I read (present tense here: read “reed” not “red”)
Beau Sia and I want to write like Beau.
I want to be angry and write anger
and feel and sound justified in
throwing the word fuck into whatever I write
often and in the right spots–even on this page right now
And clever—yes, clever—and intellectually hip and
All the good shit he does so effortlessly (unless—
And this is a possibility—he stays up really late after performing or partying or whatever he does—
and works his craft like an obsessed candymaker counting jelly beans and spice drops into cellophane packets.)
Even before I knew of him
I saw Beau live heard him read alone without others
At MOCA, a museum in Chinatown
More modern than the Modern
More ultimately metropolitan than the Met (maybe not.)
Next I saw Slamnation: 162 slamassed poets from all over the USA
***First on the goddamn
and don’t you forget it!***
In teams of poets
Competing in raucous rhythm and gaudy glee (and some anger to be sure
but probably never really angry)
In a competition they loved (I’m sure they loved it)
Without believing in it:
“How can you rate a poem, a poet, a performance in points?”
“You can’t. “
“You can’t score poetry.”
“We tell them to.”
“Oh yeah…but for the prize money, right?”
“If we do it for the prize money, we lose out on the fun.”
Beau from Oklahoma representing NYC!
Go figure. Nobody seemed to be
Where they were from.
(Question: are YOU where you’re from?)
Nobody cared. All were great—I mean it. Great!
Now I’m reading THE UNDISPUTED GREATEST WRITER OF ALL TIME: POEMS BY BEAU SIA
Reading it aloud
VERY FUCKING LOUD!!!
So I have to wait until I’m alone in the apartment or by the river so I don’t scare anyone or give them a headache—I’m good at being loud when I think no one will hear—but I can do that.
What I can’t do is be angry. I can
fake it. I fake a real good anger. But
Don’t get me wrong, I can feel anger all right.
It starts in my shoulders, then drops into my belly
before it rushes up my burning neck into
All those empty spaces in my brain where memories used to be
The ones I’ve pretty much disconnected from my mouth—pretty much
Swims in there, it does, while my belly becomes
the bucking bronco festival for city folk every once a year
at Madison Square Fucking Garden.
But enough about me
This was supposed to be about Beau
But the only thing about Beau is Beau
So you hear him—you know he’s on YouTube
Tell him I sent you. See what he says.