I’ve been behind in everything in life, including updating this free Substack, but this originally appeared on my patreon subscriber account about 10 days ago
Many months ago, my poet friend J.I.B. from Portsmouth, OH, asked me to be a featured reader at their twice a month event that features music, poetry and a dozen other forms of performance art. I’ve read in Portsmouth at least once or twice a year since 2020, and have not only become close friends with many of their local artists, but have grown to love the fledgling “rose growing in concrete” art scene there.
Then J.I.B. got invited to feature read at a special reading in Wapakoneta the day after our Portsmouth reading, and we decided to make it a two day, full weekend adventure.
Unlike any other time over the last decade, being a full-time artist that only gigs to support my art now, I spent the week prior to the scheduled event hustling books, driving for Lyft and scheming to come up with the gas, motel and food money needed for the trip. It’s good for an artist to have a few patrons that support their art with dollars, and life has been good for this artist for a while. With some help from some of you here, some good luck, and some gigging, the life of a shoestring artist, my friend Jess and I took off from southern Michigan Friday morning winding through two lane highways and two-road small towns. We had a thermos full of coffee, a cooler with cold drinks and snacks, and just enough cannabis pre-rolled to help us face whatever came next.
We stopped for gas at a country Marathon station just outside of American Township, OH. Yes, you can be extra American in Ohio, just outside of Lima.
Our route took us down interstate 75 to Dayton, then east through Chillicothe. Once you get to Chillicothe, the Appalachian foothills loom ahead, and the drive gets more scenic. That’s what we do in Ohio. We keep all the important money and capitalism as far from Portsmouth as we can, even though it lies in one of the prettiest parts of our state.
Portsmouth, OH sits on the Ohio/Kentucky border, separated by the Ohio River. It is one of the worst places in America for human trafficking. It’s where they filmed the famous pill mill documentary. It’s where so many humans died from opioid overdose one summer, that they ran out of body bags and places to store the dead. It’s where city council, and cops, and city leaders have been corrupt for so long that no one there remembers the way it’s supposed to be anymore. It’s at the mouth of Appalachia. Fascinating place.
When I travel to Portsmouth I like to stay at the Quality Inn out on the edge of town. You can get a decent, clean, smoking room with a pull out sofa sitting area for $100 or less a night. They have two suites available for a little more than $100, and over the years I’ve split the bill on those with various other artists.
The motel sits on the side of a hill overlooking the Old Scioto Trail Highway leading into town. Behind the motel is a wooded mountain hill. On the other side, there’s the four lane highway, a single lane of busy freight train track, and a sprawling valley view of woods, hills and farmlands. If a poet can’t find a poem here, they’re not even trying.
We got to the motel late in the afternoon. I try to get to town a few hours before the reading to allow myself space to go over my planned poems and book excerpts, and to let myself chill. Very few have gotten to witness my pre reading routine, but it starts the night before with a late night, one man war, where I pace, chain smoke, and argue with the cat for hours about what to read, and in what order. I sort through hundreds of poems that I’ve written, even though I already have an idea which ones I want to read. I’ve learned this step is important to me for two reasons: I make sure I don’t miss the perfect poem to read, and it reminds me that I’m a writer worthy of this moment. I tend to only remember the last week’s poems, and lately I’ve been writing anything but poetry. Going over a few hundred of my original poems reminds me that I have occasionally flirted with being a good poet, and that I’ve been doing this for a long time. Those reminders are the perfect level of confidence boost I need before reading in front of others.
Last Friday night in Portsmouth wasn’t just any, run of the mill Friday night art extravaganza for me. Their scene has become a sort of homecoming when I’m there, and this reading was planned to coincide with my recently released novel. J.I.B. the poet and host, has become like a brother. The features included me and Drew Coomer, and Drew is another artist that’s like family. Nikki Blankenship, a Portsmouth poet, actor, artist, fire performer and one of only 20 performing female sword swallowers in the world has become like a sister, and she had agreed to perform, too. Ezhno Martin, the poet and publisher of EMP Books from Columbus was coming down and I’d roped him into reading. EZ is like family whether he wants to hear it or not.
But like everything in the underground art world, and in Portsmouth, it didn’t quite go as planned. One of the other features, Zach, was in a small accident. They’re ok, but didn’t make the show. Nikki’s side show performers bag was stolen from her car. All her swords and fire work equipment are gone. Yet the show went on, and it was one for the ages.
The open mic was stacked with local and out of town talent. Amongst the 30plus in attendance, perhaps half were from outside Portsmouth, not an uncommon occurrence. The art scene there is its own draw and artists come in two or threes from all over.
