In case I forgot to mention it,
my mom played the Houston, TX show with us:
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Ladies and gentlemen, Guitar Repair Woman… badass:
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What an honor when Miss Ani DiFranco,
(the woman who made my delusions of rock star grandeur/dreams come true)
showed up at the House of Blues in New Orleans to sing with meh,
pitch-black-woman-dressed-in-a-slow-tornado style:
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And that talented blur on your right, that’s my good buddy Xero Skidmore, gifted poet from Baton Rouge,
beatboxin’ for us, albino monkey style:
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This is what I look like when I get excited (best foot forward):
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After driving through the desert in a van with no A/C, then up the west coast,
it was good to take a load off at home in Seattle before headin’ back out.
If ya look close you’ll notice Sage was too tired to pull his drawers down.
He shat his pants:

The opportunity to kick it with that much energy for as many incredible crowds with such kickass accompaniment and professional crews in so many stunning venues, was – to say the very least – a pretty damn powerful life experience. Holy holy. Thank you, Frank.

It’s good to be home decompressing, and gettin’ healthy again.
Gearin’ up to spend a week with my team in Austin for the National Poetry Slam.
Always a pretty powerful time sharin’ in the word, and checkin’ my craft.

In an upcoming article for the Austin Chronicle they asked:
Buddy: You’re touring with bigger acts and making a name for yourself
— some in slam see NPS as an avenue toward doing what you’re doing —
and yet you come back to Nationals and work with teams. Why?

Ryler Dustin is one of my teammates. He is building us a poem at the saw mill of my vicious doubt, behind the orphanage of my voice box. It’s a boat shaped like a piano, and it’s gonna carry us outta here. Tara Hardy is also my teammate, and one of my spoken word heroes. She’ll be on that boat too, and it’s got room for all you people. So jump in, hold the edges, this is a high powered mutherfucker with duel fuel intake dulcimers and a string quartet spoiler on the back. I’m almost done. Danny Sherrard: teammate. He knows that laughter is the best medicine, so he wrapped his arms up in swing set chains just to see if he still has funny bones. He does. They are aching now. And when the swing set chains untie themselves from his arms, I am certain that my friend will not just point to his chest and say, “no one lives in here.”
If you’ve never been rocked back by the presence of purpose, this community might be too soon for you. Return to your mediocrity, plug it into an amplifier, and rethink yourself. Or, go ahead, break into our prayer, because we are on fire for the answer, still catching it, and releasing it, and because somewhere along the fault lines lies the preposterous idea that we forgive ourselves. This boat, this is how I know we’re gonna make it. Tell me my brothers will forgive us for kicking to the surface of the sea.

[Ryler Dustin, Tara Hardy, Danny Sherrard and Corbin Bugni are mostly responsible for the meat of this text. I completely lifted their lines to express myself herein.]

It gave me the goose bumps
while playin’ poker with good folk
a few days after returning home
when someone – completely unaware of my last two months –
put in a Buck 65 CD.

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Bud and Buck

“4 – 6 – 3
an X
an O
and I can’t think of a better way to end the day.”

Boatcarvers, ‘R’us