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January 12th, 2010 - Poem: Ken ArkindIf it hasn’t been made perfectly clear yet, let us articulate once again: Hot Congress is about much more than music. Proof? Here: an exclusive poem from Hot Congress contributor, Mr. Ken Arkind. Ken was born in Steamboat Springs and grew up right here in Denver, Colorado. He’s been writing and performing poetry all his life. He’s toured the country several times over, involves himself in many local projects such as Denver Minor Disturbance Youth Poetry Project, teaches public speaking and poetry to youth groups, and of course, performs his own work on a regular basis all over town.
Ken was gracious enough to MC the Hot Congress Compilation release show at the Oriental Theater this past December and shared the following poem with the audience, reproduced here for the first time. Appropriately, it’s a meditation on the modest little cow town current contributing members of Hot Congress call home. The poem articulates the frustrations, hopes, and dreams a lot of Denver artists experience every day. Denver is, of course, a blossoming scene for the arts, with tons of great musicians, visual artists, filmmakers, writers, poets, etc., all contributing to the arts in their own way to make Denver a better place. But it can be tough to battle back against stigma attached to Denver from outsider critics – a mere stop along I-70, a nuisance, “out of the way,” etc. Stay tuned for an official page for Ken Arkind on this website where you’ll be able to find out more about what he does around town and all over the country. Without further adieu, may we present….
THE AUTHOR 9 BEERS DEEP WILLIAMSBURG, BROOKLYN 2009.
OCTOBER 24TH, 2007, DENVER, COLORADO. AFTER GAME 1 AGAINST THE RED SOX.
the D&F tower on 16th and arapahoe used to be the tallest structure west of new york city.
a false idol to legitimacy built by old west mobsters trying bring attention to what was considered by most of the country a train station piss pot before the west coast,
a skinny arm with a wristwatch grasping meekly for a sky that didn’t belong to it, a proud child staring down an army of stone soldiers called the Rocky Mountains, it wasn’t exactly the tower of babel, just a reminder that we could build it again if we wanted to.
curtis was once called the “street of 10,000 lights” a 6 block used condom of brothels, saloons and strip joints so brightly lit you could always tell how much fun your neighbor had the night before judging by the sunburn at sunday services.
colfax, has always been colfax, an exposed artery in america’s dreams of western expansion, sliced open by the continental divide, when the blood pooled we called it home.
If new york is the city that never sleeps, denver is the city that passed out before last call.
statistics say we drink twice as much as boston, the proof is in the pavement, if it wasn’t for that pesky american revolution we’d have at least a bill’s more bodies scraped into the streets, leaving behind the sweet stink of all the wasted tax dollars spent on drunk driving adds.
so have your god damned world series, we never needed a reason to riot beyond our own elevation, some people blame the altitude sickness, but being that much closer to heaven simply reminds you of how unreachable it actually is, so we smear sins off on steering wheels like wiping our feet on god’s door mat.
fuck your gravity.
gravity is nothing but the bottom of god’s boot.
it’s life’s most polite form of violence.
we know gravity well here, live beneath the shadow of the back of it’s hand in the west with every hangover,
so do not call those mountains, those are not mountains, those are slow motion gomorrah, those are title waves of stone,
and tonight the city is drowning, flooding into bars like they were an arc, if you’re not drunk than you’re a unicorn.
women in lodo sniffing out something that smells like regret in the morning, holding their mocha martini drooped profiles in tonight’s question marks, searching for tomorrow’s answers in the form of men who wear shirts that look like insurance companies, sussing out the moment’s deductibles,
bar bar pulsing like an epileptic heart-rate, glasses breaking like gunshots, there’s a dog on the pool table, the band’s too drunk to play, and there’s more smoke than a southwest colorado forest fire, but when all the bartenders are under age, who gives a shit,
across town in the baker district, black scarfed hipsters talk about social network avatars as though they come from a big town, and the band’s not too drunk to play but the club’s too crowded to dance, so the kids just set themselves on fire and spread their ashes across the floor instead,
colfax is still mopping up the blood, and somewhere near the bluebird theatre a woman hollers:
“FUCK NO I DON’T DRINK COORS!”
while I’m bouncing between bars off 13th avenue, working on a tomorrow more hung over than a clothesline, trying my best to forget the smell of somebody’s hair in the morning, her golden curls, sharp and shining, as the wire heaven lines its gates with.
raising glasses in denver is a middle finger against natural law.
it’s a dream picking a fight with fact.
