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My Very First Performance Poem

In the summer of 1998, my friend, Geoff Trenchard, newly dear to me, got his first car. The first thing he did was probably buy something with which to get high. Then he went to an open mic in downtown San José and got hooked on poetry, written and spoken. From page to the stage. Took him a while to convince me to join him so that I could perform stand-up comedy in front of a real crowd. I was too scared; no one would understand me except for every single one of my legion of friends. While he urgently attempted to lure me downtown, our friend David Perez was convincing me that I could and should write poetry. What the hell? I hated rhyming unless it was over beats. I still held it in my heart that I would be known for rapping and acting in sitcoms, a la Fresh Prince.

In no time, I was writing ode after ode to all things beautiful and funny. Geoff, David and I immersed ourselves in the San José open mic scene, which was healthy and full of a wide variety of writers and performers. We fell in love with the community and output of the Beat poets, the delivery of Saul Williams, and the hilarious subversiveness of Bucky Sinister.

Here I am, twenty years later, heavily involved with a new version of that community Geoff and David discovered, only now it seems younger, more vibrant and incredibly robust.

It is National Poetry Month and I am in the midst of a schedule that includes of a number of poetry events here in San José and in Portland. I am exhausted and congested. Not sure if it is due to allergies or some cold, but it’s been a very annoying trying to breathe through half a nostril.

But just now, someone I do not know on Facebook messaged me asking to help them remember a poem of mine:

“Hey, I hope you are doing well. You don’t know me and I don’t know you. But I was just sitting out in my sunroom having an Ol’ talk of life with a friend when our conversation led me to an old poem of yours. I used to have it memorized and tried through the few beers and 12 years to pull it back up but just couldn’t. Now I’m searching the internet with no luck. It was your ” as an observer I sit joyously watching all that surrounds me”. If you could point me in the right direction I would be eternally grateful”

The poem they’re asking for is called “The Renaissance Revolutionist’s Plea.” This made my night. I had been thinking of this poem a lot lately. It’s not especially good or exemplary of my usual work. It’s sentimentally “frustrated” in a way I remember being in my teens and twenties. It was the very first spoken word poem I ever wrote and I was 22 when I wrote it. I hear poems like it from young people all the time. It feels good. I wrote it because I had heard Geoff and David read their poems out loud at the open mic and wanted to see if I could do it also. I remember reading it to a lovely crowd. I read it on my knees for some reason. I do not recall why. I do remember it being received warmly. I didn’t read it very often since I was always writing new poems and essays and always had to share something new each week.

Note: “Linus Phelp” was David’s poetry pen name back then.

The Renaissance Revolutionist’s Plea
Mike McGee, September 1998 (or maybe 1997?)

