Dreams of Non-Violent Action

Had a dream last night. Traveled to a city like Boston or Atlanta. Attended a Neo-Nazi/White Supremacy rally. Somehow managed to slip through the police barricades and heavily armed militias with a fold-up desk, a chair, and a typewriter.

I set up my poetry station like I was supposed to be there and sat down. Took my hat off and stroked the feathers. Pheasant for abundance. Stellar Jay for creative spirit. Flicker for speed and agility.

At first no one noticed me.

Then the poem requests started rolling in. I looked into those pale devil faces and wrote poems for people’s mothers, about love and travel, about new beginnings, about politics. The most popular topic as usual was dog poems.

The typical dad joke came and went with frequency, “Haven’t seen one of those in a while”, noticing the typewriter.

I nodded my cap and typed on.

The entire time I was combatting my fears. Fears that at any moment someone was going to come over and attack me. Throw me out. Take my typewriter and smash out my teeth with it. On the surface, I maintained my composure. Focused on the poems.

The attack never happened. They didn’t see me that way. To them, I was one of them. A white man just there doing his thing.

Funny thing, I’ve found. Everyone likes a poet and his poetry. Even a fucking Nazi. Those that don’t, just don’t notice me. I’m invisible to their eyes as long as I keep typing. White privilege is a mask that means I can appear anywhere with usually not too much confrontation.
That is where my power lay.

Every single one of those Nazis was a bad tipper, but that’s not why I was there. In each poem, I wrote secret messages, there for their eyes to read. For the poems about mothers, I reminded them of Mother Earth pillaged by our fathers and fathers’ fathers waiting patiently for us to return to honoring her. For the poems about love, I talked about consent and how hearts connect across the universe conjuring magic that only two lovers know. About travel, I wrote about the main reason for travel is to broaden one’s views and learn about the diversity of the world taking in all this culture and finding ourselves. About politics, I wrote about our real enemies: the corporations that own our politicians and pit us against each other so that we fight one another while they rob us behind our backs. With dogs, I wrote about the wisdom of our animal relatives and how we’re all wild animals ourselves.

As my confidence gained, I started to write more radical things. To bridge the worlds and send light into the darkness. The words just kept flowing, transforming the requests into a seed for the heart.

To say this was a dream is short-sighted. It was an absolute nightmare. Surrounded by all of that heavily-armed hate, and all I could do was burn sage and light incense. All the while writing poems that I thought at the very least would garner some type of verbal barrage followed by physical assault. Just dealing with these alt-humans and their completely backwards viewpoints made my stomach sink. Had my heart giving me chest pains. Really increased my anxiety.

But each time, just like always…the response was gratitude and a smile or a “that’s awesome”.

The dream made no sense. Even in it I was confused.

I was almost driven to write a poetic response to the next Nazi who stepped up with any topic and have it speak to him more directly saying, “You’re a fucking Nazi. Go home. We’re tired”, to see if it would get the expected response. But in the dream, I lacked that kind of bravery. Lacked the same kind of bravery that it would take to punch each one of those Nazis. Wasn’t sure if being direct would have any effect anyway.

All I could hope was that those tiny pages of light, planted seeds that would eventually grow, crack right through the fascist concrete exterior and blossom renewed hope in these wayward children.

At the end of the dream I burned all of the money. Some watched me with open stares but most went on about their business. I packed up my poetry office and walked off back into the shadows. I awoke and realized I was never there to begin with.

In the dream, I think I must’ve been tired of marching. Awake, I wonder if doing this in real life would be good medicine.

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Dreams of Non-Violent Action

The Voice of Marshall

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I don’t usually share these memories, but 6 years ago today I read at my first poetry reading. It was the beginning of my 3rd year in Philadelphia. I had just moved to VWVOFFKA, a house gallery my friends had started a few months before. My friend Jenna Wilchinsky hosted VWVOFFKA’s first ever Word Exchange, with some featured poets from Temple University. I think both Masha Badinter and Jenna had collaborated on the name for this event which would eventually become a series at the house, and I would eventually carry into describing any reading I would host around town (recently I noticed Little Berlin, another gallery I put a few years into, started using the same phrase to describe a monthly reading series they’ve been hosting in the Annex Space. Ha! It’s a good phrase!).

I was 23. The writing I was putting to paper was part of a novel called The Voice of Wye Gnough, a story about a lonely, angsty twenty-something named Michael Cavendish and this sage-like, acid-wine drinking, bum savant that he keeps seeing at Le Bar named Wye Gnough. The story wasn’t very good and mostly about a recent short-lived relationship, I was still dealing with the fall out from. I was young (or well, I was younger).

The other poets were well-versed, maybe a little bit rehearsed and generally inside the same crit class together, so all pretty aware of each other’s writing and all the inside jokes / meta language they were using. I don’t remember what they read, but I remember they smoked cigarettes while they read and as they finished each poem, they threw the page to the ground.

