Collected Poems

undisputed backtalk champion

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 KassEditor-In-Chief, Paul S. Flores

Guest Editor, Adam Mansbachbook 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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GEORGE WATSKY

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 consump-tion 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

foreword

v

FIRST WORD SERIESvi

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

Foreword v

Undisputed Backtalk Champion 3

Halflife 6

Volvotive 10

420 West 12

Daisy Chains 17

The Gospel of Prep School 20

Buy a Smile 28

Then Who’s the Man in the Yellow Hat? 33

Beirut 38

Shadowland 39

Burn Again 44

Chain Reaction/ Hand Me America 47

Same Page 54

I Am Cupid 59

Acknowledgements 63

About the Author 65

First Word Press 67

About Youth Speaks 69

Contents

undisputed backtalk champion

GEORGE WATSKY 3

Undisputed Backtalk Champion

I know what you’re thinkingand yes

I do work out.

You may find this hard to believe but I was not always the

mentally muscled pencil pusheryou 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 armI 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 matchesscrawny 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

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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 Neanderthalacross 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 anyoneof 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 sideso I cranked the janky credo-blaster to 10

If you wanna go and get high wit’ meSmoke an L in the back of the BenZOh why must I feel this way?

Started rhyming over the top of his head I can’t remember exactly what was saidjust that it was epic. Brought in references to Machiavelli

GEORGE WATSKY 5

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…

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Halflife

Grandma likes to remind us of the importance of the holidays— if you don’t nail it when God is watching you closesthow are you supposed to get it right the rest of the time?

I forgot Chanukah this yearsat in my room watching Three’s Company reruns (the father, the son and the holy ghost)

until I came downstairs andsaw 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

GEORGE WATSKY 7

lasts 365 days a year.

I think if half Jewish meant I only had to rememberhalf the holidays I might be a little more motivated

If it meant my left hand only knew

what my right hand saidso with my right I’d hold the torah

and my left I’d raise the deadOr I could half believe in Jesus

and half believe he’s fraudand 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 Jägermeisterat 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

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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 wholefor me to crawl into and die

But I’m just overthinkingAll too alive and kicking And lately my heart hasn’t been beatingmy 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 relicsI keep mine in the back of my mind

GEORGE WATSKY 9

A piece of Moses’ collarbone My bris My grandma Syde And Chanukah (next year)

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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

GEORGE WATSKY 11

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.

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420 West

Pamplona*

The crowd staggers collectivelystill 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 scenebut the Chupiñazo throng swallows John

Turns out he’s just kickin it(it being a broken champagne bottle)

and lurches out into the clearhis leg drenched crimson

looking a lot like he needs a stiff drink and a BibleJesus

Bloody MaryAnd 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 wonderhow of the thousands of sloppy drunks in the town square

the sober Americansmanaged to get fucked up the worst

GEORGE WATSKY 13

*

Two days later me and Nicktrip down the Pamplona cobblestones

at 7 AMrocking white cotton pantalones

and scarlet bandanasTrying 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 barricadeI 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—

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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 worldlytrying to break into the club scene

with two teenage buddiescollectively sporting six dirty tennis shoes and a pair of crutches.

We couldn’t have crossed a velvet ropeif it was blocking the way to a vending machine.

My friends got into the spirit of the cityand stayed in the Latin Quarter

at a Best Western.Comparatively my accommodations were quite reasonably priced

centrally locateduncrowded 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;

GEORGE WATSKY 15

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 nowhereSan Francisco is so somewhere…

I swear on the memory of Clement Streetthat at 1 AM, July 22nd

the wooden bench in Hjørring, Denmarkcurved 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 shiftsonto the Jutland Peninsula.

I guess we let our guard down.

There’s something creepy about watching a small-town Danish kidpull out a cell phone

and show you picturesof his home-made water bong;

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tell you how he gets the best trips when he mixesspeedoxycontincocainemushrooms(caps,stems)extacybutnotheroine—yet.

I suppose I wasn’t as badass as I thoughtcoughing my lungs up

off the box of Js we boughtback in Amsterdam

Circled around that bench…or maybe it was circling us…

it was swimmingly clearthat kids everywhere in the world

are trying to get away from the same place

And there’s something depressing about finding a piece of homein Scandinavia.