As an observer, I sit joyously watching all that surrounds me.
Whether or not it moves, breathes, sings, plays, kills or loves,
I enjoy its existence now.
I wake to each day as that of a newborn baby.
A newborn with debts, but nonetheless, a bright-eyed wanderer on this pretty blue ball we call home.
However, there is this lack of what we need lately.
I’ve grown tired of this garden.
The farmers and greenthumbs have become bland.
They now plant the same boring, corn year after year.
What happened to the colorful corn and asparagus and apples of yesterday?
I miss those tastes.
I miss the sound of a new guitar riff.
I miss the sight and capability of pondering new colors on a painting that I will never fully comprehend.
Money has become primary.
Add green to the status of Yellow, Red and Blue.
I am not pleased with the poets of today.
Have they forgotten the world we live in?
Has their community died?
I want a world where skies are gray when they need to be.
When autumn eats summer.
I want the sun in due time.
When spring pounces on winter and shoves it up a depressed poet’s ass.
I want my revolution.
I want my Renaissance Revolution.
I want to be one of its millions of observers.
I want to write like writing was a new thing.
I want to slash and burn the Internet.
Burn it down, it’s making us fat, unoriginal and way too dependent.
I don’t need to have my words reach you at the speed of light.
I just want them to reach you.
Slash and burn anything that kills free thought, free love and free life.
Freedom of expression is my duty to further myself.
It’s not just American, it’s human.
I will not evolve into a computer.
I will not be used by a machine.
Slash and burn the old ideas that do not work.
Make new, make love, make life.
Make a friend, make an impossible friend.
Shake hands with your beauty, my beauty and someone else’s.
Tell it to fuck off if it doesn’t work for you.
Find something else.
Talk about your testicles at the dinner table.
Bring up your clitoris at school.
Once upon a time, a friend of mine and I watched the sun go down to wherever that son of a bitch goes.
Sadly, my friend was afraid of commenting on the truths he felt.
The “uncool” truths.
And finally, he mustered the courage to say that the setting sun’s sky looked a “pastel pink.”
The beauty of smog and the terror of the ending day had indeed made the sky a “pastel pink,” and I agreed.
For him to pontificate on this type of thing is normal, for he is a great poet and everyday becomes even greater.
But for him to deny himself his “revolutionary” right to “dig” and “groove” to his own world is a crime.
It is a punishment to all the real poets of the world, to subject them to the horror of feeling ostracized, for simply holding up a mirror to the world and saying, “Take a look, this is you. It’s okay to like what you see.”
I am just an observer.
But even I could see that the sky was a “pastel pink.”
What caused him to hold back?
Could it be that art is dead?
Could all of the the true artists of the world have gone fishing?
Can anybody hear me?
So, I want to thank him.
Thank you, Linus Phelp.
Thank you for showing me the “pastel pink” sky.
Thank you for putting the Renaissance Revolution in me.
Let’s show the world what we see.
Let’s love the world for what it is and what it will be.
Let’s spread some artistic mayonaisse all over the walls and cribs and playpens of the world.
Let us march to the closest and farthest nurseries and orphanages and plead with the next generation not to give up on us.
Not to give up on their world, for they are the world and it is so very precious.
It will be hard, but so worth it.
Musicians of the world, unite and entertain us. Put our lives to a soundtrack that rivals our own heartbeat.
Artists of the world, band together and paint the murals that will stand forever as a testament to the uniqueness of what we were.
Poets and writers of the world, teach us how to teach ourselves to be whatever it is we want to be.
Observers of the world, show us what we can’t see yet. Please be patient with us, we will see it someday.
And all who may be willing, please follow onto the train.
The train that will take us to the Renaissance Revolution.
How mysterious the revolutionist can be.
For he is the key.
To finding what we long to be.
I am one as he is me.
Tell your neighbours, tell all your friends.
The world is much bigger than the chair you sit in.

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Things One Should NOT Do After A Drunken Dance Party
an old list by Mighty Mike McGee

1a: Drive an automobile or operate heavy machinery.

1b. Text message your ex to let her know you saw her new relationship status on Facebook and it makes sense why she’s ignoring you when you guys were doing great communicating a few weeks earlier.

2. Agree to run for president or city council. Mayoralship is acceptable when inebriated.

3. Miss people who don’t love you.

4. Accept loneliness as your “lot in life.”

5. Miss women who do love you, but live across world.

6. Froget to drink water.

7. Fall for lady poets.

8. Keep wanting to dance at 4 in them morning.

9. Write a list poem.

10. Fanta Size about making out with mouths/vulvas.

11. stop dreamig of getting a mini 2 feet tall girafe as pet,/ Dont EVER stop!

12. dgliytyon 23 elf becuse yo

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“I sat under a streetlight and realized that there is darkness to protect us from things we should not see. The night is ugly so the day can be beautiful.” @mightymikemcgeek an old poem of mine called Streetlight.

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Draft #1 of 1,000

It doesn’t matter
how much of your
contact information I delete
I set it to memory
when we met
so that I would never forget it
so that I could call you from a pay phone
the moment I reached shore
after being stranded
on an island for months or years

but now
I am an island and
all I want to do is call you
I still know your number and
there are phones all around me

I just want to hear a forgiving, tonal duet of technology and your voice

It seems you are the only one my heart will believe when it doesn’t believe in itself

But just because I can call
doesn’t mean I should
and this lesson has been the
hardest to memorize

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Open Letter to Neil Armstrong

In honor of the 45th anniversary of the moon landing of Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins, I offer up the complete text of my poem Open Letter to Neil Armstrong. It can be found in my book In Search of Midnight through WriteBloody.com.

OPEN LETTER TO NEIL ARMSTRONG
by “Mighty” Mike McGee

Dear Neil Armstrong,

I write this to you as she sleeps down the hall
I need answers that I think only you might have

When you were a boy and space was simple science fiction
when flying was merely a daydream between periods of history and physics
when gifts of moon dust to the one you loved could only be wrapped in your imagination

Before the world knew your name
Before it was a destination:
What was the moon like from your backyard?

Your arm: strong, warm and wrapped across her shoulders
Both of you gazing up from your back porch
summers before your distant journey

But upon landing on the moon
as the Earth “rose” over the Sea of Tranquility
did you look for her?

