The Last Insomniacathon: I Was There

I first found Ron Whitehead’s work nearly a decade ago, and I’ve been a big fan of his ever since. Like most mythical figures in the outlaw literary scene, I had friends and acquaintances that knew him well, and they freely shared their stories about the man and his antics, but it would take me a full decade of being a touring poet before I was lucky enough to cross paths with him this past April.

For the readers reading that aren’t in the underground art scene, Ron Whitehead is the International Beat Poet Laureate, Lifetime Emeritus. A former teacher, and forever poet, Ron, the son of a Kentucky union steward miner, started out in the mines, too, before turning to the university of Louisville and Oxford for his education. Since then he has written and published over 30 books, recorded and released over 40 albums of his spoken word work. Part Kentucky mountain mad man, part poetic shaman, he has read, performed with and hosted a virtual who’s who of the best poets of our lifetimes, is featured in the documentary Outlaw Poet: The Legend of Ron Whitehead that’s available on Prime, and was pals with Louisville’s most famous writer, Hunter S. Thompson, who once infamously said of him, “I have long admired Ron Whitehead. He is crazy as nine loons, and his poetry is a dazzling mix of folk wisdom and pure mathematics.”

Friends, if Hunter Thompson calls someone crazy while praising their poetry, you know you got someone worth paying attention to. And make no mistakes about it, Ron Whitehead is crazy. He’s carried poetry around the world, often dragging his students along with him. He’s organized and directed many ‘Gonzofests’ to honor and keep Thompson’s lore alive, and he has infamously, with the assistance of poet and teacher Kent Fielding and many others, organized and hosted dozens of Insomniacathons, marathon poetry, music and art events that have stretched from 24 to 108 hours of consecutive live performances.

You’d have to be crazy to even think you could accomplish what Ron has in one lifetime, and you’d have to be damn near superhuman crazy to pull it off. I was most fortunate to witness that crazy and energetic madness close up when I was invited to be a part of the last Insomniacathon that was held in Louisville, KY on July 26-28th in this year of our Lord.

With a few months to prepare and look forward to the big occasion, my girlfriend Jess and I took off on the five hour drive south, stopping in Southern Indiana along the way for a brief visit with family, we arrived to our Quality Inn hotel room around five in the late afternoon on Friday the 26th, and made it down to the Chapel of St. Phillip Neri, site of Insomniacathon 2024.

The Chapel is a breathtaking venue. A former Catholic Church decommissioned and de-sanctified as a holy place, it has served as a non-profit art space since 1997. It might be the most beautiful place that I’ve ever read poetry. It’s a big space that probably seats 500 or more, although we only had sporadic crowds that reached upwards of 100 or so at our event. The original church pews and kneelers are all in place. Most of the many stations of Jesus’ torture and death that Catholics love displaying everywhere have been removed, but the stained glass remains, and it’s fucking stunning. And I wasn’t there to see the opening remarks that kicked off at noon on Friday July 26th, but I later saw video confirmation that Brother Ron Whitehead re-sanctified the old chapel as a holy place for poetry and art to start the whole thing off.

Two views of the gorgeous Chapel of St. Phillip Neri

Friday performance highlights for me include getting to see former Kentucky Poet Laureate Lee Pennington read poems, and getting to see Laura Hickl and her band perform while on tour all the way from Calgary. Also, in true hilarious Dan Denton fashion, at one point Jess and I decided to sneak around down the block from the chapel to smoke a Friday night joint for medicinal purposes, and just as we got the joint going good, there comes Ron Whitehead himself sneaking out a side door to retire for the evening. In his 70’s now, he no longer tries to stay awake all night and all weekend. He didn’t see us until he’d crossed the street, but he hollered and waved and greeted us warmly while I stood holding a joint in my hand like the guilty degenerate I often am.

The lineup for Insomniacathon 2024. 57 continuous hours of art, music, poetry, film and entertainment.

Jess and I left early that night, too. Around 11:30, and after a day of traveling, a night of poetry, and nothing but snacks between us and hunger all day, we decided to splurge on late night pizza delivery to our hotel.