But when Frederik’s eyes rolled aft in his headI 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 Bluntand feel the same breeze puffing in over the ocean

on the back of our necks

GEORGE WATSKY 17

Daisy Chains

I pluck up one of my first memoriessix years old in the outfield of a teeball game

She loves meShe loves me not

She loves meShe loves me not

Don’t forget to yell, “I got it!”

Kids around me shooting up like weeds

like junkiesSkip

everywherePlay hopscotch

Skip to schoolSkip home

Skip to dinner Skip to school

Skip schoolSkip to meals

Skip schoolSkip meals

Skip schoolmeals

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?

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60 whole pounds?You’re still in school?

Want to be pretty?Cool?

She loves me not

Innocence finds sanctuary in a blade of grassKnows that the only way to go is to

pick a handful of daisiescovered in blood

They love me notYou could stand to lose a couple pounds

I hear chain-smoking in the bathroom during math classhelps preteens shed love handles.

And I’m taking thissitting down

in the outfield grassKilling daisies

Ripping them lovingly from the groundTearing the petals off

I uproot another bloody handfulGrave room

This is being youngTwist the trunks around each other

like they’ve learned to danceLock the stems together

It’s come full circleCaress their roots up from the soil

She loves me notSlip them around wristsShe loves meSix years old

GEORGE WATSKY 19

in the parkwearing daisy chains around my wrists

She loves meShe doesn’t love me anymoreShe must hate me

I made some chains for youSkip school meals

to chain smoke in the bathroomDaisies around wrists

she pulls a handful ofrazor blades

from the soilTwists them together

learning to grind6

78

1718

19I’m pulling

yearsup from the grass

and all I ever did was take it like a man

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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 mathwhile we’re huddled around the pianoLet’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 officecan be stretched to include white boyswith popped-collar polo shirtsand a bomb vocabulary of hip slang in black Americacirca 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 twoand then dig deeper with some empty rhetoricFor example1. 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—

GEORGE WATSKY 21

Timbrell ditches to make a run to Sam Goodyand cops a dozen copiesof Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson’s first contributionto the canon.

The jewel cases are propped up like bonfire logson the claw-foot mahogany table—the glow lights up a cluster of huddled facesas if the blaze had been createdby rubbing the edges of Compton and Brooklyn togetherand imploring members of N.W.A to do a five man marathonto run the torch into our library.

This is the album that busted a thousand sub woofersAnd convinced more than a couple parentsThat hip hop is not music,It’s a bacterial culture.Not that they should worryWe’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 composerto connect two movements of a symphonyAnd Palestrina may have mapped outThe most complicated harmonies of the sixteenth centurybut according to my Western History textbookneither 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 hopsto 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.

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This is worship musicBend over to the floor and touch your toes

Get your eagle onLet me see you get lowEvery prep schooler on the dance floor please assumeprayer position

Most everyone takes their Eucharist before massdebauchery.the formula is simple—crackers and Old English.Who’s to say our generation hasn’t learnedfrom our British forefathers?We’ve got our copies of the King James Bible opento Genesisand we’re testifyingOn the first day God created University High Schooland it was Good

†† Urban legend tells us of a heroic battle Unlike any ancient bloody skirmishWhere two prep school ronins took to the pool table At a killer after-dance keg party

To settleOnce and for all

The issue of whose schoolWas of general higher quality.*

As soon as the hometeam entered the room the cheerleaders buggedUHS! UHS! UHS!

*Brendan got hit with:Check, check…You’ve got less flow than your mom after menopause

GEORGE WATSKY 23

Praise the Lord!On the second day God created upperclassmen

and they were GoodPraise the Lord!

It’s easy to be the focal point of your own worldin campus pangea.All you need to do is navigateto the student centerwhere the compass needle has little direction in life.Traverse the great planes of the tennis courts and computer lab catacombs.Kneel at the altarThe college apseLight sixteen candlesand ask for four more years of limbo

Some want to be studentsSome want to go honeymooningI heard from John who heard from Natalie who heard from Mister Spivackthat the student center café is switching from their Pepsi contractto Heineken and open taps,Daiquiri Fridayswith festive mini umbrellas for the first fiftyfreshmen.