The Landing, the new venue for the twice a month “dope as fuck show,” is cool, warm and inviting. They have incredible coffees and mock-tails, and several baked goodies. I had an oatmeal raisin cookie and a brown butter slow drip coffee with extra espresso. Goddamn, both were fucking delicious. Jess had an apple cider mocktail that was damn near orgasmic.
The open mic filled the venue with electric energy. Nikki read poems despite the heavy loss in her side show life. Ezhno kicked ass like only EZ can do. J.I.B. read in his staccato, take no shit style. My friend Todd Elson came all the way from Bowling Green Ohio to bring us beautiful Midwest songs. Billy Allard, a long-time Facebook friend and writer was there. We got to meet for the first time. There were smoke breaks, laughter, cheers, mad applause, and great energy. The crowd was eager for performance, and late stragglers came and went.
Then it was my turn to read, and I did. It went well, except on my last poem, a performance piece I’d never read in public, I was supposed to light it on fire at the end, but my bic sputtered and one thing I know perhaps more than most anyone, most things aren’t that easy to set on fire. But the set went well. I sold a few books, and the door fee put enough money in my pocket to get back home. Always a bonus for a traveling poet.
Drew Coomer, as his friends know him. A.S. Coomer to his legion of fans. Drew read some poems including one of my favorites of his, “Even a Little Shit Makes a Big Stink.” And he played some songs. I haven’t gotten to see Drew read and play much since he moved to Kentucky from Toledo a few years back, and getting to see him perform was like a warm blanket hug for my road worn heart.
After the show, most of us made it over to Nikki’s for a hangout smoke session. I found out hours later that I’d failed to tell Drew and Todd where we were all meeting up. We’d all agreed we were going to, but the final destination wasn’t settled til halfway through the show, and stoned and left to my own devices, I’m terrible at responsibility. So I felt bad about that all night, but still had tarot readings, strong edibles and early morning laughter.
Me, Jess and EZ all got Tim Horton’s donuts at 2am on the way back to the motel. And getting up and going the next morning to Wapakoneta for a 2pm reading was fucking murder. No one wants to rush up and outta town on five hours sleep after such an incredible night. But Me, Jess and EZ took an early detour to New Boston Ohio to Tudor’s Biscuit World. The place has a cult following for its biscuits, and they’re damn good. Cross that off the bucket list.
EZ headed back to Columbus, and me and Jess tailed behind him. Plan was to drop his car off and ride with us to Wapak, then hitch a ride back home with the Portsmouth crew. Jess and I were immediately side tracked by a roadside scenic look out. By now if you’re reading this, you should know that I’m going to always stop and look, so we did. Southern Ohio may be ravaged by predatory capitalism but it sure is fucking beautiful with its hills and valleys.
We met up at EZ’s apartment, fighting Ohio State football traffic, and then the three of us headed for Wapak running late but feeling great.
Road-trip hours with poets, artists and creative types are some of the best hours of my life. The music. The conversation. The concrete of road singing under tire rubber. It’s glorious. You should try it sometime.
We made it to The Temple of Tolerance, and friends, if you’ve not yet been there, it’s worth checking out. The Temple is a giant backyard area where one man has collected and stacked rocks to build a mind bending temple structure, and filled in every other space he could with memorials, art displays, sculptures, trees and plants. You can feel the deep breath of positive energy here. You can feel it in your bones.
Getting there late for the reading, we hung around the back of the group listening to poets read social justice poems. Mark invited me and other late arriving poets to read, and I did read a poem there, before J.I.B. ripped through his featured set, lighting all our hairs on fire. It was a 50 degree, sunny Saturday afternoon in November. And at the end of the reading, Jim Bowsher, the architect and builder of the Temple of Tolerance graced us all with a cameo appearance. Jim has been battling cancer longer than the doctors predicted he would, and his smile and stories were the perfect blessing to a wild, epic weekend of poetry and friends. We started off stoned and headed towards a night of Portsmouth degeneracy, and were baptized holy by the sacred temple on our way back. We got stoned then, too. I’d have it no other way.
Billy Allard reading in Portsmouth
Nikki Blankenship reading at The Loft
Ezhno Martin being Ezhno Martin
Todd Elson isn’t faceless. I’m just a terrible photographer. He’s on all music streaming platforms though.
Drew Coomer, my brother from another.
Random scenic look out outside New Boston OH
Poet J.I.B. just before his reading at the Temple of Tolerance
J.I.B. reading
Display in the back corner of the Temple of Tolerance
The Temple of Tolerance is home to the only house built like a whiskey barrel in the U.S. It still has bullet holes from the prohibition era.
A peace bomb at the Temple entrance.
Living vicariously through you, Dan Denton. Great slice of life from the road. I loved the peace bomb picture and the detailed words.
Great work brother...