Amiri Baraka last night live and loud in Santa Cruz. Arrived to find they'd stuck him at the end of the open mic slam events, not leading off the night as I'd hoped. Almost jetted, coaxed to stay by certain hot someones, and to give no satisfaction to the group handing out flyers at the door calling Baraka a homophobic misogynist anti-Semite. The slams were mostly predictable triumph-of-the-I stutter-paced anti-heroic epics, yes. But there is something to be said (or, I will say something for) that udder (utter) energy matched with an almost vulgar sincerity that is both inspiring and frustrating; 100-plus can and will gather on a weeknight in a sleepy town for poetry, but only it seems if it's a poetry of pigeon holes tiptoeing commercialization and hipophop.

Anyway, Baraka rocked. Initial thirty minutes of brilliant ranting & autobio re: MLK, X, Castro. Points taken: you're using your voice right if institution after institution ejects you from its confines (comforts). "Skin is thin." Read DuBois. Organize a United Front.

Scratched his head a bit and sd "I better read some poems" as if to stop himself from working too much up. LOVE the little realm he creates with the scat jazz prefaces and epilogues, his squeals and haunting refrains -- WHO WHO WHO blew up America? Place was radiating and squirming tense: perfect. Standing O. He's kinda small, which is nice. Wore this flimsy green scarf as a neck tie.

Woke this morning still with Baraka on the brain. Rolled onto my back, stretched my hands behind my head (sounds bad I know but scout's honor) and thought how can we make poetry an event like that, always. The resistant & creative energy in that radical refusal of alienation - that feeling like something in the world might come or be done of it.