Our hands are so smooth we’ve evolved past fingerprintsand can’t pick up pennieswithout sliding them off the edge of a tableand gathering a handful in our open palmswe’re accruing important life skillslike how to balance a checkbook on our heads

In class we study a picture of a womantoting a bucket of water down to the rivereveryone sympathizesalthough I haven’t seen a smile as wide as hersin a month.

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The upper courtyard stretches out to the horizonand the naked white man statue rises up from the stoneas if to saywe too shall overcomeorsuck it disenfranchised minoritiesEvery kid around could tell youthe piece is reminiscent of Doryphorosand the torque on his torsocreates dynamic diagonal compositionbut most would be at a loss to give the namesof the janitorswho carried the two ton monolithto its resting spot

Our research topics are carefully chosen.

If you’d prefer to cheatthe easy answers can all be found

in the appendix at the back of your textbook

GEORGE WATSKY 25

Appendix A

Is herebecause lodi dodi, we likes tosing and danceand 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-G-Wait!

Maybe if we keep dancing in this directionwe’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 thoughyou 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 downShout HallelujahPraise his holy name!

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Glossary

In Alphabetical Orderwhite (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 belowpopped collar (popped kol•er) adj., + n., 1. see abovepoplock (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.

GEORGE WATSKY 27

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

FIRST WORD SERIES28

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 commissionand 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 weekwithout 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

GEORGE WATSKY 29

Picture itAbraham 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 ourselvesif 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 flatteringbut 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 lipsMake us think removing some unsightly lines

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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 loveand making out with a crush in the backseat of our mom’s station wagon…

…forget I said thatNo 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

appreciateme either.

I’m running out of attractive answers.But maybe!

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

Yeah! And maybe 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

just need to switch to a marketing giant—

maybe

GEORGE WATSKY 31

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

FIRST WORD SERIES32

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?

GEORGE WATSKY 33

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 historywith 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 masterpiecemy Edward HopperThis 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 DaVincior my DeMilo or my disciples’ Last Rites

first written in a fit of heightened wisdom and ripped apart in remission.

FIRST WORD SERIES34

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 masterpiecemaster peace

master peacemaster

peace masterPainted 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 masterpeace master.

In history class I learned about George Pullman, accomplished inventor of the

GEORGE WATSKY 35

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 himProtesting

FIRST WORD SERIES36

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, WilliamJohnEdwardJamesSamuelAnthonyKeithHenryHarryBennyArnoldEugeneRandallJacobMichaelJoshuaMatthewAndrewJosephDanAlexanderBenjaminRobertThomasElijahAaronIsaiahBrianCharlesNathanielVictorHaroldPaulPeterMartinMarvinGeorgeEtceteraEtceteraEtcetera

GEORGE WATSKY 37

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 historyW BecauseA in between the presidential bookends lies the ForemanS the farmer Jefferson and Clinton (with Weezy and P Funk) W. H The BambinoI The Beatle The King of Taxes N (circa 1776) B The King of Texas G (circa 1996) U T The Pullman S

the Pullmen O H and a curious kid in history classN who doesn’t really matter except in his notebook where a piece of art however ill-conceived is plenty mastery enough.

FIRST WORD SERIES38

Beirut

A bubble forms from hops and ambiencedissipatesthen another follows—stuttersteps to the surface and embraces the party

Soon my brew is buzzing with CO2 particleslike surfacing is the hip thing to do

I don’t know if carbon dioxide leads a better lifesheltered in red plastic and Keystone Litebut I’ve noticed that if it breaks its bondsand joins its brothers in the roomit 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 waythe corners of my mouth float up

I wish the bubble good luckand pour him into the hydrangea pot.

GEORGE WATSKY 39

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. Pock-marked 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

FIRST WORD SERIES40

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

GEORGE WATSKY 41

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

FIRST WORD SERIES42

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

GEORGE WATSKY 43

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 ridingsnare.

ride. tom. tom. tom. sam.

kick,snare.ride.

ride.ride.

FIRST WORD SERIES44

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 manregretting 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 cityand I can see my own kitchen

and my weatherworn breakfast tableand 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,

GEORGE WATSKY 45

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 slamwhen 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 liketo join the Navy.

I think back to March 15th, 2003and 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 seethe 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 doorwhen thousands of Americans are being drafted

through the back.

