kevingosa

For a time, I was regularly composing poems as an exercise in creativity to revitalize my spark for saxophoning. At some point I started to think of myself as as poet. That is, until I stopped writing. 

So, I’ve begun a new experiment. Instead of absorbing hours of podcasts on my regular underground commute to NYC, I’m going to write a poem.

The only rule is that the poem must start when I board the train and end before I exit. I allow myself only one short editing session and then the poem will be posted at The Versery.

Stand clear of the closing doors please.

Soon I’ll be able to announce some of the amazing things that are starting to happen with the company I recently founded in collaboration with my longtime business partner, Bryan Horvath.

Suffice it to say we hope to help companies and organizations do what they are meant to do better.

It is true that I am an amateur poet.

I have not been active in poetizing since the birth of my little buddy over a year ago, but with a reinvigorarted site, and new sense of creative necessity, I hope to “clobber it” in 2010.

Check out my work here: www.versery.com.

I break a BIG story today at The Curator Magazine: You Heard It Here First. Check it out right away. Don’t be last to know!

If you’re not already aware, I write for a fabulous online magazine - The Curator.

My latest is titled Snobbery and the True King Corn.

Here’s the lead…

No person can be highbrow in every arena of life and culture, even with the oldest old money in the world and the Gold Coastiest Gold Coast mansion in New York. There will be at least one aspect of life into which your tastes fall into the shunned and repulsed lowbrow designation – in food, TV, movies, theater, music, vacation spots, boats, art, cars, fashion, drink, books, comedy, sports, jewelry, or something else. But there will be something.

Many pretend to maintain the highest level of taste…

continue reading…

Jake Armerding and I are performing at the 15th World Saxophone Congress meeting in Bangkok, Thailand. Here’s the description:

Fiddling Around with the Devil’s Horn

A bluegrass and folk fiddler stretches out into new territory by daring to play the most audacious of instruments: the saxophone. An unorthodox musical combination playing a most American of styles, the blend of these instrumentalists’ tones and their musical vocabularies gives the performance a sound wholly distinct.

Saxophone is regularly heard in almost every conceivable style; yet rarely in bluegrass. And in its rare appearances there, it’s often heavily loaded with jazz vocabulary. In this instance however, the saxophonist is rooted in the classical tradition and strives to play bluegrass as a bluegrass musician would, having studied improvisation and the style for over a decade. And the two together seek to take their respective heritages and weave together a musically tapestry that stands out as something which must be heard.

If you’re around Bangkok on July 8, 2009, stop by Mahidol University and see the show.

Details posted on the Gigs page…

Check out my work on Porto, PT on Jake Armerding’s newest record, Her.

I recorded both of Jake Armerding’s new records. The first one is Songs in Stained Glass. It’s available for download at NoiseTrade.

I recorded several takes of free improvisation as an audition for the Sensorium Saxophone Orchestra. The two best full takes were both compelling, so I decided to combine them and create a layered improvistation.

Happenstansity

I’m proud to announce that my first child was born today.  So, don’t expect too many new updates. Hopefully though, I’ll still be gigging.

Live at the Bitter End

Jake Armerding and I just wrapped up a successful tour of the midwest. We had the pleasure of preforming at The Culture House in Olathe, KS. The performance was also recorded, so if our playing was up to snuff, you might just see a live EP of the Gosa/Armerding duo out soon.

Curator

Porcupine Shuffle

Because of the overwhelming outpouring of love on my birthday (my 29th), I will repay all by playing the best shows of my life ever by a gamillion times a thousand and one in July and August!

Or, I will at least give it my best effort.

Jake Armerding has invited me once again to join him on stage at several upcoming shows.

More details…

Dear People Who Fear Not the Devil’s Horn,

If there is one quality that every living room must have to maintain its status as such… it is living. Without living it would simply be called room. And we can all imagine what it would be like to say “hey, thanks for coming over. How are the kids…? And your Mom…? Awww, that’s wonderful, wonderful. What’s that honey? Oh, silly me, I must have left my manners on the porch. Please, have a seat in our… room.”

