for PROMISCUITY]
prep school (prep skôôl) adj.,+ n., 1. see below
popped collar (popped kol•er) adj., + n., 1. see above
poplock (pop•lok) v., 1. A dance style that involves rapid muscle tensing to give the
appearance of rhythmic robotic motions.
menopause (men•e•pôz), n. 1. Physiol. The period marked by the natural and
permanent cessation of menstruation, occurring usually between the ages of 45 and 55.
keg (keg), n. 1. a fatty cask, generally filled with beer. ex. “I hear Jimmy is throwing down
this weekend and he has a bomb Keg of Keystone Light.
holy (hö•lë) adj.,1. Belonging to, derived from, or associated with a divine power;
sacred. (See also TRUST FUND; KEG; GRIOT)
griot (gree•ö) n.,1. A storyteller in western Africa who perpetuates the oral tradition
and history of a village or family. [French, alteration of guiriot, perhaps ultimately from
Portuguese criado, domestic servant, from Latin cretus, one brought up or trained]
gospel (gos•pel) adj.1. Of or in accordance with the Gospel; evangelical. 2. Of or
relating to gospel music. Originally African American worship music.
flow (flö) n., v., 1. Rhythmic continuity of a piece of poetry or rap, including structure
and delivery. 2. Ovarian emission of blood and eggs during a woman’s monthly
menstruation. (Do not see MENOPAUSE)
etymology (et•e mol•e jë), n., pl.,1. The origin and historical development of a linguistic
form as shown by determining its basic elements [Middle English etimologie, from Old
French ethimologie, from Medieval Latin ethimologia, from Latin etymologia, from Greek
etumologi: etumon, true sense of a word; see etymon + -logi, -logy.]
crip walk (krip wok) n., v., 1. Native dance of the CRIP Tribe of Los Angeles, California.
26
FIRST WORD SERIES
2. Adopted dance of PREP SCHOOL. (See also GANGS, PROM)
bug (bug) v., n., 1. To be taken aback; literally—eyes to take on the appearance of an
insect’s. 2. An insect or similar organism, such as a centipede or an earwig. See Regional
Note at wire bug 3. A flu or similar passing illness. 4. A defect in system design.
asian american (ä•zhen e•mer•i•ken) n.,1. One born in America, of Asian ancestry 2.
Yellow (derogatory) 3. Brown.
african american (a•fri•ken e•mer•i•ken) n., 1. One born in America, of African
ancestry 2. Black 3. Brown.
Works Consulted
God, Various Others; The Bible, Dawn of Time
Stillman, Frances. The Poet’s Manual and Rhyming Dictionary. New York, Crowell,
1965
Partridge, Eric. A Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional English. New York:
Macmillan, 1998
Playboy, Girls of Summer (2 Volumes), Chicago, 1984
Sun Tzu; The Art of War, 500 BCE
Ellison, Ralph Waldo; Invisible Man, New York: Random House, 1952.
American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, fourth edition, Houghton
Mifflin Company, 2000
Cent, 50; “Get Rich or Die Tryin’”, Shady/ Interscope Records, 2003
GEORGE WATSKY
27
Buy a Smile
Jesus, I have a confession to make…
I like to visit department stores
for the free fragrance samples.
But I can never buy
a smile
from the counter-girl—
says she can’t sell me something she can’t
charge me fifteen dollars to giftwrap.
Besides,
human interactions carry
no commission
and she heard a rumor
the company handbook
lists genuine emotion as
sedition.
Needless to say (but let me get this off my chest)
I tend to leave confounded
Maybe someday I’ll go into the desert for a week
without food or water
and found myself—
declare me CEO
of mind and health.
Apply for nonprofit status—
I mean What Would Jesus Do?
Carry libations back to the needy (and stay stationary at present station?)
Or maybe climb the corporate ladder
straight into heaven
slangin’ salvation
28
FIRST WORD SERIES
Picture it
Abraham
Moses
Jesus
Muhammad
Watsky
*
This religion works all too simple
sit cross-legged humming incantations
in front of Macy’s and Gimbles.
A man of the cloth
wraps himself in Versace up to the eyebrows
and looks at the world
through the pattern of the stitching—
the spindle sits idol
Maybe we could be convinced to sew our robes ourselves
if Ashton Kutcher started doing it
All the hip celebrities got platinum coated sewing kits
nevermind Rolex
let’s bling our fists
with status thimbles
And all I want is a friendly glance that tells me
my outfit is flattering
but no one seems to appreciate me for my wardrobe.
I can’t remember the last time I got any real warmth
from a new jacket.
Or when a sweater vest
ever had my back.
And I still can’t buy a smile—
or rather
I haven’t found a pusher.
You’d think a grin would be easier to market
than the inability to do so
but Botox has the market cornered on
controlling the corners of lips
Make us think removing some unsightly lines
GEORGE WATSKY
29
buys a wrinkle
in time.
That wearing a shiny new watch puts time
on our hands
That if we purge our wallets
we too can be young
and in love
and making out with a crush in the backseat of our mom’s station wagon…
…forget I said that
No one truly appreciates a good used Volvo either
I could sell it I suppose
but no matter what the interest
money in the bank tends not to
appreciate
me
either.
But maybe!
Yeah! And maybe
I’m running out of attractive answers.
