fuckyeahpoetryslam

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What's up friendos? Come on out for some queer comedy tonight at the SF Eagle. Great line up of hilarious folks. Tickets are pay what you can. Get more info at www.safewordscomedy.com

[fuckyeahpoetryslam]

fuck you pat robertson

Pat Robertson walks past thousands of souls, smugly and full of pride, and cuts to the front of the line at the velvet rope in outside the entrance to his version of Heaven.

The bouncer looks up from their clipboard, observing Robertson with thousands of eyes in a swirling cascade of light.

“Pat Robertson,” they say. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Pat Robertson silently congratulates himself. He swells with joy. All those people who died from AIDS, natural disasters, even 9/11 … they all deserved it. They were sinners!

The bouncer speaks into their headset. “He’s here.” They listen. “Yep. At the front of the line.”

The bouncer turns most of its gaze back to Pat Robertson. “Just wait here for one moment, please.”

Pat Robertson steps to one side and waits.

After one thousand years, he begins to wonder if there was a miscommunication.

“Excuse me,” he says to the bouncer, “I am Pat –”

“Robertson. Yes. We know. We’re just getting everything in order for you. It will just be one more moment.”

Tens of thousands of victims of gun violence walk past him and enter Heaven. The population of an entire village, lost in a typhoon that was intensified by climate change, is welcomed. And still he waits.

They file past him, all the people he looked down on. All the people he hurt, directly and indirectly, don’t even notice him as they pass. It’s like he isn’t even there.

Another thousand years pass. Pat Robertson realizes he hasn’t had a thing to eat since he died and he is so very hungry.

“Hey!” He shouts at the bouncer. “What’s the problem? Don’t you know who I am?”

The bouncer rolls half a million eyes at once. “We know exactly who you are.”

“Well, alright, then!” Pat Robertson spits out, exasperated, “if you aren’t going to help me, get someone here who will!”

The bouncer speaks into its headset again. “We’re ready.”

A gibbering mass of what is mostly human flesh – or was, once – slithers / rolls / flops into Pat Robertson’s view. It is covered with mouths that bleed and weep and click their teeth together. Enormous open sores swirl and burst and close and reopen and drip pus and viscera across blistering skin. The faint memory of a smell surrounds it, something like very old cigar smoke and very expensive liquor.

Pat Robertson tries to scream. Arm-like stalks extend from the quivering shape. One resembles a hand at the end of an arm, dripping viscera.

In a flash, it grabs Pat Robertson’s hand and shakes it. Something hot and acidic splashes up on his arm, blinds him in one eye. He feels weak. Afraid. Alone. Confused.

Hundreds of mouths try to speak. Dozens of them vomit acrid bile that splashes across his chest. Dozens more silently spit out the lies they’ve been cursed to repeat for eternity to an audience who will never hear them again.

One mouth speaks clearly. So clearly, it’s inside Pat Robertson’s head and everywhere else all at once. “I’m Rush Limbaugh,” it says. “I’m your new roommate. Come with me.”

And that’s when Pat Robertson knows. That’s when it all hits him, all at once. He’s getting everything he deserves.

The line to get into Heaven does not see or hear or notice him, or the Limbeast. They can’t hurt anyone, anymore.

The cancerous mass of hate wraps its arm around his shoulder and just like that Pat Robertson finds himself in a vast parody of a cathedral. It’s built of bones and flesh and lies. The walls writhe, and he sees that they are not bricks and lathe but bodies wrapped in confederate flags and wearing red hats.

The pews are filled to capacity with the souls of people who followed him in life, hated who he told them to hate. Only their hate is now focused on him, hot and unforgiving. Relentless.

Pat Robertson looks for his companion, but it has vanished. It has left him alone to suffer.

A sermon rises in his chest and pushes against his throat. Pat Robertson is compelled to speak, and as he does each word tears through him like broken glass. He spews his hate and his lies, just as he did in life. Only in this place, he doesn’t feel the glee and the satisfaction he always did. No, he feels the pain and the suffering and the agony of every human being who he deliberately hurt. He. Feels. All. Of. It. He tries to stop speaking. Of course, he can not. He can not ever stop.

And Pat Robertson’s eternity begins.

