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Why Isn’t My Typewriter Autocorrecting or Why I Love Superb Owl Sunday

Some Apple programmer somewhere got a chuckle last night. Did you get autocorrected like I did? I do love a good Owl on Sunday.

Last night I ventured down to SpeakEZ Lounge in Grand Rapids MI, where Sundays is always jazz night. I lugged my typewriter along and set up for a little live poetry. I got a glass of Absinthe and a table for one and here’s what happened:

 

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My first poem was uncommissioned. There was football in the air, football on the TVs, football in the national subconscious so naturally instead of fighting upstream I let the spirit carry me deep into football territory.

Next a gentleman named JR requested a poem about “Truth and Love, and also the Universal Language of Music.” I always think these poems are the hardest, and it is inevitable that in a session SOMEONE will ask me for a poem about some generalized concepts. As the band slid and jived through various standards like the football players on TV, this is what I hacked out:

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Not my best work but I give myself an A for effort anyway because why not.

Lastly Caitlin, a manager at the bar and old friend of mine, humored me by asking for a poem about “dance, dancing, the art of movement.” I won’t say I wasn’t a little inspired by the halftime show.

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The Triumphant Fuckaround

Yeah baby, I’m back, well hiatused and soaking in the depths of my own blog-planning juices.

Its Spring, new everything is trumpeting and I’ve saved the trump card, best for last (or now).

NOW, AN IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT FROM DR: IMPORTANSLOSKY:

“This Blog will now display spontaneous street poetry punched out on typewriter while strangers waggling dollar bills hover like friendly helicopters.” -The Doc

Today my first poem was for a random passerby who asked if poetry was my forte. I told her I’ve got lots of fortes, and some pianos too.


Next I wrote for a friend of a friend. She wanted a poem about cigarette butts.


Then Jesse asked for a poem about a man who turns into a wall.

And finally, Patrick (and lady friend) got a poem about relaxation.


All for today loves. Look for me on the streets of Ann Arbor on warm sunny days!

Ten Hours In A Can

Ten hours in a can. The bleak white hand of winter grasping for us. We drove through snow two inches an hour, white-out blindness. Vince steady at the wheel. Our last month of winter all at once and then over.

Bobaba and I played dice for hours. He ended up 8 cents ahead. We played would you rather. Would you rather have your best friend be a wizard, or your mom be a dragon? Would you rather have soft rubber teeth or razor blade teeth? Would you rather be a ghost 6 days of the week or have permanent rollerblades?

Would you rather have robot arms or be able to eat ice cream?

Would you rather update your blog everyday or be at Folk Alliance?

Folk Alliance. Woah. Here’s how it works. Every moment there are at least 11 things you want to be doing- stellar shows, crazy jam sessions, classes with last years pioneers, sleep, etc. Everyone is a little frantic. A few folks give off the vibe of a demonic networking doll with head on the constant swivel, but most are really warm and open hearted.

Its a funny thing to be at one of these conferences. You have to pay a fair chunk of change just to be there, so it’s hard not to feel like you’ve got to get something out of it. But folk musicians are probably the type of musician least likely to promote themselves. It’s a folking paradox.

We hosted a Michigan music room, through Barn Swallow Concerts. It was awesome to showcase some of our favorite Michigan acts.

Laith Al-Saadi is musical Santa Claus. Mad bag o tricks.


Mark Lavengood and Billy Strings tearing it up.

I have so many new favorite musicians. Steve Poltz made me cry I was laughing so hard. The T Sisters charmed the socks off me (but just the socks). The Railsplitters virtuosically shredded.

All that music knocked me out of my blog a day orbit. So now we’re at the front of 8 hours from surprisingly hospitable Wichita Kansas to Colorado Springs, Colorado. Zoom baby. To swing dance heaven tonight. Love to you all out there.

Yours in a cherry westward chariot,

Brandon