Love letter 11/15/12

D notables,

Hey! Been trying to meet you...

Maybe this weekend?

Nov 16
No cover all night!

5:00p
Jazz Gem
[7:00p]
Jennifer Leigh Cress, Brave Song Combo

[10:00p]
Volunteer Funk Dept.

Nov 17

[4:00p]
Music Train Family Concert Series: Johnny Barber and The Rhythm Razors $7 adult/$3 kids

[7:00p]
Deborah Hill and The Sugardaddies $5

[9:00p]
The Duke Street Kings  $5


Yours,

D Script

Extra Credit: Today is the great poet Ted Berrigan's 78th birthday. So here's a great poem by the man himself.

Last Poem

Before I began life this time
I took a crash course in Counter-Intelligence
Once here I signed in, see name below, and added
Some words remembered from an earlier time,
'The intention of the organism is to survive.'
My earliest, & happiest, memories pre-date WWII,
They involve a glass slipper & a helpless blue rose
In a slender blue single-rose vase: Mine
Was a story without a plot. The days of my years
Folded into one another, an easy fit, in which
I made money & spent it, learned to dance & forgot, gave
Blood, regained my poise, & verbalized myself a place
In Society. 101 St. Mark's Place, apt. 12A, NYC 10009
New York. Friends appeared & disappeared, or wigged out,
Or stayed; inspiring strangers sadly died; everyone
I ever knew aged tremendously, except me. I remained
Somewhere between 2 and 9 years old. But frequent
Reification of my own experiences delivered to me
Several new vocabularies, I loved that almost most of all.
I once had the honor of meeting Beckett & I dug him.
The pills kept me going, until now. Love, & work,
Were my great happinesses, that other people die the source
Of my great, terrible, & inarticulate one grief. In my time
I grew tall & huge of frame, obviously possessed
Of a disconnected head, I had a perfect heart. The end
Came quickly & completely without pain, one quiet night as I
Was sitting, writing, next to you in bed, words chosen randomly
From a tired brain, it, like them, suitable, & fitting.
Let none regret my end who called me friend.

11/1/12 News

D friends,

We've been playing with ways of seeing the letter D for a decade now. As a prefix it is a reversal, as in "de-friend". As a preposition it may mean "of" or "from", as in "de amor". One might argue that these two meanings of the word are themselves opposites. There is a kind of yin and yang here, the "reversal" leading to the opposite, toward another "of", toward a new "from". The shape of the letter D is thought to derive from the pictogram for Door. It does indeed look like a Door. When you enter in through this Door you reverse your "of" and find yourself within the frame work of a different "from". Ahi estas de la amistad.

Come through our Door this weekend and find out what we're talking about.

Nov 2

No cover all night!
[5:00p]
Alice Frisch (folk)

[7:00p]
Sterling Edge (pop)

[8:15p]
The Greenbelt Rascals (bluegrass)

[9:45p]
Coral Reef (reggae)

Nov 3

[10:30a]
Zumba $8

[6:00p]
Denver Family Institute benefit w/ Clusterfunk and more (rock and roll dance covers). $10 suggested donation.


That's what we're talking about.

See the website for the rest of the scoop.

Next Wednesday we are going back to a blues jam format hosted by Todd Johnson. Our thanks to Farm Jazz for filling in over the summer!

Extra Credit: Here's a powerful poem of understanding, one to remember, by Martin Espada

“Solil­o­quy at Gun­point”
for José
I sat in the car,
win­dow down in the sum­mer,
wait­ing. Two boys
from the neigh­bor­hood
peered into the car
and did not rec­og­nize me,
so one opened his gym bag
and flour­ished a revolver
with black tape on the han­dle,
brush­ing the barrel’s tiny mouth
against my forehead.
I sat calm as a burn­ing monk.
The only god in my med­i­ta­tion
was the one who splices the rib­bon of the film:
a screen of gun­men with sleepwalker’s gaze,
con­fi­dent detec­tives in silk neck­ties,
the coo­ing of hostage nego­tia­tors,
solil­o­quy at gun­point
recited with­out stuttering.
I spread by hand
as if to offer salt
to a lick­ing dog.
The script said give me the gun,
so I said give me the gun.
And he did.