Someone kidnapped Casanova
Buddha
Ghandi
Marvin Gaye
has them locked in a vault in Luxembourg and is waiting
for their price to rise above the dollar
a competitor has Jesus and Moses and Muhammad
tucked away underground in the Cayman Islands
and is waiting for the prophets to rack up interest
I mean, maybe
Universal Love and Respect
maybe
30
FIRST WORD SERIES
just need to switch to a marketing giant—
they can try the firm that does the Sprite commercials
and get Kobe Bryant to pitch
a decent set of moral values to their clients
But then again
no one loves me for my ride
and I’m starting to think used karma salesmen
have been picking us lemons
Something so sour
must be quince—
pick your own
and sit fully exposed
in the garden
contemplating how to pass off rock bottom
as precious stone
We’ll only start to smile when we
appreciate the absurdity
of the situation
Perverse hands clutch purses like
the solutions are inside them
inside all of us
Merchants cast curses like rocks at glass churches
and stock clergy emerge worshipping the Tao of Jones
following the curves of the economy
like heaving virgin geography
Only this time the deed is done
and the mother of the deflowered is waving the bloody sheets
out the window
The crowd cheers wildly for the barbarism
We know how ugly the union really was:
this is an arranged marriage planned
on a bar napkin
by Ronald Reagan and a drinking buddy in the sixties
But I don’t say anything
GEORGE WATSKY
31
I’ve been backed into the corner of my mouth;
lips twitching unsure which direction to slip in
I’m no prophet
barely Jonah
Trapped within the walls of my skull
I can’t muster the courage to strike a match and explore myself
I know the answers
are inside me inside me
Can inner children be removed by C Section?
Tortured for the answers?
The thing is…
sometimes I smile when I remember
the nine year old who prefaces every statement with
“when I was a kid”
And maybe he was prophet
in a sense
innocence
Smiling at everything
But someone should really tell him not to
That could give him wrinkles
and who’s gonna pay for that?
32
FIRST WORD SERIES
Then Who’s the Man in the Yellow Hat?
When Art History Class
moves too slow
I move to the back row
where I can be on the forefront of art history
with a sloppy doodle and a big ego.
History class tends to repeat itself
over the years,
and history tends to rewrite itself in the back of the classroom
on especially slow days.
This might be my masterpiece
my Edward Hopper
This might be my white wooden picket-fence house in the middle of suburbia,
and there’s a chance that I painted this in watercolor
so I could blend the hues
red the blues
and bend the truth
to make a pretty picture
This could be my masterpiece,
This could be George’s masterpiece—
My DaVinci
or my DeMilo
or my disciples’ Last Rites
first written
in a fit of heightened wisdom
and ripped apart in remission.
GEORGE WATSKY
33
This might yet be my masterpiece
Might be pretty for the wrong reasons
My sky brighter than average
my clouds lighter
I am not a writer of wrongs
this is just a picture of a summer on a farm or a beach house
where everyone’s smiling
and no one’s raising their hands
It’s a white wooden picket fence house
and I’m living comfortably on the top floor
creating for the sake of pretty
This might be a doodle of the outskirts of a city
or the sail of a slaveship
this might be my masterpiece
master peace
master peace
master
peace master
Painted in earthtones
my house a halfway home
my fence a Stonewall
my farm a plantation
backhoes bent
backwards
towards the sky asking salvation
George, Greek for farmer,
I’ve never been asked to bend backwards into the soil
peace master peace master
peace master.
In history class I learned about George Pullman, accomplished inventor of the
34
FIRST WORD SERIES
Pullman Sleeping car in 1867, and I almost felt accomplished myself to share a name with
The Man.
In history class I didn’t learn about the ten thousand Porters who were abused on the job and
then denied a union by George Pullman’s company.
In history class I was never told that customers on Pullman cars called all ten thousand
black porters “George” after the founder of the company who denied those very workers their
dignity.
And I almost felt accomplished to share a name with them.
This is not a Picasso
or a Van Gogh (Dude was fucking crazy)
This is George’s masterpiece
His (art)
Story
or something pieced together from
magazine clippings
and low-budget movies
but in the back of the classroom
every piece falls into place.
Here’s George
and his house,
with a little curl of smoke coming up from the chimney
Here’s George
and his train,
with a little curl of smoke coming up from the engine
Here’s George
Dubya (for Watsky)
and his white fence is picketing
him
Protesting
GEORGE WATSKY
35
an electric choir
singing at a prison killing
mechanical on key
middle C to shining C
belting the New National Anthem—
I’ve suffered many trials,
Jogged down many roads,
The white man’s burden,
Can be a heavy load,
I may be pale,
But I’ve got soul,
No, seriously, I’ve got soul
(I know my Jay Z lyrics,
Off the album that I stole)
Imagine the three-part harmony
the Maginot trinity
(lower upper middle) classy
divinity
This is the 96th Thesis
scratched with the pen that wrote the bill of rites
of lower upper
middle passage.
Let this journey be the last rites
of a land first
in flight
Off the back of the train our problems get smaller.
And here are the porters, WilliamJohnEdwardJamesSamuelAnthonyKeithHenryHarryBenn
yArnoldEugeneRandallJacobMichaelJoshuaMatthewAndrewJosephDanAlexanderBenjaminR
obertThomasElijahAaronIsaiahBrianCharlesNathanielVictorHaroldPaulPeterMartinMarvin
GeorgeEtceteraEtceteraEtcetera
36
FIRST WORD SERIES
Those porters carrying too much emotional baggage
risk throwing their backs out
and I can’t help but think that Georges have carried a lot
of American history
W
Because
A
in between the presidential bookends
lies the Foreman
S
the farmer
Jefferson and Clinton (with Weezy and P Funk)
W.
H
The Bambino
I
The Beatle
The King of Taxes
N
(circa 1776)
B
The King of Texas
G
(circa 1996)
U
T
The Pullman
the Pullmen
O
N
S
H
and a curious kid in history class
who doesn’t really matter
except in his notebook
where a piece of art
however ill-conceived
is plenty mastery enough.