This next part is only part of this Insomniacathon tale because I’m the writer, but Louisville confirmed for me a long time suspicion: I can’t eat pizza. I’m still in mourning over this, but with my IBS, and with missing all of Saturday morning at Insomniacathon 2024 due to debilitating illness, it’s just another item on the list of banned foods in my life.

When I was first invited to read at the event, I was slated for 2:45pm on Sunday, but a week or so prior to kickoff, co -director Kent Fielding messaged that due to a poet having to cancel, there was an opening in the 5pm hour on Saturday, and that being a prime time spot, one where I’d get to read with former National Beat Poet Laureate and fellow Ohio poet comrade John Burroughs, I said heck yeah, put me wherever. I’m just glad to be invited.

chapel sign

So, Jess and I showed up late Saturday afternoon, me a bit bedraggled, but rehydrated and stoked to read poems at this historic event. My longtime friend Jake Boone, that I’ve known for 18 years came to the event. Jake was a student of Ron’s years ago, and performed at Insomniacathon 2008, but neither of us knew each other enough then to know all that. It was amazing to meet and catch up with him a bit.

Joe Kidd and Sheila Burke, musicians and poets from the Detroit area were on for the hour before me, and I’d been facebook friends with them both for years, but it was the first time I got to meet them and see them play in person. Joe broke a string on his guitar early in the set, and finished out the hour playing with five strings. Just incredible to see them sing and read poetry in person

.Joe Kidd and Sheila Burke performing live on Saturday at Insomniacathon 

I was the first reader up in the 5pm hour, and Ron joined me in the green room before my set. We talked for about 10 minutes, one on one, about unions, working and poetry. He told me a few stories from his childhood when his Dad was a union official in the mines, and I don’t know if you’ve ever had a moment in your life where one of your living heroes is standing casually with his hand on your shoulder and telling you stories, but for me, it was one of the coolest moments of my poet life. Ron and I were there in the green room to greet Joe and Sheila as they came off the stage, and then I was up.

I read. People seemed to enjoy it, and Saturday night was abuzz in the everlasting creative energy that crackles when artists gather.

PW Covington snapped this black and white photo of me reading, Ron Whitehead in the front row, where he sat in his rocking chair for hours and hours all weekend. 

I got to see Kentucky poet and artist Jinn Bugg perform a heartwarming and heart stirring set that included bringing young  Charles Duckwall on stage to read. Jinn was phenomenal and passionate. Then Ron Whitehead and two members of his famed Storm Generation band, vocalist Katrina Harper and guitarist Tommy Bays took the stage for an incredible and emotional set that ended with a rousing poetry filled rendition of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah. Oh man, oh man oh man. What a moment to be alive and present. I don’t think there was a dry eye in the chapel.

International Beat Poet Laureate, Lifetime Emeritus Ron Whitehead performing with vocalist Katrina Harper and guitarist Tommy Bays. 

Later that night, way later, Jess and I made sure we were present to see National Beat Poet Laureate Mark Lipman’s multimedia presentation at 3am. I was fortunate throughout Insomniacathon to spend some time passing the eternal jazz cabbage and talking art, life, and poetry with Mark. He’s a former Joe Hill poetry labor prize winner, and you know how I am with labor and art. But for this Multimedia performance at 3 in the fucking morning, he read an hour long piece from his epic poem The Empireid, a continuation of the epic tales of Homer and Virgil, taking poetry all the way back to its earliest, non religious roots. He was backed with video graphics, a music soundtrack and Italian closed captions, and comrades, it was a journey to behold, as he performed for a dogged crowd of two dozen insomniacs.

Newly anointed National Beat Poet Laureate Mark Lipman performing his epic work the Empireid at 3am Sunday morning

After getting a few hours of sleep, Jess and I showed our true love of poetry by getting back to the chapel before 10 to see my longtime pal and collaborator A.S. Coomer, Drew to his friends, sing songs and read poems during an hour opened by the indefatigable Mark Lipman. Mark read from memory, something I’ll never be able to do, and kicked it off with a piece railing against fascism.

