The real Dear Mama

All of the moments I've thought about writing for this blog feel like the biggest and most important when you think of them individually. This one even moreso then some others, I know Wil Gibson a lot of people do that have attended Port Veritas. He's more then a regular or a core part of the group like Juba he's one of great monuments for us like the grand canyon.
I know him outside of this context I've seen him work, seen him memorize and plow forward just as hard offstage as on. On one Saturday hanging around with him at his place(in a terrible part of town a block from where I live) he read me a new poem he had written and I was unprepared for it. It was too much for me at the time, i told him was him hitting a "next level" just because I knew that It was so beyond where I could ever go.

That next tuesday came around and there's no point buying a fast car if your not going to pick a lonely highway to ride it on. He was destined to do the unveiling and Nate was hosting which was perfect. Nate will always be that top dog that forces Wil to surpass his best continually. Nate introduced him briefly and stepped aside so it could start.

His voice was low and he coughed out some of the words, I was getting it this time letting it connect to me. It was so scary because it could, no it will be me. Wil had written a poem not to be a poem at all but as a simple letter to his mother. Its scary because Wil loves his mother like I do, like no one or nothing ever touches that not even Dad not even faith not even GOD.

She's dead. She died a long time ago but as he read he was singing to us the song of constant sorrow the side of you that never recovers from the most important thing being gone. Dear Mama, he said and he appologized for not being enough for not amounting to the greatness she gave him every day. It wasn't just me who felt that shit, everyone was blown right out of position people were crying and wiping away tears. It took everything for him to hold together thats how I knew and how he knew that this was the perfect piece. When he left stage Nate was speechless and took a moment...Nate's a pro and he doesn't usually need a moment.

He read that piece again for me a while ago and its always frozen in the moment, after he was done he had to put his notebook away. It takes a lot out of him. It takes a lot of all of us but it puts a lot back in, a lot about being human.
thanks Wil.

Dan O takes this blog's soul like Dracula takes necks

So I have been given this blog to update with whatever I like. These people are so misinformed they think I have some kind of hidden intelligence behind the dog and pony show I march out. Thats their problem.

Anyway, I want to use this to talk about Port Veritas which has a long shadow it casts backward. Some memories are hot holes that burn right into you, take up space that never will be filled by anything else. One such time was probably about two years ago at least. I still had stupid unmanageable hair but the crowd was different, it felt high school at times with splintered off groups of people in hip vintage clothes who were artists, poets, recording artists, and very hip. You could go into a reading and not be talked too.

This night was slam night and I knew the slam poets, I just didn't talk to them. I was looking at them and all of the heavy hitters had shifty eyes dancing with fear from side to side asking themselves "Who is that guy?" "Is he going to slam?" Slammers try and put the scenario together way before it happens, what place they are on the list, what order they read what pieces, what hat they wear, how high they get, it all has to be a perfect swirling storm.

No one knew who Juba was. When he took his first turn I almost lost it, I had that sick smile on my face. Hip Hop had a face hear now, all the watered down kids who read poems that started "The night was electric" would have to write more and write better. This wasn't just a slam poet, this was living melodic energy swaying as he spoke each word knowing each part of each poem like most people know their shoes. If I was a slammer i wouldn't have loved it, I would have swore to myself.

It was the first and only time I ever saw someone walk in off the street and win the slam. I knew people that always signed up and never won and never would, he just had it. On that night he pushed every great regular poet back 3 steps and they had to scramble to catch up. Some of us are still scrambling. I swear a lot when I'm impressed with someone, I swore a lot to my friends about him that night.

I still swear a blue streak thinking about it. It was a dark dank building(before the phenomenal one we have now) and he lit it up, with nothing but pure human Swaggerstomp storytelling.