Eric Thomas Guerrieri
Eric Thomas Guerrieri has performed at venues throughout the United States and Europe, including the Nuyorican Poets Café, The 92nd Street Y, CBGB's, Paradiso (Ams), The Open Stanza (Ams), Kilometer Zero (Paris) and various other spaces from New York to Chicago to California.
Creatively writing for over 20 years, Eric just recently got involved in Slam Poetry and Spoken Word in 1998. He curated and hosted the final season of louderJAM in 2000 and hosted the "lost year" of slamTHIS at Bar 13 in NYC in 2002. He coached Team Union Square at the 2002 National Poetry Slam in Minnesota and has conducted poetry workshops throughout the NY metropolitan area.
Eric was most recently published in the first volume of the PSI Slam Anthology due out in May 2003. Additional work is available in the self-published chapbook Water Imitating Glass 2002.
Currently living in Brooklyn, Eric is finally submitting more work for publication and seeking a career that integrates the things he loves most: writing, speaking, travel, wellness, and of course--magic.
egloudrjam at yahoo dot com
If Sundays were a beginning for James,
then Mondays are the first of six consecutive ends.
Today is the day he learns to set goals.
Today is the day purple races up from behind him and splits into two-
rose and royal blue.
This is abstract idealism and the consequence of decision.
On this day, hunger gives way to its stronger sister,
today- he learns to thirst.
"Fuck the rain," he screams to the treetops,
"Not that kind of water. That does nothing for the burn!"
His belly is a smoldering cone of incense that pours from his nostrils like flaming bile, he'd rather be stabbed than fill his lungs with the dry air of a new week.
Many a Monday has he wished for drowning,
such a joy to leave the house for James.
He's left a trail of rubies and copper coins from doorstep to day
since the morning his father threw him from the house of his youth-
"Find a girl and get married", he snarled.
He curses that day, his introduction to a new kind of pain in a fetid bouquet,
morose graduation of the senses.
That too was a Monday-
the day his visceral reactions turned pancreatic,
withering both insulin and enzyme.
"That's why diabetics are always thirsty," he proclaimed.
"Their fathers must have kicked 'em in the gut too."
James is slow but he's getting quicker,
drinks bulls blood straight from the bottle
but won't touch water from the tap.
It was indeed the most difficult decision he made everyday-
to leave his home-
where he fears he can't find water with ice cubes that don't taste like the freezer
and where nothing comes without a measure of pain.
He wonders at the kingdom of plants,
how they drink from their feet and imagines their quenching
hurts a bit less than his own.
He sees how things need water to grow,
it makes him ask why and with out thinking
forms the word "devotion" from the back of his throat
over the full length of his tongue and stops
at the back of his teeth
in way that could form every word in his language
from three syllables he's only seen in crosswords.
Now less abstract, more ideal-
Devotion blooms between bottom and brain and pulls him forward,
for the first time, forward.
This is a brand new day for James.
Krakowiak Concerto Rondo in F drips from the petals
of every uncut flower, tickles him high and low and
makes him thirst the more.
James wants a job, James wants a wife.
When he turns to follow the trail he left,
James discovers metaphor.