GEORGE WATSKY
37
Beirut
A bubble forms from hops and ambience
dissipates
then another follows—
stuttersteps to the surface and embraces the party
Soon my brew is buzzing with CO2 particles
like surfacing is the hip thing to do
I don’t know if carbon dioxide leads a better life
sheltered in red plastic and Keystone Lite
but I’ve noticed that if it breaks its bonds
and joins its brothers in the room
it forfeits some degree of effervescence
A bubble lingers on the bottom of my glass—
maybe motivated by inner convictions,
maybe tethered down by surface tension
Either way
the corners of my mouth float up
I wish the bubble good luck
and pour him into the hydrangea pot.
38
FIRST WORD SERIES
Shadowland
kick. Nobody could understand how he got so much sound from such a tiny kit.
91.1 KCSM; Clifford Brown Jr.’s voice crawls out of my speakers. Rattles around in
the back seat and settles in the trunk. See when I first checked Shadow out, no one was
playing the small sets. You had Louie Bellson in Duke’s band with ten toms, two bass drums.
Shadow was playing with Basie at the time so you know he had to have a big sound. Pockmarked Stockton Street rocks the car, catapults my hi hat stand into my 18” kick. (thud)
KCSM never talks about drummers. I thought Shadow’s kick was a tom turned sideways.
Sam Adato’s drum shop: Sam gives me the money. I leave the drums. A week ago and
I wouldn’t have believed that this transaction was transitive. I think back to thirteen
when I gave Sam the money and left with the drums. I gave Sam the money because god
damn that’s a shiny drum set. Blue sparkle Ludwig. 1960’s but not sure exactly when—I
gave Sam the money because it’s a small kit but it has sound like a car crash. $750 for
two toms and the kick. No hardware. Now here’s a 1948 Monk recording Shadow made.
This is ‘Evidence’ with Milt Jackson on vibes and John Simmons on bass. The cross town
ride from Sam’s takes fifty years. Three out of four of us show evidence of aging—The
beat up cymbal and hi hat stands Sam wouldn’t take lie rusty and defeated. I’m sure I
have bags under my eyes. Or inside them because the tears won’t come and that must
mean they’re accumulating somewhere. Only Shadow seems to take the trip in stride.
Rides delicious. Drum sticks and press rolls never sounded so good—Shadow sets the
table for Monk who nibbles sparingly. Apparently he thinks it’s still 1948 and you can
buy dinner for a quarter. Sam gives me 500 dollars for the 3 piece drumset I bought
from him six years ago plus my throne, hi hat cymbals and snare. This is a business after
all.
ride. KCSM dies a few miles after San Jose. By the time we hit the Central
Valley 91.1 has birthed a nonstop Mariachi station. Nylon guitars and trumpet
harmonies float over miles of cropland. I keep the horizon lined up with the center of
my speedometer, trying to hold the world steady on the tip of the needle. It’s a gray
eighty miles per hour the whole way. Out here clouds are midwives. Sink their fingers
into the strawberry fields and stir. The overcast mass slinks low in the sky as if to tell
me it’s backbreaking labor. I set my jaw and push the gas again—I had slipped down
to seventy and the world was tipping over. I’ve righted everything by San Diego. Alone
GEORGE WATSKY
39
with my thoughts to contemplate the first fifty dollar tank of gas, progress does not
come cheap. I take little comfort in the fact that I’ve put a few more carbon particles
into the air of the LA Basin. By the Arizona desert 91.1 has died again. I keep moving
through the static like if I ease off the accelerator I could get tangled up and left for dead
to rot on the web. I let the scrub brush rush past me. A couple Saguaros frame a lonely
billboard. One Nation Under God. In the middle of the state 91.1 is born again. Welcome
back to positive and encouraging K-LOVE!
crash. I saw the spray paint on the doors. Pale pink, brown. Numbers in
human colors. 5. 3. A small 24. Slanted 17 looked like a crooked smile. The meaning
didn’t register for five or six blocks. 2/5. 1. I opened the window a crack when I felt
the vomit coming up. These are human numbers. 7. 12/3. 5 again. Dead and missing
numbers. 6/2. 9. The zeroes are missing too. No one seems to be looking for them.
A beat up speed boat is beached on a lawn. The lawn is really just cement painted
faded green—every color is drained of life. Only the piles of rubble are growing. Tree
branches. A rotting couch. A small pink spotted dress.
snare. Thomas doesn’t get pushed against lockers like the rest of the band. A
couple freshmen even hang by U13 and press pens into his hand. Tom signs for them.
Figures the UPS guy goes away after he gets Tom’s autograph so why not lowerclassmen?
Tonight’s the big show and Tom’s been practicing his whole life. Woodshedding the
last fifty years out back with a hickory switch. Tom Sr. used to beat Tom Jr. out by the
coops so it’s tradition. Tom’s seen tradition beat itself with a first down marker so many
times he thinks that progress comes in ten yard increments. The towns of Westlake
and Pflugerville pour into the stands as he tunes his 13” x 11” Yamaha Power Light
Marching snare.
kick. Sam cradles the snare as if it’s trying to get to sleep. ‘Sam Adato Custom
#25.’ Pure maple shell, medium depth, flexible tone. It can tell you stories if you ask
it right. Sam’s up to #251 and rarely sees his babies find their way home. He cradles
the snare and stares right through it because the acrylic head is transparent. But also
because this isn’t really a business. This is an orphanage and Sam needs to put food on
the table. Shadow Wilson is widely regarded as one of the most under-recorded drummers of
the century—he only lived to forty but he’s legendary with those who know. This last piece is a
tribute to Wilson. It’s called ‘Shadowland’ by…
crash. Just uptown past the row of National Guard, Bourbon Street is hopping.
