Revised: Casting an imaginary Judd Apatow L.A. poetry comedy set in early 2000s.

 Meant to be whimsical-spirited: 

Brendan Constantine-Paul Rudd 

Rick Lupert-Will Forte

Peggy Dobreer-Leslie Mann 

Kate Gale-Amy Schumer 

G. Murray Thomas-Loudon Wainwright III 

Raindog-Nick Nolte 

Bowerbird-Zach Galifianakis

Jim Doane-Will Ferrell

Leigh White-Alison Brie 

Derrick Brown-Jim Parsons 

Laurel Ann Bogen-Kathy Bates 

Michael Datcher-Giancarlo Esposito 

Suzanne Lummis-Lynn Herring 

Feel free to add actors and poetry personae to this list, but try to include as many people from the Apatow repertory as possible.

New Poem: WENT TO SEE THE POETRY BULLY

 went to see the poetry bully at the anthology reading

 not necessarily to see him but a few others on the bill

 as have we all, he has aged a bit

 now he looks like a backup musician for The Black Keys

 instead of the vibrant slam artist/tastemaker of yore

 I still remember him cybercalling me witless friendless talentless turd

 because I took issue with his basement literary circle jerk

 intended only for him and his coterie of special friends

 >

 so he read his contribution to the poetry anthology

 some write bloody nonsense about him with a woman

 I looked in vain for the bookstore cat

 figured out he might be in the upstairs office

 so his feline responses wouldn’t throw the poetry bully off-stride

>

 listened to the poets after bullyman—most were better

 but I recall the rifle butt to my self esteem

 oh I tore the powerful bully’s tissue paper feelings 

 and he never even met me (or, likely, bothered with my poems)

 just decided to give the stink eye 

 to fall in line with others who needed him

 but I persevere decades later

>

 don’t want him ever again being the arbiter of me

 damn sure don’t want him at my funeral 

 

 

New Poem: AFTER THE POETRY BALL

 watched some of it remotely 

 then saw some of its faces on, of course, Facebook 

 some have aged notably

 one person now carries a blindness cane

 two people I unfortunately remember from when I was younger 

 and starry-eyed and quiet and wanting to belong

 >

 some accepted me and others did not

 and it didn’t help when I rowed the perceived Wrong Way

 I was bullied—people said they were defending themselves 

 then I lost myself and responded with retaliation—

 thinking I was standing up for myself—

 plus there was anonymous hazing where others knew

 but chose to be silent, perhaps thinking they were friends

 or worried over offending a flawed totem they chose to enable 

 >

 I was treated for Multiple Myeloma last year

 and, upon transplant recovery, realized how big the world was

 also how small today’s celebrated poetry scene is

 (remote viewing when I checked didn’t go past mid-two digits)

>

 I can’t do anything about a past that, thankfully, is now distant 

 I can only write hoping someone might read someday

 I can watch remotely and appreciate what is good

 but I am still painfully aware of who my friends aren’t 

 and I saw too many of them gathered in Facebook photos

 on the grounds of the Los Angeles Central Library

 

New Poem: POEM OF CLUBS PART TWO

 yes, it’s true:

 one time I was in a coffeehouse 

 where a distinguished regional poet

 read a poem mocking young people

 who turned their foreign cars into Art on wheels

 >

 he used the term “rice burner”

 and the poem’s intro ended with the punchline 

“It’s just a fucking Honda”

 >

 what did I do, you may wonder

 I kept my mouth shut afterwards 

 because the distinguished poet

 once included me in an anthology he edited

>

 and I felt I still owed him something 

>

 and I’m ashamed of my cowardice, my complicity 

 wanting too too much to belong

That feeling of helplessness

It’s a Saturday afternoon.  You’re abiding by the new normal of staying home and flattening the infection curve.  You turn on an online telethon to bring money into the Los Angeles Covid-19 fund.

And then you see Rick Lupert—a poet who has dealt out professional and personal discomfort to you.

You know how that went—he’s generally acclaimed in a certain subculture and is being seen today by more people than, say, a typical Cobalt Cafe reading.  By being critical of him, you were seen as a sorehead and a loser.

So there’s a feeling of wanting to find the nearest paper bag and hyperventilate into it.  Plus brooding over mistakes I made and unproductive thoughts.

In any event, it’s  better to stay home (except for trips to supermarket/pharmacy), not infect or be infected and donate to charities and businesses which need cash infusions to pay employees.