But all I can bring into focus areborn again

FIRST WORD SERIES46

born againborn again innocents

with me in the middle,feeding the flamesand 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 againburn again

burn again until we’re innocentagain 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 handinstead 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.

GEORGE WATSKY 47

Chain Reaction/ Hand Me America

It all starts with an act of violence.or ends with one.

There are places outside of ourselveswhere good intentions operate like rusty hinges

only heard from in periods of transitionWhere 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 violenceor is woven by a countless number of them.Each stitch demanding another

anotheranother

Each link demanding two more.This is just part of a chain reaction

as inbullet enters gunleaves gunenters bodyleaves corpse

Man creates chainscreates boatscreates guns

Hate begets hatewaste begets wanthistory begets the broken pieces of tomorrow.

FIRST WORD SERIES48

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 MaryOf whom was born Jesus, who is called Christ.

Praise the lord. As in

spirituals begotjazz begotrock begothip hop ….or something

Sticks and stones becameslings and arrows became9 millimeters

Smith and Wesson says they can be used for hunting in the urban jungle

*

GapOld NavyBanana Republicstarted with one cable-knit cashmere pullover

GEORGE WATSKY 49

Starbucks McDonald’sWal*Martstarted 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 becameyour 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

FIRST WORD SERIES50

Wal*Mart is pleased to announce that our retail stores will now be carrying standard

combat cannonsYou can purchase fuses on aisle three next to the garden hoses

and both pellets and cannonballs right below the water balloonsThey make great conversation pieces

and of course are fully functional

Who says you need to captain a warship from the 1850sto own a fine piece of artillery?

Your cannon may need to be chained to your fireplace to avoid a heavy kickbackthat could damage your drywall

(Wal*Mart sells chains too)

It all starts herein the corporate boardroom

where dreams come trueIn these places

good intentions operate like rusty hingesonly 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 canaryan empty mineshaftan abandoned boomtown

GEORGE WATSKY 51

Hand me a hole with tomorrow at the bottomand I’ll fill it with water

blood and crushed leaves.

Hand me a drum fitted with brass and palm frondsand 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 triumphantit is not beaten but joined

A drum cannot be beatenjust 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 peoplehammering I don’t need the work

and I am willing to bet they are also singing I have no range

If they were picking rockson the top of a purple mountain

in a quarryor an empty mineshaftI would chip away at

the American dreamwedged between the charcoal and

fool’s gold.I have no business with business but this

is my business above all elseOn the mountaintop

I am not above all else

FIRST WORD SERIES52

We are not above all elsestaring purple into the horizon I’m giving me props like

We are off the chainat the bottom of a dry riverbed

breaking bonds with ice pickssinging all the while

Soon we are overflowing its banksmoving across the Savannah

making considerable progress towards the capitolWashington submerged

Today a tidal wave struckA poet wrote about it

A reserved eulogy was conductedA band played at the funeral

like second-linelike New Orleanslike Triumphlike 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 widowermourning in black

and I’ll tailor his outfit for the afterlife party

It’s one thingto see from the mountaintop

and another to seeoneself on the mountaintop

We can sing across the Pacific from hereThis drum can reach

can talk

GEORGE WATSKY 53

It has not been beatenIt is teaching the chained to dance

Teaching chains to dance Teaching us to lead

how to breathe fireand then plunge it down our throats

how to swallow our pride

Hand me America the beautifuland I will sing from the mountaintop

Write you the French Alpsthe Gobi Desert

the Brazilian Rain ForestHand me a drum fitted with brass and palm fronds

and I will play for youa village outside of Madrid

Mount Kilimanjaroa lifeboat in the middle of the Caspian Sea

the Antarctic tundra

Hand me America the beautiful, and I will build you a globehand 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.

FIRST WORD SERIES54

Same Page

The simple solutions always have a catchstrike a match and watch compassion wing itself out the window

like a frightened batIt’s easy to wax

that we got the top tax bracket throwing up food stamps for backup insisting that the world is flatSaying fuck Copernicus fuck welfare

everything I need to know I learned in business schooland 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 Africaare practically the size of England.