I had never read my work out loud before and I didn’t really know what I was doing. WHY-NO, a performance art act I did that involved drinking wine and banging on the emptying jugs of it and singing angst-ridden songs of desolation, was still fresh in my mind so I brought my omnichord. I strummed chords to keep the words rolling off my tongue. This is kind of funny looking back at because one idea I had for this last tour of reading haikus was to bring a casio keyboard along (the same one I used during WHY-NO days) and play tunes between each haiku. Obviously WHY-NO still has a hold on my imagination.

This was pre-erotica (I didn’t start writing that till the following year after traveling to Paris, Madrid, and Barcelona while reading Delta of Venus by Anais Nin). It was pre-travel fiction (I had traveled some, but not found my voice in the road just yet). I think people received my short stories alright. I think I might’ve been the only one who read short stories. But the most interesting thing was that I heard my own voice for the very first time.

I have written since I was 16 or 17, with actively thinking myself a writer, and even longer without. But this was the first time I heard the words outside my own head. I heard how the sentences didn’t flow exactly the way I predicted them too. I listened to how some droned on as huge mouthfuls where I would run out of breath. And others didn’t get the reaction I desired. A laugh. Or a sigh of awe.

I think I had what I thought was a poetry voice to make things sound more intricate. Really it was to cover up my nervousness. I think it involved several gin n’ tonics. It was the beginning of a few year period where I slurred my words and thought there was magic in how garbled they rolled.

This was the reading where I met Willow Zef (then Jozef Maguire). He had passed by our store front window and seen what he correctly thought was a poetry reading, though I probably corrected him at some point and said, “Nah, man. It’s a word exchange.” Disagreement has always been an interesting part of our friendship. It’s helped me explore new parts of myself I didn’t know were there to have this other contrasting perspective in one of my close friends. 6 years ago, he stepped up and read and he taught me the value of beat and recitation, through these almost hip hop inspired, magically real verses he would rattle off his chest without any verse in front of him.

A month or two later, I would meet Augustus Depenbrock at one of these word exchanges, a week or so before the first ever Plato’s Porno Cave (a surreal gala that we eventually collaborated on for several years) held in his warehouse loft space, and Gus would perform the most interesting, off the cuff recitation of a Bukowski poem about a radio thrown through a window, I’ve ever heard. From him I would learn repetition and the value of controlling the tone of voice.

I would meet other folks like Scott Bickmore and Cipro that year at further Word Exchanges. And folks like Keri Hansen, in who I would find a friend to share inspiration with. She’d share with me writers that I should read, and in that way constantly push my expression. She’d also be the final voice to complete the group that would write a literary blog, Top 5 Fingers, which involved me, Gus, Zef, and a friend from college, Alana Franasiak. That year I would even host the writer of the La La Theory and White Elephants zines, who I’d admired for a long time, Katie Haegale. And in somewhat a different direction, that would be the year I would lose the first person to ever call me “brother”, Mike Hall. His death still carrying it’s weight for me every November, leaving me lost and longing, but also giving me a better sense of the value of life and how fragile it can sometimes be.

I read The Voice of Wye Gnough several more times over the year. Each time I’d read, I’d find new things I liked and many more I disliked. I started to write new chapters and rewrite old ones with the sound of my voice in mind. Back then I mostly wrote on a typewriter I bought for 10 dollars on the side of the road in North Philly. Each time I read, I paid more attention to the sound of the words. But The Voice of Wye Gnough wasn’t quite right yet. Some of it was unsalvageable to this new style I was finding. This new voice that was increasingly my own.

Eventually, I would scrap the novel because of its jumbled sentences and lack of true development. One of the last times I would read from it, Gus would actually light some of the pages on fire. It was New Years. A celebration in the second house for VWVOFFKA to pop up in, two blocks north on the road. The same building where Little Baby’s Ice Cream now resides. In the basement, was the first home of the Dream Oven. I watched and admired the flames, but then I realized I had no idea which pages Gus was reading from and whether they were any good or not.

I yelled out, “Gus! That’s typewritten. I don’t have any copies!”

The pages turned to smoke and ash and went out on the floor and I had to accept they were gone. Part of me accepted it was better that way. The remaining pages I put in a box somewhere and taped shut, maybe a month or two later.

If I had never read poetry that year, I would’ve never found my voice. Even more importantly, I would have never found my writing community.

Now six years later, I’ve just completed my second poetry tour across the country. I’ve found and been reinvigorated in the magic that spoken words hold. They can be healing. They inspire others. They create a sense of connection that maybe some other forms of expression can’t quite match. There’s a vulnerability in them. There’s definitely a catharsis.

It’s interesting to perceive how short a time six years are, relatively, between then and now. It’s interesting to examine how much growth, I’ve had personally and where I’m at as a writer today. And even more so to see all the growth in my peers. To see all of the many good vibes we’ve brought ourselves through. It’s amazing to think of all the things we’ve created together.