we still live in a cow town, but it’s full of wolves, with hearts that pulse like neon signs, and grins jagged the way eastbound streets ricochet off of five points, who howl at the sun because we know it’s just the moon with too clean teeth and a car salesman’s smile.
our sunshine has been california’s biggest cash crop since the gold rush.
but we’ve always been better at screaming, thin air carries voices well, hangs in the wind like a savior,
we believe in fire more than prayer, throwing molotov cocktails at the sky, till we can’t tell the difference between flames or stars,
waiting for gravity to bitch slap them back to us, like pennies thrown back from a wishing well.
we are dirty kids tossing rocks at chain link fences just to see a spark, we are a firing squad full of blind men, we are an unmarked cross standing defiantly on the side of I-70 demanding attention, we are still bleeding.
we are 18, drunk for the first time, and pissing on the capitol building, praying for the big blue bear to tear through the convention center, and maul the shit out of those stupid fucking dancers on speer blvd., before curb stomping that freaky murderous horse at DIA into so much corporate glitter.
we are still bleeding.
we use gun club road as a noose to the hang the memories of our dead friends, scream their names from our dust devil lungs, into the hollow stone heart of union station, then sharpen the pick axes of our teeth on the echo.
we are flames engulfing the hills of the west side, the last decade of gentrification ripping away, a fur coat burning across an emaciated spine,
we are drinking whiskey until our throats are as warm and rough as the hands of corky gonzales.
we are the ghost of don becker’s severed arm sobbing like an abandoned lover, and the cracked laughter of his final joke stumbling through the alleyways of capitol hill like a limping bullet.
we are human funeral peers, dancing in eulogy, watching the register building buckle like an alcoholic’s knees beneath the weight of next years lay-offs, as the burning flags blowing atop the brown palace clap in thunderous applause, and we run with flaming limbs into the muddy waters of the platte river, baptizing ourselves again and again, until day breaks like last call.
the new light, shining upon windows, fractured as a hobo island grin, streets, defeated as a commerce city sunrise.
the shadows of the mountain tops receding into the west, as though god’s hand was unfolding, his fingertips combing the eastern prairies like pack animals,
the morning skyline glinting like canines from their open mouths, the beasts howling as they go,
howling as they go howling as they go.
Copyright pending. Printed with permission from the author, HotCongressDenver.com 2010. January 10th, 2010 - Deirdre Sage: Fuckable
Ahhh, the Donnybrook Writing Academy. Not only does this blog have superb taste in… well… everything, but these fine fellows also show more than a little cunning in the sexual prowess department. We’ll be the first to admit that recognizing fuckability in a local rockstar is not always a simple task, but this troupe seems to be on somewhat of a roll. After all, what’s more fuckable than a whole GROUP of fuckable rockstars? Last week, Ms. Ivyy Goldberg was eye-caught, star-strukk, however-you-want-to-call-it by yet another member of a band who appears on the very first Hot Congress Compilation: Deirdre Sage, singer extraordinaire of Kissing Party. The post, though recognizing the “uncouthness” of mentioning Deirdre’s fabulous boobs, makes mention of said fabulous boobs twice. But of course there’s more to fuckability than just boobs (especially in the case of Lucas Johannes… we would hope…yikes.), and Ms. Goldberg does thankfully delve into deeper detail in her post. Click here to read the original article in its entirety, and don’t forget to visit Kissing Party’s page on this site for opportunities to, you know… score big, as they say. December 31st, 2009 - A Hot Congress New Years: Fun. As. Hell.The decade is ending. Have you heard? It’s big news. To celebrate, Hot Congress has organized a get together with music and drinks for tonight’s celebration! Come down to our buddy Raven’s house – 2220 E. Colfax, next to Grand China restaurant, red door (apartment is above Cork Gallery). The show will feature the following bands:Li’l Slugger The Breakfastes Action Friend Jim Jims Kissing Party and following…. LUCAS – DJ MASTER SPINNER OF DEADLY JAMZ Festivities are slated to begin at 9:00. Also – a little special treat – the fine fellows of Denver’s newest Wizard Ale Works – a home-brew-crew – will be serving some special beers at the show. They are asking for 2$/beer, which is an insanely good price, but they say they are willing to take donations, too. The crew is currently devising a “band beer” program, which we spoke with them about earlier this week. Expect a full profile soon, but the idea is completely awesome. So come down, try their beer, and ask them how you can participate. See you tonight, and happy new year!! |