What was it like to see our planet and know that everything you could be
all you could ever love and long for was
just floating before you?

Did you happen to write her name in the dirt, when the cameras weren’t looking?
Or surround both of your initials with a heart for alien life to study a million years from now?

What is it like to love someone so distant?
What words did you use to bring the moon back to her, and
what did you promise in the moon’s ear about the girl back home?

Can you teach me how to fall from the sky?

I ask you all of this not because I doubt your feet/feat
I just want to know what it’s like to go somewhere no man had ever been
just to find that she wasn’t there
To realize your moonwalk could never compare to the steps that lead to her

I now know the flight home means more

Every July I think of you
I imagine the summer of 1969
How lonely she must’ve felt while you were gone
You never went back to the moon and
I believe that’s because it doesn’t take rockets to get you where you belong
I see that in this woman down the hall and sometimes she seems so much further
But I’m ready for whatever steps I must take to get to her

I’ve seen so many skies and the moon always looks the same
So I gotta say, that rock you landed on has got nothing
on the rock of mine she’s landed on

You walked around, took samples and left
But she’s built a fire, cleaned up the place, and I hope she decides to stay
Because on my rock, we can both breathe

Mr. Armstrong, I don’t have much
Many times have I been upside-downtrodden
But with these empty hands comes a heart that is full more often than the moon
She’s becoming my world, pulling me into orbit and
now I know I may never find life outside of hers

Shouldn’t I give her everything I don’t have yet?
So, for her, I would go to the moon and back

But not without her

No! We’d claim the moon for each other with flags made from sheets down the hall
And I’d risk it all to kiss her under the light of Earth, the brightness of home
but I can do all of that and more
right here, wherever she is

And when we gaze up, with her arms around me
I will not promise her gifts of moon dust or flights of fancy

Instead, I will gladly give her all the Earth she wants
in return for all the Earth she is
the sound of her heartbeat and laughter
and all the time it takes to learn to fall from the sky
down the hall and
right into love

I’d do it everyday
If I could just to land next to her

5…
4…
3…
2…
…1 small step for a man
But she’s one giant leap for my kind

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Hearn’t (a short poem)

I think my love for her and
her love for me
joined forces and ran away to a safer place
off to love each other right and well
leaving she and I alone to wonder
who the other really was and
what we were still doing there.

Love never dies
it just doesn’t always stick around
for the people that aren’t
using it right

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The Push

I saw a river. It made me think of you.
There was a boulder in the middle of it.
I am so sorry I stood in your way.

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Chubby-Man! (A Superhero Poem For Kids)
by “Mighty” Mike McGee

[To be read out loud in your best superhero voice]

Wherever there is suffering
and microwaveable food
I’ll be there!

Wherever there is a crime in progress
near a Taco Bell
I’ll be there!

Wherever there is injustice
and nachos
I’ll be there!

In a world where scrawny superheroes take too many naps,
the people need someone with expert taste buds.
Someone who can talk and chew at the same time and
not make it look gross!
Someone who can make soup for a giraffe
AND make giraffe soup!
Someone who can save the world!
…before dinner time

That person is me
and I…
…I am Chubby Man!

C-H-U-B-B-Y

C is for Cereal
as in I’m crazy about cereal
as in I eat cereal for all three of my morning breakfasts,
two of my four lunches,
and both midnight snacks!

H is for Hungry
as in ALL THE TIME!
As in it’s “literally” one of my middle NAMES!
(Michael “Mike” Ladybug Matthew José Hungry Pizza Stephanie McGee)

U is for
U GONNA EAT THAT!?
If U don’t, I will!

B is for Butter
as in
Who doesn’t love butter!?
Let’s make butter and butter sandwiches!
Let’s make Buttershakes! They’re thicker than milkshakes!

The other B is for…
Butter! I just said that.
Are you not paying attention?
What!? Do you have butter in your ears?
That’s the wrong place for it!

Y is for
Y are we not eating butter right now?

Look, up in the sky, it’s a moose!
No, it’s a beach ball!
No, it’s a couch!

No! I’m Chubby Man!

I can leap a buffet table with a running start!
My cannonball is feared at every public swimming pool!
I’m faster than your average three-legged dog in blindfold!

By day I’m a mild-mannered Video Game Tester
By night I’m still a mild-mannered Video Game Tester
only I wear an intimidating cape and really sweet tights!