The creative life is a beautiful one. The Voice of Wye Gnough was an attempt at telling a story of it. Of our generation. Even back then I was calling us all Dream Punks. But it came up short. It failed miserably.

One day, hopefully soon, I’ll finish that first novel, though, and tell the story of the incredible scene I’ve been brought up in.

The Voice of Marshall

Book Release Party

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On Wednesday, April 13th, The Random Tea Room & Curiosity Shop in Philly will be hosting me for the release of my new book, Travel By Haiku. Don’t miss it! There’s going to be all types performance and circus-like festivity. It’s going to be a real wonderful happening.

You can read more about Travel By Haiku on my website.

[RSVP to the event on Facebook]

Book Release Party

Live video of “The Orgone Wurlitzer”

THE ORGONE WURLITZER by Marshall James Kavanaugh
Here’s an erotic ode to Damien Hirst. It comes straight out of the psychedelia-infused romp, Fire. Sun. Salutation. This live reading is from the book release party at The Random Tea Room in Philadelphia last April.

Like this one? You can grab a copy of the book here: http://bit.ly/FireSunSalutation

Live video of “The Orgone Wurlitzer”

Spring Poetry Tour, update #1

 

Last night, I read in Richmond as the rain poured outside with the essence of love-making, flooding the streets with cool natural air and cherry blossoms floating in these newborn streams.


One woman wrote my words on her legs and arms in permanent ink as I read aloud and the calligraphy smeared and splattered across the canvas of her skin as she tried to keep pace with my voice. I had to rouse my audience out of the dream space I had crafted for them when I finished. I sold dream catchers and mixtapes and people talked about how my writing style reminded them of their own painting process.


In DC I led an entire living room of strangers in howling at the mother moon. It happened spontaneously out of a reading of a short story titled, “howling at the moon in SF”. The second time that happened this tour. There was a collaboration between myself and a dancer and a bassist. Together we made the sun rise. A living room with a magical unicorn and an interpretive play, with 70 or 80 concert goers all squeezed in so tight some people stood outside and looked through the windows, even I felt like I was dreaming.


I find I’ve been very collaborative lately, more so perhaps than ever before. A woman told me of this film she’s been working on, a play that takes place inside her vagina and she asked me to be a part of it. She’ll use green screens and other effects to make a stage out of her sex for the performances to take place within. Imagine that…a unicorn playing trumpet in the entryway to the womb. I can’t make this stuff up. A friend gave two pieces of orgonite he made, one for my cellphone and one for my heart and I also got a piece of Egyptian Quartz. And now I’m driving to North Carolina listening to mountain music and feeling more awake, the greener it gets.

 

Spring Poetry Tour, update #1

Those Rolling Pittsburgh Hills

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Today, biking along the river in Pittsburgh under a late summer sun. Herbs like sage, lavender, and chamomile growing wild on the trail’s edge. The whole city filled with this element of letting nature take hold and overgrow its concrete boundaries. Insects and wildlife living alongside their human counterparts.

What better place to celebrate the seasonal equinox? Tonight we will be performing at a mini-festival atop a hill in a naturally reclaimed baseball field left to become a forest, called Bandi Shaum. There will be a little bit of poetry, a little bit of folk music, some casual campfire cooked potlucks, and of course the trumpeting bellows of the wandering unicorn, Ma Ja Ka!

Looking forward to it!

Those Rolling Pittsburgh Hills

Poetry Tour, end of September 2014

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So, I’ve started planning the first leg of my road trip out to California with Willow Zef and Andrew Galati. This is the Northern Exposure where we go from city to city until we finally reach the plains to roam and graze until our bellies are so full of poetry the zen lunacy reaches a new plateau of humbleness. Give me a shout if you live in one of these areas along the below map and would like to set up a poetry reading for us, host us, or just point out to us something that we have to see! Also if we’re coming through your town, definitely come out to one of the performances.

This is my first time driving cross-country going west (I’ve spent most of my life driving around the east and midwest) and it hopefully won’t be the last. Excited to see you all and to find that American Dream going Further! Here are the dates and places we will be passing through:

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9/21 Depart Philadelphia heading for Pittsburgh, PA
9/21-9/23 Hang in Pittsburgh and perform at the Autumnal Equinox Festival at the Bandi Shaum Community Garden
9/24 Columbus, Ohio
9/25 Oxford, Ohio or Cincinnati, Ohio
9/26-9/28 Indianapolis, IN to Chicago, IL
9/29 Milwaukee, WI
9/30 Minneapolis, MN or St. Paul, MN
10/1-10/3 camping in North Dakota
10-4-? ranching in Montana.

I’ll update the list as the tour solidifies.

 

Poetry Tour, end of September 2014