That’s all I can do in the present and future.

Better than to muse about who prospers and who doesn’t.

Revised Poem: WRITING STAR 2019

I don’t want to go to parties.

I don’t want to drink so much

that I have to pull my car over

and vomit at least twice on my way home

I don’t want to approach Famous Authors-

only to have them ask me who I am

and leave me cold and unappreciated

as they search for someone more Important

I don’t want to be a Writing Star

I don’t feel like stressing out

and having acid reflux

over whether or not

I’ve been properly reverent

to Important local poets

I don’t feel like telling someone 

their work won’t amount to much

unless it’s published by a Real Publisher

I don't want to be regarded as a bad person

if I don't attend a memorial for a poet

who told me my death couldn't come soon enough

I don't want to be the kind of Writing Star he was

Pull the ripcord

Keep out of sight

Read a few good poetry books

Give away the ones I once thought I had to have

To make nice with people who didn't care

Be content with supporting others from afar

Cured of the egomaniacal disease caused by

Wanting to be a Writing Star

I give up, Part 2

I was inspired to give up writing/publishing poetry books when someone on Facebook told me “it’s a harsh world, print fewer copies” when they’re now just print-on-demand or e-books. After that response (which the person genuinely thought was well-intentioned), I decided “enough”

I give up.

HOW TO TELL TIME, my first chapbook of entirely new/recent poems since 2015, is now my final one.

Thanks to those who bought copies of my earlier books/chapbooks at readings and/or online.

I appreciate the support you gave me over the last two decades.

Revised Older Poem: CARNIVAL

Poem originally written circa 2004 about 1999-2001.  Trimmed slightly from the earlier version--still a subjective (and opinionated) take on a bygone era in Southern California poetry.

CARNIVAL

ONE

In a cafe's back room filled with 50 people,

the Host takes the stage.

ARE YOU READY FOR SOME POETRY?

he calls out.

The audience applauds.

In the prestigious first half, there’s a mixture of storytelling,

slam poetry and political sloganeering.

Applause is a guarantee if you read a poem with

the phrase “Free Mumia”.

The Host occasionally contributes topical verse

or personal reminiscence.

When the Host is through with a poem,

he tosses it to the stage floor with a flourish.

The audience-mostly poets-

either listen with rapt attention

or scribble spontaneous verse

into their notebooks

in hopes that they can surpass

what they’re hearing

when it’s their turn on-mike.

Then the Host shouts

IT’S FEATURE TIME!

The features are either well-known poets from the city

(occasionally touring bards from out-of-state)

or  the Lucky Few the Host chooses to groom.

Most of those Lucky Few tend to either be female

or share the Host’s political views.

The feature reads for twenty to twenty-five minutes.

Then the Host passes the hat

to ensure the feature gets paid for his/her work.

During intermission, some audience members leave.

A few people buy chapbooks from the feature.

Other poets head out front to pay homage to certain

Important people who host at venues in or outside the city.

TWO

The remainder of the audience returns.

The Co-Host takes over

since the Host has gone home

to work on a poetry project of his own.

Halfway through the second half,

it’s my turn to read a poem.

I read a poem about office life.

It gets laughter and applause.

One time, a poet close to the Host

tells me I’m good and worthy of a feature.

He says he’ll put in a kind word for me.

I never hear anything from the Host.

I say “Hello” when I see him.

And I know he’s heard my work.

Perhaps I’m not reverent enough towards him.

Or maybe I need to quit being funny

and write a poem with the phrase “Free Mumia”.

At 11:30 p.m., the last poet reads.

The night is over.

I give a poet favored by the Host a ride home.

During the ride, the poet nervously hopes

the Host will write a blurb for the poet’s

new chapbook.

And, against my better instincts, I tell the poet

I’m willing to write an e-mail to the Host

on his behalf.

The Host’s Tuesday night reading is the hottest

place to be in the City’s Poetry Community.

And I do want to be a part of it-

even if I’m never asked to read in the first half.

Sharing some bad reviews.

"It's truly hard to tell, in a McCarthy performance, where the
incohate rant stops and the poetry begins. And it's hard to
find the music, the poetic craft, on the page of one of his
chapbooks, either."--Richard Beban
“Aside from the occasional stabs at assonance and consonance
picked up and dropped so quickly they make me think they
were the kind of random typing accidents that happen
when monkeys try Shakespeare, show me the poetry in this piece"—
Richard Beban on one of my poems.