That the world is flat in a map in an atlas in a classroom in Massachusettsand you can’t fit the whole world on the same page

It’s too easy to soak up the sunon Martha’s Vineyard on the Atlantic and let the Western Hemisphere run Euro-concentric circles around the rest of the planet

GEORGE WATSKY 55

Asking why run when we can fly?It’s easy for jetsetters to litter out the window above the globelike 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, Nevadadrop her shopping bags and wrap her arms around the kid who stitched her Prada? Maybe I should drop the mantrabecause odds are a sweatshop worker in Togo used his last thread of dignity to sew the logo on my poloI’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!

FIRST WORD SERIES56

A do-it-yourself-shoe-store We can call it Nikea!

Workers bent in prayerThis is bad religion

a back of the classroom note tied to the leg of a pigeon

A pipe dreamA fly dreamMaybe jetsetters will abandon aircraft and hop on the backs of dovesthe backs of frightened batsrise above the cumulus and toss accumulated stacks of greenbacksto 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 Swahiliten thousand mother tongues translated from English Gavin Newsom repaving a pothole in Thailand

GEORGE WATSKY 57

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

FIRST WORD SERIES58

page.

GEORGE WATSKY 59

I am Cupid

Let’s say I’m cupidThe liaison of love

The soldier of swoonThe constable of crush

Let’s say I’m cupidbreaking into your heart strapped with semi-automatic infatuation

demandingshow me some love or break yo’self!

Omnipotential

I could shoot an arrow through the back of a manstanding in front of a mirror

watch him fall in love with his reflectionand attempt to get busy

I could put a bottle of cristal on iceblast 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 BritneyBobby and Whitney

and if I couldn’t find someone man enough for the Statue of LibertyI could break off the Washington Monument for her enjoyment

because after alla woman knows her own needs best.

I could tell you why girls at dances wear uncomfortable stilettosthey know they’ll take off after five minutes

FIRST WORD SERIES60

I could tell all the guys out therewhy so many girls want you

as bad as you want their best friendAnd 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 itselfand I’m wasting the almighty power of love

on the heavyhearted bourgeoisie?

I think it’s high time for a more goal-oriented cupidCupid Remix

international edition

I’m gonna shoot an arrow through Pakistan’s heartand watch it go make out with India

in the back seat of a Camaro

I’m gonna sprinkle love dust over the Middle Eastand see Israel and Palestine moaning in the throes of passion

on the West Bank

Hear George W. Bush ask Saddam Husseinto 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

GEORGE WATSKY 61

Teach Turkey and Bulgaria to Greece each other up and go at it

Support the nontraditional relationships: Australia and Iceland go

long-distanceBeijing and Tianjin go same sects

I’m gonna show the South Seas how to loosen up,get kinky.

Got New GuineaPanting to Indonesia

I love it when you call me big Papua

Bolivia’s finally going down on ArgentinaPyongyang 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 UnionI 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 itI am cupid

and if I wanted to I could

GEORGE WATSKY 63

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

FIRST WORD SERIES64 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

FIRST WORD SERIES64 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

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.

First Word Press

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

VisionBy 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.MissionYouth 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 VoiceWe 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 CultureYouth 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 TransformationYouth 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 ExcellenceWe 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.

FIRST WORD SERIES70

I Don’t Owe You Anything by Ayoka Stewart (2004) $9.95Collected Poems edited by James Kass

Both Sides by Stephen Pickens (2004) $9.95Collected Poems edited by Melinda Corazon Foley

Thoughts For A Lonely Supermarket by Gabe Crane (2004) $9.95Collected Poems and Other Works edited by Paul S. Flores

Based on a True Story by Niema Jordan (2005) $9.95Spoken word CD edited by Paul S. Flores

For Girls With Hips by Chinaka Hodge (2006) $9.95Collected 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) $9.95Collected Poems edited by Genny Lim

Undisputed Backtalk Champion by George Watsky (2006) $9.95Collected poems edited by Adam Mansbach

First, The Good News by Katri Foster (2006) $9.95Collected poems edited by James Kass

Hearts Sized Like Cities: The Youth Speaks Anthology (2006) $9.95Collected Poems edited by Dalia Rubiano Yedidia and Spokes Publications Committee

FIRST WORD PRESSAvailable at www.youthspeaks.org, or by calling 415-255-9035

Credit cards accepted

Available on First Word Press