Here’s where you come in. Here’s where you can make a difference and give a room back its name. I will once again be on stage with the fully alive and lively Jake Armerding as we bring our music Live to the Living Room. But we can’t keep the life flowing without you. With your help we can continue to keep the Living Room… well, living.

Tuesday June 10 at 10:00 PM
Living Room
154 Ludlow St. (between Stanton and Rivington)
($5 suggested tip, and there’s a one drink min.)

We hope to see you there.

And remember, “you can’t spell LIVING without Y - O - U!” (hmmm, i guess you can. well, come to the show anyway.)

For two years I have been writing poetry as an act of creative inspiration to foster that part of my creativity that goes to sleep after hours of overtones, long tones, scales and other highly dangerous and geeky saxophone practice techniques.

Of course, over those two years people I know and that know me started to find out about this little experiment in creative writing and became fond of my work and told other people who told others and so on and so forth, yada yada, etc….

All that has led to an upcoming performance by me of my work at the Bowery Poetry Club as a part of Zoae Arts Zoae Series. And, the infamous organizer of the event has asked me collaborate with good friend and acclaimed vocalist/actor Kevin Massey.

So, Kevin and I have met and worked out what is sure to be an entertaining and we hope artistically and aesthetically satisfying experience for all. Thankfully, Kevin will be making up for my yet developing poetry with his absolutely terrific voice.

Whew… To read some of my work go to The Versery.

More details…

I’ll be performing to shows in Chicago and Chicagoland with Jake Armerding. More details…

With April 1 on the way, we begin to dread that long day of wondering whether anything we’re told is in fact… true. As a generally cynical people we already take things with a few too many grains of salt, but even the 10lb bag of rock salt we tote around in our fancy European carry-alls doesn’t seem to be enough. At some point, some hilarious person will make an extremely ludicrous statement to which we’ll respond, “really?”. Then, when that telling light goes on in their eyes, we feel a bit like Edison’s next door neighbor when Tommy would flip on his outdoor flood lamps. And we’re forced to endure those two indicting and annoying words…

April Fools.

Well, let me offer something to you that I can guarantee will not leave you in the dark.

Catch me with Jake Armerding and band at The Bitter End, Tuesday 4/1 at 9:30 pm. More details…

via Fieldnotes Magazine - Practical wisdom for emerging leaders who want to work and live well.

via Fieldnotes Magazine - Practical wisdom for emerging leaders who want to work and live well.

via What Kevin Thinks - Because I think everyone needs to know what I think.

via What Kevin Thinks - Because I think everyone needs to know what I think.

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I had a new poem published online. Check it out.

Train: PATH
Trip: 33rd to Grove St. 
Duration: 17 minutes

Train: PATH
Trip: 33rd to Grove St. via Hoboken 
Duration: 22 minutes 

a seated woman bellows about
a business man in sunglasses
across the aisle, head diving

as he dodges sleep.

WHY DO YOU HIDE YOUR EYES?
ARE YOU A NON-ENTITY?

she shouts.

GO BACK TO SLEEP!
WHAT IS THIS BULLSHIT?
THIS BULLSHIT IS LIFE!

no one listens. all hear,
and in lament she sets down Rumi.
and asks with a last lost breath.

WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH SOCIETY?

Bad Parenting,

i reply.

she turns in disbelief and leopard
print and asks for a refrain.

Bad Parenting,

i say again.

MAYBE YOU’RE RIGHT, she ponders.
I FEEL BAD FOR THEIR PARENTS.
HEAVEN KNOWS I TRIED MY BEST.

in fruitless encouragement i tell her
i try to meet Rumi from time to time
though quality translation is always
the key to his transcendence

YOU KNOW RUMI?

gasps she.

I’ve Never Met Him,

i reply.

save for what of him there is
in each word he birthed and
left for time and men and dust

I WISH THERE WERE
MORE PEOPLE LIKE YOU,

she says. Adding,

THEN THERE WOULD BE HOPE FOR US.

Good Parenting, i reply.