No further comment on the above.

New Poem: WHAT THE EGO WEIGHS

according to the egotist,
it's as light as a feather
from the point of view
of the egotist's victim,
it's a giant, intended as
soul crushing boulder
the egotist heaves
in hopes the victim,
as he tries to write his way
back to daylight,
will abandon all aspiration
and die alongside the skeletons
of practitioners of verse
the egotist feared would become
eventual competition
if given encouragement
and true consideration

Old poem POETRY HOST'S LAMENT

Poem written sometime around 2003-2004 inspired by a long-dead reading at a long-dead independent bookstore near the Pacific Ocean.

POETRY HOST’S LAMENT

The first open reader of the night

was a man reading a single poem.

Unfortunately, he didn’t hear the alarm

that signaled that his six minutes were up.

The poet continued to read.

I got up from my seat

and moved towards the podium.

The poet said:

“I’m sorry but I can’t stop now.

This poem needs to be read in its entirety

for its impact to be felt.”

I asked:

“How much longer is this poem?”

The poet said:

“Another ten minutes.”

I responded:

“Well, you can come back next week

and read the next six minutes of your poem.”

The poet said in a loud, angry voice:

“THIS IS AMERICA!  YOU CAN’T STOP

FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION!”

At this point, I motioned for my co-host to join me.

We grabbed the poet by each arm and walked him

out of the room.

“You [expletives deleted]!” screamed the poet

as he was politely but firmly escorted

out the front door.

When I returned to the podium, I said:

“Some people only want to hear themselves.”

Someday, I hope to find a venue that will pay me

for being a poetry host.

Someday, maybe pigs will fly.

Recent Poem: DYING OUTSIDE

So I left the rehearsal room

As quickly and quietly as I could

Knowing anger had no place

Amid a celebratory gathering

Walked half a block

Before yelling at the sky

When no one came to arrest me

I entered my car

Made a U-turn

As the 12-year-old still inside me

Wondered why the agreement had been voided

And the child’s voice echoed in the adult brain

The words that couldn’t be spoken inside:

But you promised this.

In writing.

Old prose poem: I'LL BE YOUR DEAD MAN FOR THE EVENING

I’LL BE YOUR DEAD MAN FOR THE EVENING (inspired by a true story of one night in Long Beach at the beginning of the decade)

I wanted so much to like it.

I kept my mind open and transparent and walked down those stairs into the ornate club and once the open mike began I felt like I was tied to a Catherine Wheel and made to watch an enormous circle jerk where almost all the poets talked about how they knew each other and the look-how-cool-we-are-ness rolled off the stage like a special-effects fog.

You don’t know me that well and vice versa but one time I did you a solid and you did the same for me by telling me something I needed to hear and I remember waving at you, hoping you’d come over and make me feel like I did a good thing by coming all the way out and being supportive and perhaps I was being childish when you didn’t because when you’re in a room with friends there are so many people wanting your time and friends take precedence over acquaintances and strangers.

I wanted ever so much to stay past the floor show and see the Main Event I drove so far away to witness but, as I kept spinning on my Catherine Wheel, I started thinking of all the things I hate about poetry– about how strangers aren’t always made to feel welcome and that I’m not sitting at the Cool Table and may never be invited to the Cool Table and getting very tired of entree to the Cool Table being determined by who publishes you, who you’re BPF’s (Best Poetic Friends) with, whether or not you’ve won the Go-Kart Prize, whether or not you’re Academic enough, whether or not your writing is bloody or merely pomegranate-juicy enough.

Sometimes, when I feel like crying like Disney’s Ugly Duckling, I wonder which is worse– being an outcast by design or by group vote, or being accepted and wondering when the popularity will stop and people turn their attention to others and the key light never shines on you again no matter how supportive you are of others with your money and time plus providing MFA recommendation letters and pullquotes for their latest books.

A few hours ago, I untied myself from the Catherine Wheel and walked back up the stairs and out into the cold night air. Something tells me you didn’t care whether or not I was gone because there were more than enough people worthy of your time. 

And that’s the way it ends. 

