August 17, 2007
I did not shave this day,
and shall not shave tomorrow,
a slob is one who comes too soon,
and shall not go away.
My first encounter with Dr. Gaylord
was when I was 19 and on stage at dc space
doing my first ever poetry reading.
Dr. Gaylord walked onto the stage
in the middle of my poem, slipped his arm
around my waist, tore my poem from my hands,
replaced it with his poem , then whispered in my ear,
Read this with me now.
Too scared to do otherwise, I followed his instructions,
not knowing I was about to engage
in an erotic dialogue with the old man.
That was the night Jared and I
gave Dr. Gaylord the name, The Horny Skeleton.
I kept my distance from him
like many of the young girls,
but several of my guy friends
told tales of visiting Dr. Gaylord’s apartment
and the many interesting things one could see there ..
such as the display on his coffee table of every issue
ever published of the magazine, “Anal Intruder”
spread out neatly in chronological order..
A most excellent publication . . .
Dr. Gaylord liked to get up on stage,
uninvited and lead us kids in a hippy chant
or his own rendition of Jimmy Crack Corn and I don’t care
or perhaps if we were really lucky,
he would do our all time favorite…
I Don’t Know and I Don’t Care.
I don’t know and I don’t care…
I don’t know and I don’t care...
I don’t know and I don’t care…
Show me an orifice, baby.
I got an email from our old friend Jared this morning,
now living in London and the proud father of a blond baby boy.
Ace asked me if Jared’s having children
is one of the seven signs of the apocalypse
to which I replied "yes indeed."
In his email this morning,
Jared asks if I would download and show you all a video
of a performance he did at dc space one night..
I know you are disappointed that I don’t have the video.
But here’s the email instead...
Can you show this video of me tonight at the reunion?
It’s a piece I performed at space one night,
in the total dark with a car headlight powered by a battery
as the only light.
In the story, I’m driving to dc space…
I’m wild, pill-popping, whisky swilling
crack pipe in one hand, wheel in the other.
I crash over Dupont Circle, demolishing benches and bushes,
scattering punks and suits in my black-smoke wake,
a rooster tail of dirt spewing up,
I slew through Madam’s Organ, pass the Wilson Center
narrowly missing Robo and Paul Hill on the sidewalk.
After snatching a hooker off 14th St by People’s Drug
and keeping her busy beneath the wheel,
I rage down 7th with the cops in full pursuit.
Hanging out the window and screaming
“I’m the Pin, the Pin Man, I’m your pain, your pain man,
Sharp not meant facetiously…
I’m your hellmate, your cellmate, your neighbor in labor,
I smash through the window of dc space
sending tables and poorly-watered plants in every direction,
and end up in a ruined mountain of steel and dirt,
smoke and fire pills and mangled flesh on the stage,
and under the mic, I recite the last line of the poem,
I’m the Pin Man, Yer dead.
He ends the email with:
I’m a guy, what do you want.
Burn my corpse and sprinkle the ashes
in someone’s TRIPLE SHIT MOCHA at Starbucks for me.
August 4, 2007
August 3, 2007
August 2, 2007
A regular at dc space, Dr. Gaylord could be found hanging