It’s Saturday night after all. Pub crawlers on all fours after one too many taverns
40
FIRST WORD SERIES
circumnavigate the five block radius. The planet’s navel is at the bottom of their next tall
Guinness. Drain your drink quick and you can catch the center of the earth on the tip
of your tongue. Wash it down with a jello shot and feel it beating inside your chest. Your
head is spinning. A couple of Margaritas and the planet is revolving around you. I can’t
tell if Bourbon Street is drowning its sorrows because the waters have receded or because
no one around here knows how to swim.
ride. An hour of Christian rock brings me into downtown Tucson. I stock up
on salsa con queso and aguacates at Food City. I can’t pick produce out like Alex and as
I slice into the first one with my house key in the parking lot I find myself chewing on a
piece of wood. I get my fill of K-LOVE. He’ll meet you wherever you are/ Cry out to Jesus/
Cry out to Jesus. I’m skeptical that Jesus is down to meet me in the parking lot of a Food
City in central Arizona, but I listen on. Further progress kills K-LOVE after the New
Mexico border. For now the interference is soothing—the gray sky explodes at sunset.
Red and purple painted rock formations fading into shades of pink lift the heavens on
their shoulders. I understand finding religion in these clouds. I see why the Hopi danced
here to bring them. I feel less the pioneer riding overland on smooth asphalt in the safety
of a station wagon than I did ten minutes ago, and the desire to ride with a Machete out
the window hacking passing underbrush slips away.
crash. Except for the French quarter, the city is quickly fermenting. I can’t tell
if it’s peaked yet. All I know is there seem to be a lot of pink faced white folks outside
the bar strip with big smiles strapped to their faces. Maybe they got off easy because they
earned it.
kick. My carpet is still depressed when I get home, matted down where the
bass drum used to sit. For once my room feels more empty than spacious. My suspended
cymbal is retired in the far corner. Sam said it was over fifty years old.
crash. How could a group of people turn to such looting and savagery? Can’t
they just go to Morehouse and wear a tie to work? Get jobs at Exxon as oil drum majors?
After all, Uncle Sam doesn’t beat as hard on Uncle tom
tom
tom
snare. Tom polishes the bright black shell every night until he can see himself
in it. He used to see himself in the hard shell—now he sees Tom in the smooth skin.
He tunes it up before games. The Power Lite model has 1.6 mm triple flange steel rims
so it’s not too hard. Zinc alloy lug casings with reinforced walls and webbing. Strainer
GEORGE WATSKY
41
throw off with high carbon steel snare wires.
ride. A bass thud finds its way through the radio static. Then another. Kicks
shoot up like popcorn until a reggaeton station is born. 91.1 your home for the most
hip hop and reggaeton in Southeastern New Mexico. I imagine the Hopi getting down to
this—rain dance party with a bass that’ll crack the parched dirt. The hours peel back like
avocado skin and the signal stays strong. More gas, more time, more pounding claves.
It fades eventually like they all do—this time right before El Paso. It fades smooth into
Tim McGraw. I pull over and pass out before I find out what happens to his pickup
truck or dog or unfaithful lover.
kick. The thick layer of tarnish and dirt served as supporting evidence. Six
hours in the back yard and a pint of metal polish later the tiny hammered Zildjian logo
started to resurface. A few more hours and it’s fresh from the factory.
crash. A block from the Superdome a Louisiana Lotto Billboard has been
vandalized. Someone still cares enough about the city to graffiti it. Live shades of blue
and purple emerge. Paint by numbers has been discarded for a mural of the globe with a
trumpet in the middle. I keep my eyes peeled for the ghost of Louis Armstrong.
kick. Three rivets dance like someone poured water on the stove. 22 inches of
shiny grooved brass that double as a ride and crash.
ride. The morning is charcoal again. Draws my route across the Lone Star state
in slate. Shades of gray carry me into Westlake, Texas. Red and Blue carry the town and
carry me out the next morning after the big loss. The country station didn’t last long and
91.1 is soundless across the boundless chaparral.
snare. The Westlake Chaps are losing their last football game of the year. Jojo
tells me Chaps is short for Chapparal—like the desert roadrunner, not the low-lying
desert scrub. The stadium is dead quiet. This isn’t right she tells me—Westlake always
wins.
ride. A dreary silence carries Louisiana—there’s a prostrate armadillo legs up,
roadkill on the side of the road.
kick. I’ve never had a ride like this one. This cymbal sizzles low and bright.
Keeps going when you’ve asked it to stop but need to hear more.
crash. Several notes escape the bell of the horn. Work their way into the air and
rain down slowly. My window is still open and I feel a drop hit my forehead.
snare. Jojo darts through the crowd and I follow in her wake—we pack in
sardine-style with the rest of the school. It’s the third quarter and that means that
42
FIRST WORD SERIES
drumline makes a beeline for the student section.
ride. The first billboard past Baton Rouge is blown clear over into the swamp.
I only know it’s still cloudy because the stars refuse to show. There aren’t many other
cars on the road, and by the time New Orleans rolls forward towards me it’s empty
midnight. I take the exit for the Superdome and flee, shaking, a couple hours later.
snare. The two quad drummers, the bass drummers, cymbals and snares take
the offensive line. We love drumline!
kick. I probably could have gotten a couple hundred for it and that would have
been four or five free tanks of gas—El Paso to New Orleans.
ride. Looking for a single star in the sky. These clouds are not beautiful.
Rainmakers, killers. This is genocide.
snare. Westlake loses by a touchdown. Tom’s music career ends with football
season.
kick. I’ll never find a ride with sound like that one. This is not a business.
snare. Drumline wins. Drumline always wins.
ride. 91.1 turns back into K-LOVE in Hattiesburg, Mississippi.
crash. This is New Orleans and the day the music dies I’m willing to bet there’s
going to be a hot band at the funeral.
ride. The clouds move down to groundlevel to choke me.
crash.
ride. I can’t see twenty feet ahead of me in the mist.
kick. Shadow keeps riding
snare.
ride.
tom.
tom.
tom.
sam.
kick,snare.
ride.
ride.
ride.