Poem ODE TO A DEAD POETRY VENUE

The Midnight Special bookstore
Shined its light on me
By way of a calendar listing
In the back pages
Of a free poetry magazine
So I drove through Friday night El Niño rain
Walked into the back room
And stood because all folding chairs were filled
Everyone actually listened to everyone else
>
It was the best possible first time
And I kept returning for two years:
Watching, learning, workshopping
Glad to find somewhere welcoming
Until changes were made,
Hosts were fired from volunteer positions,
Store owners wanted to be right all the time
>
The Midnight Special wasn’t immune
From hubris and personal/poetic politics
And I confronted that truth several times
At different venues as years and decades disappeared
And good memories turned sentimental ,
Painful ones eroding into resignation and acceptance

My blog is going....on late-summer vacation.

There's a finite number of times one can write about current events, corporate pop culture, hyped-up political theater (as in the debt ceiling melodrama) and--especially--the comedy-and-sometimes-tragedy of manners re "the poetry community" (and how poetry behavior sometimes mimics what one sees with dismay in the everyday world).

So I don't use my finite number up too quickly, I'm taking some time off from blogging.

But I plan to return later in August--refreshed, rejuvenated and recharged.

Meanwhile, I hope those of you reading this entry will go (at least occasionally) to poetry readings and buy books from independent stores/online retailers/last brick-and-mortar-chain standing Barnes and Noble.

The world can be a better, more harmonious place in so many ways--if we want it enough to put excessive self-centeredness on hold.

A Glenn Greenwald quote re Bradley Manning NEW YORK magazine profile.

"The hallmark of political and media establishments is to depict meaningful dissent from its orthodoxies as a form of mental illness, and conversely, acceptance of (or at least acquiescence to) its orthodoxies as a requirement for mental health (even when, as is true now, its orthodoxies are themselves warped and ill)."

This kind of get-right-with-us behavior also makes sense in the context of poetry/literary communities.

Glenn Greenwald's full column about Manning, the NEW YORK profile and a miltary vet defending Manning can be found here: http://www.salon.com/news/opinion/glenn_greenwald/2011/07/11/manning/index.html

A poet's bio of me.

Will be co-featuring at Alex Frankel's Second Sunday reading in Pasadena on Sunday, July 10th at 5:00 p.m.

Here's a link to Alex's take on me:
http://www.secondsundaypoetry.com/terry-mccarty.html

One addendum to the above: I'm only 86ed from one venue.  Otherwise, everything's copacetic.

What is an acceptable response to criticism you don't like?

Recently, I had some backchannel exchanges with a long-time veteran of the poetry community.  He chided me for taking criticism personally and brought out the time-honored "if you dish it out, you have to take it" statement.
True, but it's hard to "take it" when people resort to calling me a "turd" and saying that my death cannot happen soon enough.

Certainly, bullying doesn't end with childhood and adolescence.

And the above comments ("constructive criticism" perhaps?) were made by people who are regarded by some as class acts (one a poetry publisher/slam veteran and the other arguably a creator of the "elevated" community that now exists).

I think of a comment I once read about how people can be vicious to each other when the stakes are low (in the case of poetry, it often amounts merely to gaining prestige in your area, with national/international recognition out of reach for the most part).

Here's to all the people driving home tonight from whatever readings or literary events they've been to--all tying themselves into knots because they're worrying about having blown their chance to impress that special someone who might elevate whatever lowly status they think they have.

I know it gets better--it's been both better and worse for me at various times in the past.

One just has to hang on each time until the longed-for state of "better" arrives.

My blog will go down on my Permanent Poet/Writer's Record.

Weeks ago, I had a private back-and-forth exchange with a L.A. poetry majordomo.

Among other things, he finger-wagged me in the manner of cluck-cluck, tut-tut, "this will go down on your Permanent Record" in hopes of making me painfully and shamefully aware (he hopes) of the lasting consequences of offering uncensored commentary on poetry affairs here.

He mentioned someone who allegedly has never read any of my poetry--but looked at this blog and made the conclusion that I'm a bitter person.

Moving away from this facile characterization of me, I'd like to say that there are nice-and-genuinely-talented people in the L.A./OC poetry communities who manage to finish first; in fact, I posted something about one of them (now raising money so she and her backing band can afford their trip to perform in the UK's Glastonbury Music Festival) a few entries back.

Unfortunately, there are a greater number of poets who engage themselves in more typical poetry-community behavior of plotting, scheming, gloating, banning, dissing rivals/perceived inferiors-in-public-and-private and anonymously creating hate-Terry sites--and these are the people I tend to focus on when writing blog posts.

It's not so much bitterness as the mere recognition (and chronicling) of dubious human nature as it often manifests itself in the pursuit of literary recognition.