[fuckyeahpoetryslam]

SMILF (Straight Men I'd Like to 'Friend') comedy gameshow is happening June 9th in Oakland CA. Watch as Wonder Dave and Marcus Williams quiz these straight men about queer culture and make them complete ridiculous challenges to prove that they are worthy of being... 'friends'. It's a playful night of objectification and inclusivity. This month we've got an absolutely hilarious headliner fresh off of her impressive showing at the LGBTLOL Comedy Fest in New Orleans we're pleased to bring you Angie Krass! This month's SMILF contestants are Marcus Howard, Richard Barney, and Imran G. Get your tickets and more info here June 9th 8pm All Out Comedy Theater 2550 Telegraph Ave Oakland, CA

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The Black Queer Arts program is taking submissions until May 1st. The gallery space at Strut is very nice and they throw an opening party for you. A number of my friends have had art showings there and have always sold some of their work.  Give it a shot!  Posting the link here as well in case you need to copy paste:  https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSfGKI-UD-HvQHUitmd3VJ1nVJg3IPwz-M2VtukW3UCUqKrPoQ/viewform

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Catch Safe Words Comedy Showcase at the San Francisco Eagle. We showcase LGBTQ+ stand up comedians. The Show happens every 4th Wednesday at 7pm. Take a look at this months line up! More info and tickets here

[fuckyeahpoetryslam]

The Madness Vase/the Nutritionist

by Andrea Gibson

The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables, said if I could get down thirteen turnips each day I would be grounded, rooted. Said my head would not keep flying away to where the darkness lives.

The psychic told me my heart carries too much weight, said for twenty dollars she’d tell me what to do. I handed her the twenty and she said, “Stop worrying, darling, you will find a good man soon.”

The first psycho-therapist said I should spend three hours a day sitting in a dark closet with my eyes closed and my ears plugged. I tried it once but couldn’t stop thinking about how gay it was to be sitting in the closet.

The yogi told me to stretch everything but the truth,  said focus on the out breath, said everyone finds happiness if they can care more about what they can give than what they get.

The pharmacist said Klonopin, Lamictal, Lithium, Xanax.

The doctor said an antipsychotic might help me forget what the trauma said.

The trauma said, “Don’t write this poem. Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.”

But my bones said, “Tyler Clementi dove into the Hudson River convinced he was entirely alone.”

My bones said, “Write the poem.” To the lamplight considering the river bed, to the chandelier of your faith hanging by a thread, to everyday you cannot get out of bed, to the bullseye of your wrist, to anyone who has ever wanted to die:

I have been told sometimes the most healing thing we can do is remind ourselves over and over and over other people feel this too.

The tomorrow that has come and gone and it has not gotten better.

When you are half finished writing that letter to your mother that says “I swear to God I tried, but when I thought I’d hit bottom, it started hitting back.”

There is no bruise like the bruise loneliness kicks into your spine so let me tell you I know there are days it looks like the whole world is dancing in the streets while you break down like the doors of their looted buildings. You are not alone in wondering who will be convicted of the crime of insisting you keep loading your grief into the chamber of your shame.

You are not weak just because your heart feels so heavy. I have never met a heavy heart that wasn’t a phone booth with a red cape inside.

Some people will never understand the kind of superpower it takes for some people to just walk outside some days. I know my smile can look like the gutter of a falling house but my hands are always holding tight to the rip cord of believing a life can be rich like the soil, can make food of decay, turn wound into highway.

Pick me up in a truck with that bumper sticker that says,  “It is no measure of good health to be well adjusted to a sick society.”

I have never trusted anyone with the pulled back bow of my spine the way I trusted ones who come undone at the throat screaming for their pulses to find the fight to pound. Four nights before Tyler Clementi jumped from the George Washington bridge I was sitting in a hotel room in my own town calculating exactly what I had to swallow to keep a bottle of sleeping pills down.

What I know about living is the pain is never just ours. Every time I hurt I know the wound is an echo, so I keep listening for the moment the grief becomes a window, when I can see what I couldn’t see before through the glass of my most battered dream I watched a dandelion lose its mind in the wind and when it did, it scattered a thousand seeds.