GEORGE WATSKY
43
Burn Again
It is my 18th birthday
when I first smell the burning of a country—
I slip my biggest finger into the seam of an envelope and
pull out a bald eagle and a mandate.
See the smoke pouring from its beak and
heating up the room
and me doomed,
doing just what I’d expect from a young man
regretting he’d encountered time.
Nothing.
The eagle on my draft registration card winks at me
like he’s seen the same reaction from every 18-year-old boy’s face
in the last 40 years.
Nothing.
Slow burning.
I can smell Iraq smoldering all the way across our country,
the Atlantic Ocean, and the Mediterranean,
see the tips of the flames shooting above the prime
Meridian,
and this city
and I can see my own kitchen
and my weatherworn breakfast table
and my fresh new draft registration card
falling to the fire.
And I know I don’t have to do anything.
I don’t have to go to war,
44
FIRST WORD SERIES
I don’t have to take up arms,
pick up my legs,
I don’t have to kill
or be killed
because as much as these flames are filling up our planet,
our country,
my kitchen,
there’s a layer of asbestos behind my stove
that insulates me from them.
*
It’s my first ever poetry slam
when I realize that no matter how heavy the blaze becomes
there will always be people with buckets of water.
And I try to understand what it would be like
to join the Navy.
I think back to March 15th, 2003
and see Stephen on the mic again
holding the flames outside at bay
and wonder if they have poetry readings
in boot camp.
And I try to see
the cinders in Bayview and Hunter’s Point
and men downtown holding matches and cans of gasoline.
And I try to see
that all I’m doing is shutting my front door
when thousands of Americans are being drafted
through the back.
But all I can bring into focus are
born again
GEORGE WATSKY
45
born again
born again innocents
with me in the middle,
feeding the flames
and playing the fiddle
Burning CD’s because we’re too consumer savvy to pay for our own music—
Burning books because they’re not Windows compatible—
Burning calories,
salaries stack up and we’re not skinny enough
for that Armani suit to buy it,
but we could burn a lot of fat cells on the Atkins diet
burn again
burn again
burn again until we’re innocent
again until we’re pretty
again until we reconstruct the damage in the city
And I can see that manifest destiny leaves stretch marks,
valleys
and ridges,
We’d go back to where we started
but we burned
all of our bridges.
And sometimes I’d rather leave the explaining
to someone that’s seen the problem first hand
instead of screaming my rendition of the blazes
from secondary sources and handy rhyming phrases
So next time I see someone on stage wearing
sincerity on their sleeve—
I’m locking the door
and not letting them leave.
46
FIRST WORD SERIES
Chain Reaction/ Hand Me America
It all starts with an act of violence.
or ends with one.
There are places outside of ourselves
where good intentions operate like rusty hinges
only heard from in periods of transition
Where only the sinister is well oiled and carefully maintained.
In these places rebuttals are muffled
and vertical movement takes place by slipping
through cracks in the system.
It usually starts with an act of violence
or is woven by a countless number of them.
Each stitch demanding another
another
another
Each link demanding two more.
This is just part of a chain reaction
as in
bullet enters gun
leaves gun
enters body
leaves corpse
Man creates chains
creates boats
creates guns
Hate begets hate
waste begets want
history begets the broken pieces of tomorrow.
GEORGE WATSKY
47
Ezechias begot Manasses. And Manasses begot Amon. And Amon begot Josias.
There are places in the New World
where good intentions operate like rusty hinges.
And Josias begot Jechonias and his brethren in the transmigration of Babylon.
Beliefs are not forced onto others
but opened slowly from deep within the self.
And after the transmigration of Babylon
Jechonias begot Salathiel. And Salathiel begot Zorobabel.
And Jacob begot Joseph
The husband of Mary
Of whom was born Jesus, who is called Christ.
Praise the lord.
As in
spirituals begot
jazz begot
rock begot
hip hop
….or something
Sticks and stones became
slings and arrows became
9 millimeters
Smith and Wesson says they can be used for hunting in the
urban jungle
*
Gap
Old Navy
Banana Republic
started with one cable-knit cashmere pullover
48
FIRST WORD SERIES
Starbucks
McDonald’s
Wal*Mart
started with one store
Now they are chains that wrap around the planet.
For gunpowder to ignite properly in your Smith and Wesson Firearm,
the chain reaction between charcoal and nitrate
must be preceded by the sulfuric compound
breaking its molecular bonds
Shutting your weak eye while aiming may help your marksmanship!
Shutting both eyes while aiming will definitely improve your marksmanship!
For the bullet to be expelled properly, the sulfur must break its bonds
The only natural reaction to being chained
is to attempt to break the bonds
Wal*Mart regrets to inform its passionate gun enthusiasts that we will no longer be selling
standard firearm ammunition in our retail outlets, however we are pleased to announce that
you can now buy them online, and for our younger patrons, we still carry a wide array of
powerful air guns and rifles.
If god created guns then why shouldn’t we use them?
God created sticks and stones became
slings and arrows became
your brand new Smith and Wesson firearm!
It’s alright we’ll waive the background check!
Maybe an upgrade is in order
Sometimes a handgun
just feels so insufficient
GEORGE WATSKY
49
Wal*Mart is pleased to announce
that our retail stores will now be carrying standard
combat cannons
You can purchase fuses on aisle three next to the garden hoses
and both pellets and cannonballs right below the water balloons
They make great conversation pieces
and of course are fully functional
Who says you need to captain a warship from the 1850s
to own a fine piece of artillery?
