The April 5th birthday of one of my friends coincides with the death of Allen Ginsburg and thus kicks of "Beat Week" in our circle friends. It's become a national holiday for the little alternative community we've created. We all smoke, drink, and write "beat" poetry that we read to each other. It's loads of fun.
This same circle of friends has been coming over to my place every Tuesday for the entire 6th Season of Buffy. Some are very into the show and some come because their girlfriends are very into the show and they are into the good company the gathering provides. Slowly, those naysayers have been converted and are watching the show now too. Anyway, last night we met for "Buffy night" and "Beat night" rolled into one. So in honor of both situations I wrote a Buffy beat poem. Since most of my obsession with the show centers around Willow and Tara, they are showcased in the poem.
This type of poetry is best read aloud in a rant following what little punctuation there is.
The poem:
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How I became the Buffy-bot
Of an age little more than actors playing teenagers on a fateful night 1997 I tuned in and turned on to high kicking blonds with stakes and stories of teenaged hell spilling over the earth. Years later obsession spreads like social disease infecting even the overeducated with a heady sense of “must see tv.” TV. TVS. BTVS. Buffy the vampire snickers and snobs full of questions continuity curiosity of who and what has come before.
Metaphors are dangerous things. Emotional hellmouth high school hallways filled with teachers and trouble makers; vampires and creatures from the id. A redheaded hacker makes magic with werewolves and watches the witches fall at her feet. Vicarious smoochies are mine to be had. Blond girls with big eyes, and smart mouths defend with swords and arrows aimed heartlessly at love. Chicks kicking ass, taking stands, standing up, laying down, stabbing, fucking, crying, loving, laughing it all off and moving on to the next interior demon.
Moving on to the next carefully labeled videotape culled from cable television and stacked with precision in a hallowed row on a wooden rack. The next show, next season, next fear of Big Scooby Death, jaw-dropping cliffhanger, lesbians kissing, metaphorically fucking flaming circles of mystical fire floating moaning and where the fuck was this show when I was seventeen!??
Trailer, teaser, Act 1, 2, 3. Time to tune to the big black box of linear light tube Tuesday. Gathered round for stories of sex, jobs, art plans for desert getaways and shitty bosses lording power. Good food, good wine, good women, good song please shut the fuck up until the commercial is on.
Here it is for the uninitiated: Slayer chosen one supergirl strong, sidekicks and boyfriends backseat to Buffyness witty not charmed. Vampire lover unleashing the demon, put down like a dog crawled away licking wounds. Cyborgs in camouflage pants are no match for teen witches blowing candles at night. Sister from nowhere protected as blood spills on hell gods and murderers of innocent men. She’s dead, she’s alive, clawed out from a box. Life sucks more than vampires fucking at night. Wicca fu witch crack cracked up and lost. The four winds have scattered while we wait here aghast for sweeps to start up and season six to wrap tight all our fears of break-ups, death and delight.
Just like the Slayer I’ve seen it all through roommates lovers bad drugs and demons. Every week I come back like the slave I’ve been programmed to be. I blew my government wad on a huge TV and cable access for the love of blond girl suspense. I’ve cancelled dates and hung up on friends in need just to hear Willow say those three little words. I laugh and I cry and I yell at the screen. I gather my friends and yell at them too. I love you my TV Tuesday at eight. I’m a slave, I’m a slut to the beat of the blond in the skin tight leather with a stake in her hand. I’m in love with the spells, the slaying the sight of two women kissing on national network. I understand nuance potions and metaphor, inner demons and outer hell. Always, always, always I come back, come back for more. I am the Buffy-bot.
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Maybe you should put some ice on it.