So the next time I tell you how easily I come out of my skin don’t try to put me back in. Just say, “Here we are” together at the window aching for it to all get better but knowing there is a chance our hearts may have only just skinned their knees, knowing there is a chance the worst day might still be coming

let me say right now for the record, I’m still gonna be here asking this world to dance, even if it keeps stepping on my holy feet.

You, you stay here with me, okay? You stay here with me.

Raising your bite against the bitter dark, your bright longing, your brilliant fists of loss. Friend, if the only thing we have to gain in staying is each other, my god that is plenty my god that is enough my god that is so so much for the light to give each of us at each other’s backs whispering over and over and over, “Live. Live. Live.”

[fuckyeahpoetryslam]

Perhaps the World Ends Here

Perhaps the World Ends Here

Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

[fuckyeahpoetryslam]

Path

This poem,"Path," is by Jack Hirschman, former poet laureate of San Francisco, and a fierce advocate for the working class. He passed away August 22 at the age of 87. Go to your broken heart. If you think you don’t have one, get one. To get one, be sincere. Learn sincerity of intent by letting life enter because you’re helpless, really, to do otherwise. Even as you try escaping, let it take you and tear you open like a letter sent like a sentence inside  you’ve waited for all your life though you’ve committed nothing. Let it send you up. Let it break you, heart.  Broken-heartedness is the beginning of all real reception. The ear of humility hears beyond the gates. See the gates opening. Feel your hands going akimbo on your hips, your mouth opening like a womb giving birth to your voice for the first time. Go singing whirling into the glory of being ecstatically simple. Write the poem.

#jack hirschman #san francisco #poetry

[fuckyeahpoetryslam]

English speakers: did you know that when you learn English, you get a FREE bonus language? Due to mutual intelligibility (when two languages are closely related enough that you can understand one if you know the other), if you are fluent in English, you can read literature in Scots. Because of the colonization and disenfranchisement of the Scottish people, it isn't very popular to write in Scots and authors get told nobody will read their books, so I HIGHLY suggest you do. Support colonized people writing in their own language! Support Scots!

Suggested Scots lit:

Trainspotting (cult classic about the life and times of heroin addicts, mostly known for the movie adaptation, but it was a book first. Probably the easiest to read on the list for people who know English but don't know Scots.)

Be Guid Tae Yer Mammy (a darkly comic family drama, involves interesting topics like invisible disability, is in fact very funny)

But'n'Ben A Go-Go (Scots cyberpunk! Suggest you start with one of the other books above and get used to Scots before tackling this one though. This is written in "What if Scots, but it's the future so it evolved some?" so reading it is definitely hard mode. But if you're up for the challenge, it's some solid SF.)

These are just three. Please add on with other books in Scots if you have any recommendations.

Lastly: Here is an online Scots-English dictionary to help you out, should you need it. Happy reading!

[fuckyeahpoetryslam]

Experience the electrifying voices of Latinx performers hosted by Baruch Porras Hernandez. This show features music from Dizzy Jenkins and literary reading and performances from Jaime Cortez, Luna Merbruja, and Josiah Luis Alderete!

Advanced registration is required. July 19th 6pm Pacific Register here: 

https://events.sonomalibrary.org/event/5132763

#latino #latina #latinx #literary #poetry #baruch porras hernandez

[fuckyeahpoetryslam]

If I’m honest, I don’t know what idols to keep and what blood oaths to break—I don’t love anything enough to forget its birth.

William Evans, “Inheritance,” from We Inherit What the Fires Left (via bostonpoetryslam)

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Rachel McKibbens “Central Park Mother’s Day” 

#rachel mckibbens #poetry #central park #mothers day #parenting

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Dalton Day, from Flood-Letting

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Upcoming shows with Margaret Cho, Guy Branum and Bri Pruett!

Online Comedy May 8th and May 15th

We’ve got two great shows coming up this month TONIGHT we’ve got Bri Pruett at SMILF Comedy Show and May 15th we’ve got Margaret Cho and Guy Branum at Mental Health Comedy Hour!