Your cannon may need to be chained to your fireplace to avoid a heavy kickback
that could damage your drywall
(Wal*Mart sells chains too)
It all starts here
in the corporate boardroom
where dreams come true
In these places
good intentions operate like rusty hinges
only heard from in periods of transition
And we are never in transition if we are constantly
expanding
Wal*Mart is pleased to announce we’ll be opening our first ever location
in Antarctica
*
Hand me a pencil and an ice pick
and I’ll tell you what’s wrong with America
Hand me a dead canary
an empty mineshaft
an abandoned boomtown
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FIRST WORD SERIES
Hand me a hole with tomorrow at the bottom
and I’ll fill it with water
blood
and crushed leaves.
Hand me a drum fitted with brass and palm fronds
and I will play it.
Ask the hollow of your instrument
and it will tell you it has not been beaten.
A drum is not beaten but triumphant
it is not beaten but joined
A drum cannot be beaten
just befriended.
If you chain a body’s legs together a body will still learn to dance.
I can’t dance
Show me a group of people
hammering
I don’t need the work
and I am willing to bet they are also singing
I have no range
If they were picking rocks
on the top of a purple mountain
in a quarry
or an empty mineshaft
I would chip away at
the American dream
wedged between the charcoal and
fool’s gold.
I have no business with business but this
is my business above all else
On the mountaintop
I am not above all else
GEORGE WATSKY
51
We are not above all else
staring purple into the horizon
I’m giving me props like
We are off the chain
at the bottom of a dry riverbed
breaking bonds with ice picks
singing all the while
Soon we are overflowing its banks
moving across the Savannah
making considerable progress towards the capitol
Washington submerged
Today a tidal wave struck
A poet wrote about it
A reserved eulogy was conducted
A band played at the funeral
like second-line
like New Orleans
like Triumph
like each snare was growing new daisies in the plains,
like each booming bass drum pattern
was raising ghost towns from the dead
Hand me a widower
mourning in black
and I’ll tailor his outfit for the afterlife party
It’s one thing
to see from the mountaintop
and another to see
oneself on the mountaintop
We can sing across the Pacific from here
This drum can reach
can talk
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FIRST WORD SERIES
It has not been beaten
It is teaching the chained to dance
Teaching chains to dance
Teaching us to lead
how to breathe fire
and then plunge it down our throats
how to swallow our pride
Hand me America the beautiful
and I will sing from the mountaintop
Write you the French Alps
the Gobi Desert
the Brazilian Rain Forest
Hand me a drum fitted with brass and palm fronds
and I will play for you
a village outside of Madrid
Mount Kilimanjaro
a lifeboat in the middle of the Caspian Sea
the Antarctic tundra
Hand me America the beautiful, and I will build you a globe
hand me a lended land
and I will lend you a hand
a pencil
and an ice pick.
Give me a hand and I’ve got three hands.
I’m already off the chain
because I had a free hand
to pick the lock.
GEORGE WATSKY
53
Same Page
The simple solutions always have a catch
strike a match and watch compassion wing itself out the window
like a frightened bat
It’s easy to wax
that we got the top tax bracket throwing up food stamps
for backup
insisting that the world is flat
Saying
fuck Copernicus
fuck welfare
everything I need to know I learned in business school
and the campus lawn definitely didn’t bend over the horizon.
Post-Grads point to the maps in their textbook Atlases as proof
It’s easy to explain that in the Mercator Projection
South America and Africa
are practically the size
of England.
That the world is flat
in a map
in an atlas
in a classroom
in Massachusetts
and you can’t fit the whole world on the same page
It’s too easy to soak up the sun
on Martha’s Vineyard
on the Atlantic
and let the Western Hemisphere
run Euro-concentric circles
around the rest of the planet
54
FIRST WORD SERIES
Asking why run when we can fly?
It’s easy for jetsetters to litter out the window above the globe
like cabin pressure was a metaphor for Lincoln’s American dream
blown open
so we can go and
dump trash into the ocean and
stratosphere and
buy it back wrapped in plastic and glass shards
bartered from Ghana
pawned off on Rwanda
Why can’t the mallrat in Nowhere, Nevada
drop her shopping bags and wrap her arms around the kid
who stitched her Prada?
Maybe I should drop the mantra
because odds are a sweatshop worker in Togo
used his last thread of dignity
to sew the logo
on my polo
I’ve been in summer homes filled with kids fitted in Manolo
from Lesotho
who don’t know
that Nagasaki is not
the hot new sushi shop
in Soho.
That their Reeboks didn’t walk themselves down the assembly line
Maybe we would understand if every laborer went on strike
and the boxes from Footlocker
came with disassembled footwear like
Here’s an idea!
GEORGE WATSKY
55
A do-it-yourself-shoe-store
We can call it Nikea!
Workers bent in prayer
This is bad religion
a back of the classroom note tied to the leg of a pigeon
A pipe dream
A fly dream
Maybe jetsetters will abandon aircraft and hop on the backs of doves
the backs of frightened bats
rise above the cumulus
and toss accumulated stacks of greenbacks
to the masses gathered below
And I try to tell myself
if the Yen can rise above the dollar
if the Euro can rise above the dollar
if the Swiss Franc can rise above
the dollar
then so can we
If you say so
but I’ll believe it when I see Dick Cheney
in my Nikea
paying for Jordans
with pesos
I see the messiah rocking a sermon at the top of the G8 summit
A poetry slam in Mozambique with folks spitting in Swahili
ten thousand mother tongues translated from English
Gavin Newsom repaving a pothole
in Thailand
56
FIRST WORD SERIES
See
it’s easy to
fit the world on the same page
fit the world on the same page
fit the world on the same page
fit the world on the same
GEORGE WATSKY
57
page.