Mark Lipman performing poetry at 11am Sunday

One of the cool things about the Chapel of St. Phillip Neri, the patron saint of joy, the chapel has high ornate ceilings that provide one of a kind acoustics. Getting to see Drew sing and play there, after the dozens and dozens of places he and I have performed in together, that was pretty special.

Jess, Drew and Me outside the chapel

Also, by this point in the weekend, we were damn near squeezed into an emotional boot camp. Tired. Aching. Bedraggled. Ragged. Throats sore from too many cigarettes, joints, coffee, poems screamed, laughs yelped, and energy drinks drank. You know how it goes if you’ve ever participated in an all weekend music, poetry or art festival. By Sunday, the walls are worn down and the beauty we all need storms and overwhelms our open hearts.

Sunday was a day of a lot of good weed, laughter, camaraderie and good hangs. Jess and I had the honor of taking New Mexico Beat Poet Laureate, and road dog poet pal PW Covington to dinner at the world famous Burger Boy diner. That lunch is worthy of its own column, both in food and conversation. I had perhaps the best corned beef hash I’ve ever had, as we swapped road tales, Dead and Company show memories, poems, ideas, stories and future plans.

Me and New Mexico Beat Poet Laureate PW Covington outside the chapel 

PW Covington and Mark Lipman talking and telling stories outside the chapel

Ron Whitehead read again Sunday. And we all got to see him tell the story about the time he met the Dalai Lama, and they wrote a poem together. Then he read the poem, “Never Give Up,” and whew. Talk about a heart punch. Another moment from a weekend full of unforgettable ones that’ll be with me forever as I continue my own artistic path.

PW was slated to read near the closing of the marathon weekend, and he did. Now bedecked in a beige suit and Chuck Taylor tennis shoes, the soon to be crowned New Mexico Beat Poet Laureate gave a fiery road dog poetry sermon that included a reading of probably his most famous poem, “It’s Time To Write A Poem” that nearly brought down the house.

Throughout the weekend, Jess and I were honored to spend much time with Mark Lipman, PW, and Coomer, but also with Indiana poets Jonathan S. Baker and Tony Brewer, who kicked off a tour in Louisville. Frogg Corpse, Jimmy Broccoli, Chris Dean, Wyatt VanZuuk, Paige Turner, Michael Duckwall, Tommy Bays, April Ridge, Walden Quinn Caeser, Leslie Mendoza, John Burroughs, Jennifer Browne, Joe Kidd & Sheila Burke, Kent Feilding, Elle Rennekamp, and so so many more.

Our hearts were full to brimming as we pulled away from the chapel one last time, and decided to pull out one last stop and cross off an item from both of our bucket lists. We drove through Louisville to the home that Hunter S. Thompson grew up in, and stopped to take photos. Regular people own the home and live there now, but no reason you can’t find it and go drive through boyhood neighborhood of one of America’s greatest writers. So we did. Hunter S. Thompson will forever be a hero to me, and one of my biggest inspirations. I’ve chased his ghost down the Vegas Strip and now all the way down to his beginning roots in Louisville. Jess has a tattoo of one of his most famous lines ever written. It was a cool fucking moment to end the weekend with.

me in front of Hunter S. Thompson’s childhood home

I’m so honored to have been a part of the last Insomniacathon. It was exactly the big summer event I needed. But is it really the last Insomniacathon? I’d bet not. It’s just the last one that our beloved underground champion of poetry Ron Whitehead will ever produce. Others, Kent Fielding, Michael Duckwall, Frogg Corpse, I bet they come up with something to keep the wild, crazy, sleepless weekend tradition alive, and I hope I get to witness those weekends, too. But to have been there for the maestro Ron Whitehead’s last one? A priceless memory I’ll carry forever.

Love,

Dan

*this post first appeared yesterday on my Patreon paid subscribers platform