Join forces with me now!
Let us rid the world of bland, flavorless food!
We must get parents to admit that celery isn’t edible!
Come together with me and my sidekick Slightly-Less-Chubby Boy!
and we will move toward a world where breakfast is an excuse to miss school!

Superman? After enough beans, I can fly too!
Spider-Man? I can spin a web of cotton candy!
Incredible Hulk? I’m the Incredible BULK!

The world needs Chubby Man!

(and I need cereal!)

© 2014 M. McGee

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Soul Food: A Duel With Death At Lunchtime

Soul Food: A Duel With Death At Lunchtime

A silly poem by Mike McGee

October 24, 2000


So last week the Angel of Death comes knocking at my door

totally interrupting Perfect Strangers

And I’m like, Dude, you are so early! There is so much more I wanted to do with my life!

“You’ve had plenty of time for that!”

You know, you sound a bit like Sean Connery.

“No, he sounds a bit like me.”

Whatever, dude. There’s gotta be some sort of loop-hole. What if we competed for my soul? Like some sort of contest.

“I do love a good challenge. If we can both agree on one, then the winner may keep your soul.”

At this point I remembered I had a pot of ramen noodles waiting for me on the stove. The Angel of Death was lured into my kitchen by the sweet aromatic joy of powdered shrimp flavoring. I could see that Death was hungry, so I made a second pack of noodles. We sat and ate in silence, but my hunger just wouldn’t subside. So while I raided the fridge, I noticed Death scoping my Rice Krispy Treats.

“Still hungry, dude?”

“We’ll take one for the road.” he said.

And we both put a Rice Krispy treat in our pockets.

“You know, I could probably eat half of all your food.”

“So could I, dude… so could I.”

And it hit us both at the same time. We pulled out every bit of food in my house and divided it all into equal halves. We had one rule: First person to finish eating their half of food keeps my soul.

We sat down on the kitchen floor surrounded by an odd buffet. The world’s greatest food challenge began.

But this was no ordinary match.

I took an early lead as Death fumbled opening a can of refried beans. I plowed through a dozen eggs and half a gallon of milk. I strategically swallowed spoonful after spoonful of leftover lasagna without chewing. Death caught up to me with a tub of butter and half a soggy pumpkin pie. I hustled my way through cans of corn, green beans, kidney beans, chili, chicken soup, fruit cocktail, and a few cans of peas, but I was stopped dead in my tracks by a mystery can. It’s label missing and nowhere to be found. Damn, dog food! No time to think, I had to eat it.

Death was now ahead of me by two-cans of beer, a frozen steak and what we think may have been tamales. I burped to make room and continued on in the feast for my soul. I ate broccoli, cauliflower, cucumbers, oranges, bananas, a container of baking powder, two cups of salt & pepper, a jug of Pepto-Bismol and a can of whipped cream. We reached our last item of food. One. Raw. Potato. Each.

We slowly gnawed our way through the raw potatoes, swallowing our last bites at the exact same time. It appeared as though we had a draw. Then Death looked to me with a sly grin and handed me a Tupperware bowl with my half of uneaten Jello. I grabbed a straw and sucked it down, saying:

There’s always room for Jello, bitch!

But Death just smiled and said, “I believe I finished my half before you. Your soul is mine.”

But I just outsmiled him and said

What’s that in your pocket, hooker?

His face sunk as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the last Rice Krispy Treat.

He looked to me with fear as I handed him my wrapper, and swallowed a mouthful of crispy, marshmallow goodness.

I believe I win, fucker.

With that, the Angel of Death bowed and vanished.

I sat down to an episode of Full House

and ordered a pizza…

cuz there’s never

anything to eat

at my house.

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Santa Claus In Training

I am becoming that old man most people like—beardly and giggling.

I am pleased with this direction, even though I likely have no choice.

I seek it. Something in my genetics, maybe. And in the genes of all the men like me.

We’re a jolly kin meant for joyhood.

Job Description: Remind them that real laughter is holy.

What do you want for your holiday/Monday/yesterday? Tell me loud or with a stare. We may not speak it, but we read body language better than most.

Who needs a chimney when you’ve got a round-trip bus ticket?

My sleigh rides the rails. Sometimes it’s pulled by a Greyhound.

Eat your cookies, we’re all diabetic now, I’m sweet enough for the both of us.

None of us are saints. None of us are truly married.

But we’re all born to be this. Joymaking is a universal balance. It’s whispered to us the first time we see the same skill in someone else.

Be merry, it says.

Be merry, indeed.

I was born for this.