58
FIRST WORD SERIES
I am Cupid
Let’s say I’m cupid
The liaison of love
The soldier of swoon
The constable of crush
Let’s say I’m cupid
breaking into your heart strapped with semi-automatic infatuation
demanding
show me some love or break yo’self!
Omnipotential
I could shoot an arrow through the back of a man
standing in front of a mirror
watch him fall in love with his reflection
and attempt to get busy
I could put a bottle of cristal on ice
blast some Jill Scott at the White House at night
and hook John Ashcroft up with Condoleezza Rice
If I wanted to I could work things out between Justin and Britney
Bobby and Whitney
and if I couldn’t find someone man enough for the Statue of Liberty
I could break off the Washington Monument for her enjoyment
because after all
a woman knows her own needs best.
I could tell you why girls at dances wear uncomfortable stilettos
they know they’ll take off after five minutes
GEORGE WATSKY
59
I could tell all the guys out there
why so many girls want you
as bad as you want their best friend
And I could tell you why all women
without exception
make sweeping generalizations
I could if I wanted to,
but forgive me
this shit just seems a little bit trivial these days.
The world as we know it is caving in on itself
and I’m wasting the almighty power of love
on the heavyhearted bourgeoisie?
I think it’s high time for a more goal-oriented cupid
Cupid Remix
international edition
I’m gonna shoot an arrow through Pakistan’s heart
and watch it go make out with India
in the back seat of a Camaro
I’m gonna sprinkle love dust over the Middle East
and see Israel and Palestine moaning in the throes of passion
on the West Bank
Hear George W. Bush ask Saddam Hussein
to be his valentine
I’m gonna turn every embargo into an open invitation
See DC and Havana get in bed together
And light up a post-coital Cuban cigar in celebration
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FIRST WORD SERIES
Teach Turkey and Bulgaria to Greece each other up and go at it
Support the nontraditional relationships:
Australia and Iceland go
long-distance
Beijing and Tianjin go same sects
I’m gonna show the South Seas how to loosen up,
get kinky.
Got New Guinea
Panting to Indonesia
I love it when you call me big Papua
Bolivia’s finally going down on Argentina
Pyongyang went out of its league and popped the question
To Japan
France and Italy gave beef the boot
And are finding new meaning in
European Union
I know Sweden needs a Swedish massage
and since Ireland, England and Wales
have failed
to couple up
how about a ménage a trois?
Try saying it
I am cupid
and if I wanted to
I could
GEORGE WATSKY
61
Acknowledgements
My Family. Mom, Dad, Simon, Grandma Syde
Adam Mansbach (!)
Beau Sia, Geoff Trenchard, Bamuthi, Lorna Strand, Jeff Chang, James Kass, Aya, Adriel,
Rafa, 616, Get Live, MFQ, Arturo, Paul, Joannie, Hodari, Elz, Mush, Alexandrina,
Fellow interns, SPOKES
San Francisco, Youth Speaks, UHS, everyone who’s inspired me, and all my other friends
GEORGE WATSKY
63
George Watsky is a writer and performer from San Francisco now living in Boston.
Watsky was featured on season six of Russell Simmons Presents Def Poetry on HBO. He
is the 2006 Youth Speaks Grand Slam Poetry Champion, a 2006 Brave New Voices
National Poetry Slam Champion, and a performer in six consecutive Youth Speaks
Grand Slam Finals. His one man show, So Many Levels, has been presented in San
Francisco, Vermont, Boston, and at the Hip Hop Theater Festival Critical Breaks
Series in New York City. He is a Robert Redford Sundance Summit winner for
poetry on climate change and was awarded an honorary graduate of the Centre for
Sustainability Leadership in Melbourne, Australia.
Watsky has been a featured performer at conferences and universities in more than
twenty states (and Australia), at the Apollo Theater in New York, the San Francisco
Opera House (twice) and has been featured in numerous print and digital media
outlets. He has shared billing with Mos Def, Talib Kweli, Matisyahu, Bonnie Raitt,
Lyfe Jennings, Saul Williams, Eddie Griffin and President William Jefferson Clinton.
Undisputed Backtalk Champion is his first collection of poetry. George spends his spare
time playing street hockey, pogs, and generally mouthing off.
Please visit his website:
www.georgewatsky.com
64
FIRST WORD SERIES
GEORGE WATSKY
65
George Watsky is a writer and performer from San Francisco now living in Boston.
Watsky was featured on season six of Russell Simmons Presents Def Poetry on HBO. He
is the 2006 Youth Speaks Grand Slam Poetry Champion, a 2006 Brave New Voices
National Poetry Slam Champion, and a performer in six consecutive Youth Speaks
Grand Slam Finals. His one man show, So Many Levels, has been presented in San
Francisco, Vermont, Boston, and at the Hip Hop Theater Festival Critical Breaks
Series in New York City. He is a Robert Redford Sundance Summit winner for
poetry on climate change and was awarded an honorary graduate of the Centre for
Sustainability Leadership in Melbourne, Australia.
Watsky has been a featured performer at conferences and universities in more than
twenty states (and Australia), at the Apollo Theater in New York, the San Francisco
Opera House (twice) and has been featured in numerous print and digital media
outlets. He has shared billing with Mos Def, Talib Kweli, Matisyahu, Bonnie Raitt,
Lyfe Jennings, Saul Williams, Eddie Griffin and President William Jefferson Clinton.
Undisputed Backtalk Champion is his first collection of poetry. George spends his spare
time playing street hockey, pogs, and generally mouthing off.