SMILF (Straight Men I’d Like to Friend) Comedy Show Online Saturday May 8th 7pm Pacific Join your hosts stand-up comedians and noted homosexuals Wonder Dave and Marcus Williams as they try to find out just what is going on in the minds of heterosexual men in SMILF: Straight Men I’d Like to Friend! Each show Wonder Dave and Marcus will gather some straight male performers to objectify….er… showcase! Then we’ll quiz these fine men to test their gay knowledge. BUT because we have no interest in running a show that only showcases Straight men we’ll also be bringing you an amazing queer/female spotlight performer! This month we’re joined by the amazing Bri Pruett! Also featuring Jefferson Bergey, Red Scott, and Danny Ramos! https://www.eventbrite.com/e/smilf-straight-men-id-like-to-friend-online-comedy-show-tickets-152590140217

Mental Health Comedy Hour Online Saturday May 15th 7pm Stand up comedians tell jokes and talk about their mental health. All in the jovial environment of a late night talk show. Also featuring interviews with licensed professional therapists and more! This month’s special Guest comedians are Margaret Cho and Guy Branum!

At the Mental Health Comedy Hour we’re not OK, and that’s OK! Hosted by Wonder Dave and Kristee Ono.

This show was made possible by the San Francisco Arts Commission

#SFACFunded https://www.eventbrite.com/e/mental-health-comedy-hour-with-margaret-cho-and-guy-branum-tickets-152144695881

Hope to see you at one of these amazing shows all tickets are currently set to pay-what-you-can :)

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Catch me online TONIGHT! It’s Metaphor Die Friday April 30th 6pm Pacific/ 9pm Eastern A virtual and vaguely competitive exploration of figurative language with writers, rappers, poets, and musicians all responding to different rolls of Metaphor Dice as a common starting point! With hosts Taylor Mali, Nicole Homer and Mike McGee. https://www.eventbrite.com/e/metaphor-die-which-is-to-say-tickets-145500972325

#taylor mali #wonder dave #nicole homer #poetry slam #spoken word #poetry

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Mary Oliver, from “Black Oaks.”

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March 2021

We’ve got some exciting shows coming your way this month

Hello Everyone! We’re excited to be bringing you more online comedic content this month. Hope to see you at some of these great shows! March 13th 7pm Pacific SMILF (Straight Men I’d Like to Friend) Comedy Show Join your hosts stand-up comedians and noted homosexuals Wonder Dave and Marcus Williams as they try to find out just what is going on in the minds of heterosexual men in SMILF: Straight Men I’d Like to Friend! Each show Wonder Dave and Marcus will gather some straight male performers to objectify….er… showcase! Then we’ll quiz these fine men to test their gay knowledge.

BUT because we have no interest in running a show that only showcases straight men we’ll also be bringing you the amazing MARY MACK! Mary has been featured on Comedy Central, Conan, and is currently the voice of Jesse on Hulu’s Solar Opposites. Tickets are Pay-What-You-Can via Eventbrite https://www.eventbrite.com/e/smilf-straight-men-id-like-to-friend-comedy-show-tickets-142983568703

March 20th 7pm Pacific Mental Health Comedy Hour Comedians tell jokes and talk about their life with mental illness. All in the jovial environment of a late night talk show. Also featuring interviews with mental health professionals and more. Hosted by Kristee Ono and Wonder Dave. Tickets are pay-what-you-can via eventbrite https://www.eventbrite.com/e/mental-health-comedy-hour-online-tickets-144542294895

Podcasts and Streaming!

Join your friends from the Komedio online anytime with these great podcasts and streaming channels. Boo to a Goose with Jacob Rubin and Annie Ward is show all about British and American Slang! Are you curious about the origins of slang terms you hear every day? In this short-form podcast, Jacob Rubin from Oakland, California and Annie Ward from London, England take a common or archaic example of slang and break it down: what it means, how to use it, and where it comes from. No matter where you’re from, you’ll be charmed by these amusing term origins and maybe even discover some new favorites! Nerd Rage The Great Debates Every week on Nerd Rage: The Great Debates, your moderator, Marc Abrigo, challenges the funniest stand-up comics, podcasters, and even pro-wrestlers to take sides and square off to settle some of geekdom’s hottest (and often times, weirdest) debates: how many muscle cars does Vin Diesel need to beat Captain America? Is Steven Universe a better frontman than Super Mario? And just what the hell will a lightsaber accomplish in the world of the Matrix? All will be settled – are you ready to rage?

Super Trashed Bros on Twitch Join some of our favorite gaming nerds for a variety of play-alongs, game shows and more on Twitch!