Beau Sia as Bob Holman Also Loses to Sherman Alexie in AlternaTaos
Last month, your guide Bob Holman wrote two articles on his experience as challenger going up against Sherman Alexie in this year's World Heavyweight Poetry Championship Bout at the Taos Poetry Circus:- “How To Train For the World Heavyweight Poetry Bout Championship -- and Lose!, Part I”
The view from inside the ring. - “How To Train For the World Heavyweight Poetry Bout Championship -- and Lose!, Part II”
The training regimen.
- A scathing email Hzah! from Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz.
- A slyly hilarious retelling by Beau Sia, who channels Bob like no other.
--Margy Snyder & Bob Holman
I am dismayed about the two pieces you wrote in regards to your experiences at the Taos Heavyweight bout. I am not upset about what you put in them, but what you left out!
I know poets get weary, sir, and that the stress of competing can be all too much for you ethereal artist types, but what about the obsessive nature of us complusive types? I want to know about the competition, round by round, sweat bead by sweat bead, allusion to illusion! I want it now!
Now I realize, sir, that you may find my letter curious, if not a bit annoying, but I found it necessary to write it because I need you to clarify, confirm, deny, elaborate, illuminate, postulate, affirm and supply all the info that I need.
For instance, what poems were thrown bout by bout, by each person. Who won said rounds? Did you feel like you were treated fairly, coolly, warmly, by the audience and judges? What didja wear, for crying out loud? More more more!
I want the transcripts of the poems, the ways that you prepared for the bouts and rounds. (You made allusions to preparations with a certain Mister Mex Glazner, but did those teasing little tidbits ever come to fruition with examples? I should say not!) I want to know about how you got to compete in the first place, when you found out, and how it made you feel. I want to know if the experience went beyond your expectations and stretched you further than you thought performance-wise.
And the rumors, sir, the rumors! You sounded so disoriented in your article, but is it true that you only lost by one round? That you beat Mr. Alexie in the improv round, a feat which I hear is more difficult than asking Kerouac to rewrite! And how did you do that, sir, if I may ask? I mean, improv: how in the world do you prepare? And what word were you given to use? Huh? Huh? Huh?
And then, sir, Mr. Alexie. Mr Alexie, sir, glorious Sherman Alexie! How was he? Was he a gentlemanly competitor? Did you speak before, after or during? Was he flying high over his tremendous book of short stories? Is it true he does not repeat? What did he wear, eat, drink, sound like? Sherman Alexie, sir, at least give us a paragraph on him.
Sir, I find myself in a wound-up state. I find that I am overwhelmed. I should stop writing. But sir, please, consider following up your two articles with a third, or at least a bit of a Q&A, answering some of my questions. Please sir, for the love of humanity and the sanity of my mind.
Most Sincerely Yours,
Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz
Dear Ms Aptowicz:
Yours is not the only epistle to take exception with my brown study. One poet actually took the time to rewrite my essays, and in so doing answered all of your queries. His name is Beau Sia, and his report follows.
Yours very truly,
Bob Holman
Beau Sia, slammer glamour, is the guy who rewrote all Jewel's poems for her, creating an instant classic in the process: A Night Without Armor: The Revenge. Now he redoes Bob Holman in the poetry ring with Sherman Alexie. And, as usual, he recorporates reality into the swag chest of love, the place we all (want to) live. It's Beau Universe, and if you don't believe, read on. You will never escape his mad poetry!
Beau Sia as Bob Holman Also Loses to Sherman Alexie in AlternaTaos
i am drunk again, but alive, belly full of someone dear's pasta, and i feel jewish. i am not sure if this is allowed, but i do, even though i am not bob holman. i am beau sia writing as bob holman and this skin i'm working my chink body into is starting to fit just right. and with that a sky is born. i don't go into details with that. i'm a poet not a (insert proper word required for this statement here). i just bring love. you know how it goes. and at this computer i write this love tidbit i want to relay to you. no facts, just guts (heart and soul and weed and music, too), the way it should always be. . .