Train: M
Trip: 34th to 42nd
Duration: 3 minutes

sticky wing tips and poke
of elbows, stilettos and the
olfactorily repugnant blend of
hazelnut coffee, BO, human
piss and Dolce & Gabana - 

at least cattle get free hay.

Train: F
Trip: 34th to 42nd 
Duration: 3 minutes

eight million fish
school in harmony and black
predators and prey

Train: PATH
Trip: Grove St. to 33rd 
Duration: 17 minutes

For a time, I was regularly composing poems as an exercise in creativity to revitalize my spark for saxophoning. At some point I started to think of myself as as poet. That is, until I stopped writing. 

So, I’ve begun a new experiment. Instead of absorbing hours of podcasts on my regular underground commute to NYC, I’m going to write a poem.

The only rule is that the poem must start when I board the train and end before I exit. I allow myself only one short editing session and then the poem will be posted at The Versery.

Stand clear of the closing doors please.

foolings fulfilled from far
are foolings not fit for the flag
fool

any fool can fool with tools
true foolers fool the fooled
face-to-face

it is always there

but i often don’t hear it

ticking life away

it always comes at worst of times
& never when pen in hand 
& seated at an antique table 
grandpa used to woo with words 
his heart’s betrothed inspired by trout’s 
brook bubbling on to finally rest 
like glass reflect perfect world 
back through this window to 
parchment perched atop aged 
mahogany its scent hugging me 
& dad’s old chair creaks waltz with mockingbirds
while poems pour from endless fountain

amusing how the poet’s muse
pricks where paper’s weight 
cannot be born as hands
bear dinner to a wife 
for whom words were made
to speak what can’t be spoken
for emerald & eclipse were
fashioned from her eyes before 
they cleft the maker’s mold 
& in my head a verse unfurls that 
falls forgotten onto pavement 
long before a year would pass
between this work & the last

& even then i lamented the
time that disappeared to quick 
& stole each poem that
was to be a piece of me that 
lived in words imprinted 
but now a boy who bears my
name shall carry what of me 
is unique & some of that which isn’t 
like the need to write & struggle 
with each line & learn not 
how to be a poem’s master

a poem never comes when poet
solely inward turns to pull
one out like unwanted dandelions

a poem cannot come from wrestling
its heels & pinning it with pen nor 
by will or might can it be summoned
or stirred form its waiting to pierce hearts 
& a poem cannot come when it’s 
expected like a 5:10 bus

a poem never comes from 
insistence rather savoring existence 
& from colors & smells & 
sounds & cassettes & funeral homes 
& undisguised stares & from rocks 
& trees & birds in the air

it is not a thing taken but one given
& belongs not to the poet &
it lives unshackled by scholar’s 
chains or historian’s veins

it lives by those who breathe its 
syllables & syntax & story 
& survives through those that leave
what they think they know
& explore what they know they 
don’t know but know might be

to them a poem comes 
& they are poet

excuse you! i heard him snip
after my failure to deliver
train-car-hip-check-box-out
gave away last open seat
and i left myself that moment
to watch me unleash
rabid explicatives blushing
even Carlin’s dead cheeks
and squeal how not one
fucking guy has yet
lifted lazy ass from subway
bench and offered my bulge-
bellied wife respite for
wearied human-making bones
as train cars herk and jerk
bride and baby like raggedy
mom and ann/andy (its
gender remains mystery until
midwife waves salts
under swooned noses)
while tons of recent gym time
and tiny elements of surprise
suggest i beat propriety
into men unregenerate and
hand out whoopings
aloof fathers should’ve
long ago for chivalry’s
sake yet instead sat
fattened keesters on couches
scotch and seven in left
cigar in other hand and watched
Archie verbalize Edith and laughed
through chauvi-misogynistic teeth
with little regard for the day
their kids would sit and stare
at mine still scrunched in utero
while great-with-child legs labor
to hold balance round curves
and i now back in body see
i’ve done no such things
maybe out of fear or
christian restraint or
gleams in lover’s eyes
begging me don’t