Please visit his website:
www.georgewatsky.com
64
FIRST WORD SERIES
GEORGE WATSKY
65
First Word Press
Youth Speaks established First Word Press in 2003 to publish the first books of emerging
writers. First Word Press exists to redefine the American canon and recognize young
writers as valid and relevant contributors to the literary continuum. All books and CDs
feature the collected poems, plays, short stories, and other writings of the best emerging
writers who have participated in Youth Speaks mentoring programs, after-school
workshops, open mics, poetry slams and other programs.
First Word Press authors and artists include Gabe Crane, Ayoka Stewart, Stephen
Pickens, Niema Jordan, Eli Marienthal, Chinaka Hodge, George Watsky, Katri Foster,
and Adriel Luis.
The guest editors of First Word Press include Paul S. Flores, Kim Addonizio, Adam
Mansbach, Genny Lim, Leticia Hernandez, Dalia Rubiano Yedidia, and James Kass.
Writers interested in finding out more about First Word Press can visit us at:
www.youthspeaks.org
Special thanks to Mai-Lei at reDefine Design and Adriel Luis at The Funky Pixel for
book design layouts.
GEORGE WATSKY
67
About Youth Speaks
Founded in 1996, Youth Speaks is the leader of the national Spoken Word performance,
education, and youth development movement. In over 40 cities, more than 250,000 young writers
– 13 to 24 years old – are speaking their own messages through this powerful medium to millions
of their urban and suburban peers. Politically aware, critically engaged, and unafraid to speak,
young people are picking up the pen and grabbing hold of the microphone, moving themselves
into positions of power – claiming voice when they’ve been voiceless, and access where they’ve
been sidelined.
For complete information on Youth Speaks and our many programs, please visit www.youthspeaks.org
Vision
By shifting the perceptions of youth by combating illiteracy, alienation and silence, we can create a
global movement of brave new voices bringing the noise from the margins to the core.
Mission
Youth Speaks empowers the next generation of leaders, self-defined artists, and visionary activists
through written and oral literacies. We challenge youth to find, develop, publicly present and
apply their voices as creators of social change.
At Youth Speaks, the voices of youth matter. Committed to a critical, youth-centered pedagogy,
Youth Speak places students in control over their intellectual and artistic development. We are
urgently driven by the belief that literacy is a need, not a want, and that literacy comes in various
forms.
Youth Speaks believes that having knowledge, practice, and confidence in the written and spoken
language is essential to the self-empowerment of an individual. We fill a need for creative
approaches to literary arts education and literacy in general; we believe it is crucial to provide
spaces where youth can undergo a process of personal growth and transformation in a program
that enriches their educational, professional, and leadership skills.
As we more deeply move into the 21st Century, oral poetry is helping to define the American
GEORGE WATSKY
69
Voice. By making the connection between poetry, spoken word, and classroom settings, Youth
Speaks aims to deconstruct dominant narratives in hopes of achieving a more inclusive, and
active, learning experience. Believing that young people have the tools to take control of their
lives through language, Youth Speaks encourages youth to express themselves using their own
vernacular. The idea of “talent” or being “talented” is often viewed as a mysterious force bestowed
on a given individual, rather than the result of hard work, practice, and commitment.
We Believe in Voice
We believe it is critical that young people have opportunities to find, develop, publicly present,
and intentionally apply their voices. Silence is a powerful thing when chosen, but incredibly
oppressive when forced upon its victims.
We Believe in Continuum
We are committed to providing opportunities for youth to engage with the tradition of oral
literacy and oral poetics so as to immortalize the voices of today’s young writers.
We Believe in Community
Youth Speaks reflects diversity and engenders a community of young artists who reach across
demographic boundaries toward self-exploration and growth, providing a platform where conflicts
are resolved on the page or the stage, rather than on the street.
We Believe in Contemporary Culture
Youth Speaks is committed to the written and spoken word, innovating our program so that it
remains accessible and attractive to the population we serve, and reflects their stories without
leaving out the stories that have come before.
We Believe in Individual and Social Transformation
Youth Speaks provokes movement from silence to empowerment based in liberatory pedagogy
and youth development. We intend to democratize a civic population of youth by giving them a
platform to speak.
We Believe in Excellence
We challenge young people to find their own voices, to work hard to apply them, and to do so
responsibly. We ask youth to not be afraid of their own potential; we promise them we won’t be.
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FIRST WORD SERIES
Available on First Word Press
I Don’t Owe You Anything by Ayoka Stewart (2004) $9.95
Collected Poems edited by James Kass
Both Sides by Stephen Pickens (2004) $9.95
Collected Poems edited by Melinda Corazon Foley
Thoughts For A Lonely Supermarket by Gabe Crane (2004) $9.95
Collected Poems and Other Works edited by Paul S. Flores
Based on a True Story by Niema Jordan (2005) $9.95
Spoken word CD edited by Paul S. Flores
For Girls With Hips by Chinaka Hodge (2006) $9.95
Collected Poems edited by James Kass
Tiny Little Maps to Each Other by Hazel Kleingrove, Amelia Rosenman,
Dalia Rubiano Yedidia, Joellene Buccat, Kirya Traber (2006) $9.95
Collected poems edited by Kim Addonizio
How To Make Juice by Adriel Luis (2006) $9.95
Collected Poems edited by Genny Lim
Undisputed Backtalk Champion by George Watsky (2006) $9.95
Collected poems edited by Adam Mansbach
First, The Good News by Katri Foster (2006) $9.95
Collected poems edited by James Kass
Hearts Sized Like Cities: The Youth Speaks Anthology (2006) $9.95
Collected Poems edited by Dalia Rubiano Yedidia and Spokes Publications Committee
FIRST WORD PRESS
Available at www.youthspeaks.org, or by calling 415-255-9035
Credit cards accepted