i'm in a cloud. no, i'm somewhere else. they call it taos. i call it, “bear country.” there are no bears here, but the atmosphere is charged with wild animals. hungry things in search of poetry. folks and folk familiars who desire the fuel to re-awaken their dormant understanding that their lives are beautiful. and i am in the thick of it. chosen to partake. tip my cup of wonder into the ears of the willing. and it glows me to no end. even still. i am a child again because of it. i grew so much i feel like i was born again. don't call me cheesy if you can't read the sincere in that. oh, to qualify, i may wander. reason: poet allowed to wander when without (ooh, alliteration pointed out). proper education on how to write essays and articles. articles in france. she was a wild-eyed girl. thick lashes danced ricky martin's for the world. she held cards with numbers like a scientist giving an ESP exam would. her name? i don't know. her place? in my heart. how do i know her? she stomped same ground as me as i flew forth and back ten rounds with sherman alexie. i believe it was touted as the world heavyweight poetry slam or something like this. in the middle of the night, lotus sitting with good pal gary mex glazner, i called the event, “another unicorn for this poet spirit.” and we laughed richly. i didn't even have a sword or a pen. just a hat and a stack and a packed headplace of thought as i stood in front of the thousand in attendance. or was it 1021? maybe 1234. or maybe a palindrome would be more appropriate to help capture the magic. yes. it was 1221 in attendance as me and sher alexico breathed same airspace greedily, referee holding coin. and there was a keri strugg flippin' through traditions. here we were deciding the order of poetry. my spirit animal was bellied over with thick pudding laughs at the idea. value judgements on art? unheard of. and a less deepak man would say that i had lost the toss, but me (as in beau) be readin' that deepak lately, so i knew it was all good and accepted it. how to begin? backstory: sherman is beautiful man, love his hair, love his life, loved meeting him at sundance (hi, it's me beau! remember? you sent me books, ya kind gent.), says he can play basketball, but he hasn't put his ball in my court. bob is a beautiful man, love his hands, love his passion invest, loved the good times at the nuyorican where he made folks say, “hey, that chink got mad talent, yo!” (hi, it's me beau! remember? you so nice these all years.) we were objectified from the start, but we knew in the deep recesses that we both sprang from art's favorite son, poetry. if you want media facts, yahoo! search us.
critical mass on the ten round start. gloves off, sweat on, s.a. and b.h. mad dance and jabbers, coming forth in the 2 triple 0 with all the gut punches. social subconscious learns that i might throw the mother of all pieces, my father and my heritage intermixed from two poems, all the vulnerabilities laid bare before the hot lights as i vocalize his last words from the train station right after he drinks the poison, “i've lost my brain, etc.” and i can feel this audience swelling. it begins. . . la la dee da dee day. . .
each round a mystery to me, the judges are akin to pillows on my bed i want to lay my head down on, but at some point my word fists and word ducks and word footwork is all there is. the pulse of the matter and the center of my awareness is the poetry. and i'm surprised that this isn't called the world heavyweight capoeira poetry bout, cuz it's me and shermando dancing with each other in this crazy battle. two hurricanes in the rhythm of each other's currents. countering and lovering. i remember all my words and he remembers all of his and i remember all of his and he remembers all of mine and the crowd remembers all of his and mine and we remember all of the crowd’s but for some reason it's as if those details are not within my grasp. even the way each round went, winner/loser, escapes me. i see flashes in-between verse. my memberin' of the tell is limited, but visions before my eyes include: the paper falling scroll-like to the floor (joke intended, not received as such), the de-pantsing of a judge by a renegade slam poet in the audience, sherman catching fire in the middle of a poem and stating, “now this is what i'm talking about!,” the fish demanding a recount in the third round when my line, “let all the fish be,” incensed them to taking my side for the rest of the bout, the break after round five, gary (my wonderful coach through it all and just an all around great friend whose soul is full of love that he has no problem sharing all of with those he considers dear to him) and i in the great outdoors talking about doubts (he reassured me as i reassure you, doubt is okay to have, not okay to let run how you deal with the moments given you in life), and finally, i remember the dove and dodo bird that descended into the ring as we rang ears with epic verse, their presence a way of relieving some of the seriousness that was accumulating behind my knees. the flap of wings a revelation-bringer that me, sherman, some judges, and a whole hell of a lot of palindrome-derived folks were living in a moment of bliss, all mutually and equally a part of poetry's creations that night. yeah, i can dig that like totally. i loved it. from the waist up to the waist down, from the time i stepped off the plane to the time it ended and the three million paper cranes fell from the ceiling signaling the end of the event, and from my first kiss to my last reading (i foretell when i don't know), i radically adore how poetry has touched my life and this was another blessed time to cherish. oh, i even forgot who won. but i will say this for my ego: i won the improv round. and that is some tough fuckin' shit when you're up against the behemoth of improv that sherman a. is. but winning-losing, judgement is not the end of this piece. i have left some things out and rather than go back and fill in, i would just like to apologize for having left things out. sometimes it doesn't come to you chronologically, or in detail, sometimes it’s whole in how your whole being experienced it. and with that, i say i love you all. thank you universe for poetry. this is the last word.
--Bob Holman
speaks through the medium of
Beau Sia