it never ends now the
music in my head an
ostinato senza cesura
drowns out
me
and epiphany so my existence
persists in that twilight where
desires seek satiation and
i no longer know what wait
means as i am overrun
by access and wishes granted
and touch or tap or slide
a single finger to have
what for that moment i
think i lack though all
i need is stillness and
a silent mind or a nothing
between just one crossfade
between stop and play
when plastic sounds mean
a cassette thumbed to b-side
is all that is and it makes me
pause
and in those seconds
hear my own song which
betrays an unquenched longing
for limitation as gift
which gives me me again
when whims see not limits
cravings pursue satisfaction
by tireless shuffling for
perfect quaffs which have not
come and will not until
i awake to remember that
what is next is vaporous if
i pass over what is here
and cannot find peace in
hearing a tape deck click

i wish i would read the new yorker
on the subway and appear as smart and
savvy as she next to me from whom
i hide these words as i write

(tilting my notebook leftward
with an ever-increasing incline
forcing pen ink to defy
gravity to stick to the page)

as i write
about her and her reading habits and savviness
while a homeless man delivers his verse
in the land of the blind

In the land of the blind
no one sees the forest for the trees
so they’re all cut down in the name of safety

delivers his verse with all the panache
of a homeless man

In the land of the blind
a haystacked needle pricks before its found
and that fleshy pound might be two or three

of a homeless man singing
poems on a subway car

In the land of the blind
people still get on their knees to worship their celebrities
and broken eyes stare at tvs anyway

and i wonder if my verse

In the land of the blind
stars go ungazed; plays unplayed and
trails will forever be unblazed

if my verse will one day be read

In the land of the blind
crooked and straight seem the same and
every leader leads mankind in vain

be read by the smart and savvy

In the land of the blind
every cry for help is words and everyone
is unsure if the suffering they heard is true

or heard by another young stealth poet
as i beg

But in the land of sight
these things are plain and we all see who is lame
and hear me asking “brother, spare some change?”

exiled from your brethren
and your maker by
those who hate your voice

i almost didn’t find you this time

banished there to rusted
desolation under dying tree
a single leaf falling
brings no life to your iron stillness

though you still call
come and sing with me
take hold of me and ring
for do not touch does not apply

a less naked shade might conceal
your song more to their liking

but winter is my friend

i move in that barrenness
toward slivers of cold sunlight
cutting cross your name

for chris 2004

i am chris now

my hands drag fraying rope
and the tolling sprints
over brittle grass acres
to fill their ears
with rebellion’s sound
a triumphal siren that
drowns protestant screams

if i took a rational
only-fools-think-people-rise-from-the-dead
position

if there had been objective witnesses of the
disinterested-in-the-deadness-or-aliveness-of-the-party-in-question
variety

if paperwork had been filed by an authority of the
professionally-certified-to-confirm-death-and-or-life-remaining
type

like for Jarod who
hangs an official certificate
written by a paramedic
above his desk
a souvenir of his resurrection
from a three minute absence and a death cheated

to have been gone three days and
then at supper sunday evening
would mean he’d have killed death and
taken from it keys to (dare i)
eternal life

that is a hope far too great
for the rational
only-fools-think-people-rise-from-the-dead mind

are you

abandoned abused bitter
broken depressed desperate
gay lonely poor
self-loathing spiteful
tragic troubled

yearning for change
discontent dejected
rejected injected
insane (though only a little)

egotistical egomaniacal
pyromaniacal nymphomaniacal
or otherwise sex-obsessed

abhorred by
culture church family
or struggling to function
in society at large

if so

send in a lifetime’s expression
of inexpressibles and wording wordlessness
send in your soul carved
black blue red and
bringing life to sheets of dead tree

and languish on poet

(happy people and lumberjacks need not apply)

Kitchen’s
Ambrosial
Refreshment
Ever
Needed

Bellies

Languish
Amid
Cookie
Yearnings

Silken white buries
A darkness we want hidden
Come snow, clean our world

Each fragile snowflake
Plots to pile its beauty’s weight
‘Til I surrender

Acrid and salty
I remember mother’s words
Don’t eat yellow snow