Legends in Our Minds
or someone else's
Last week, my poet/writer friend Dan Denton referred to a mutual friend and poet, Danny Shot, as “the legendary, underground poet.” I like and respect both men and their work and was not being snarky when I wondered whether the words “legendary” and “underground” could co-exist. Was it like George Carlin and “giant shrimp?” By Dan’s kind response, I understood that he utilizes the word “legendary” or “legend” differently than I do. I should add that, despite being a poet and writer, I am often extremely literal. (And no, it’s not Asperger’s and I wish everyone would stop diagnosing, or should I say misdiagnosing one another immediately but that’s for another story.)
No harm, no foul, as they say, especially if you’re playing basketball in the ‘50’s.
Thinking about “legends” led me to think about competitiveness, both structured and personal. Sure, there are contests. People compete in slams, for prizes, for slots in graduate programs, or places that never accept me, like Yadoo. But there is also a level of exclusivity that is part of the game, especially in places like New York City. That’s what drew me to work more with musicians – there is a generosity to share the stage that is often not present with poets. In my experience.
And then there is this “contest” going around. Are You the People’s Artist? Apparently, Johnny Depp is giving 25G to whoever wins this Battle of the Band type competition. It’s a little hard to understand since I still haven’t found a way to see all competitors; maybe they’ll wait until there are finalists in each category, although I don’t know what the categories are, only that I maintain a mediocre 14th place in whatever one I’m in. Yeah, I threw my name in and answered three questions out of curiosity. One of the questions is about what you would do with the grand prize. The answers I’ve read are about traveling or being able to work on their art full-time. Wouldn’t the People’s Artist be creating a project that’s sort of…for the people?
To be clear, I have no personal interest or ambitions regarding this “contest.” I’m just a long shot here to mess with the algorithms.
And what exactly do you do with $25,000? In what ways do you NEED $25,000? If it’s to fix your trailer or truck if you live on the road or contribute toward an essential home repair if you own one, or a few months’ rent to avoid apartment eviction, I get it, but I’m not sure those are the answers they are looking for. You don’t have to be an artist to seek to avoid homelessness. When I think of what I need it’s never been $25,000. In the past, I’ve needed $25 for drugs, or $2.50 for a coffee or $5 for a pack of cigarettes or $6 for 2 slices and a coke. Those were needs. I’ve needed a winter coat and a pair of boots, but I never needed $25,000 worth of clothing. Just one coat will keep you warm, not the entire sixth floor of Macy’s.
This is my profile on the People’s Artist page if you want to vote for me, so I maybe hit 13th place instead of 14th. And you can read my dumb answers.
https://peoplesartist.org/2026/puma-perl?
And, oh yeah, the other thing adding to the popularity contest aspect is that you can vote daily for free, but you can also buy votes, so it’s not only about having lots of voting friends it’s about having lots of voting friends with money to burn. I guess the “People’s Artist” is well-liked among the moneyed as well as “the people.”
Here are some poems about art and competition. And maybe a little snarkiness thrown in. And one about friendship. That happens too, among artists and cannot be bought or competed for if it’s real.
Art is not a Competitive Sport
Art is not a guest list.
Art is not a haircut.
Art may be cool,
but who is to judge?
Miles Davis and Coltrane are dead.
Sonny Rollins is retired.
There are many Kings and Queens
of art, or there are none.
There are many losers, many winners
or there are none.
Art stars invent and reinvent themselves.
A million candles burn
throughout the night and die
come morning.
Bits of inspiration remain.
Art frauds race to the finish line.
There are no races.
There is no finish line.
Art is not a competitive sport.
Out for Blood
There was a time, I believe,
before art became a competitive sport.
I’m not referencing poetry slams,
which fostered love and community.
Pitfalls existed, because we are human.
I take small steps and fall off mountains,
hear my words spoken in an enemy’s voice.
Perhaps not an enemy, more like a false friend,
which is a hundred times worse.
Art saves a few more lives than it takes.
So, I guess we are ahead of the game.
Why Am I Here?
My writer friend
was more declarative
than I am.
Three years before pills,
COPD, depression,
loneliness and isolation killed him
– just a long way of saying
the pandemic – he wrote
a poem
titled “Why I’m Here,”
Greenwich Village, 2017
It might be
to have dinner
with Puma
& talk baseball
and loves stranded
on third…
are a few lines in the middle,
In addition to Coltrane conducting
a Latin mass, heroin fumes
off concrete in the Bronx,
rubbing an amputee’s stump.
I’m not here
to have dinner
with Norman
& talk baseball
and poetry and books.
Because Norman’s
not here
and neither is Liz or Jon
or Eddie or Walter
Why me?
Why not?
No answers
except for those loves
stranded on third base
and the outfielder
at bat
striking out
again.
I immediately picked up on tension in “legendary underground poet” because sometimes the underground is exactly where the legends live Puma. Half the people who actually change art never become household names -- they become whispered names, passed hand to hand like contraband books or burned CDs. That’s its own kind of immortality.
Your point about musicians sharing the stage more generously than poets hit home too. Poetry scenes can drift into this strange scarcity mindset where everyone’s guarding a tiny patch of spotlight as if there’s only room for one person at the mic. Music often feels more collaborative, more communal, less obsessed with invisible rankings.
And the “People’s Artist” thing is like such a perfect accidental metaphor for modern art culture: daily voting, purchasable votes, algorithmic popularity masquerading as grassroots support. Somewhere between a county fair, crowdfunding campaign, and dystopian telethon. Still, I’ve been voting for you every day because the rules allow it, and there’s something beautifully absurd and human about that too.
What stayed with me most though was this line:
“Art saves a few more lives than it takes.”
That’s painfully true. Especially for those of us who’ve watched friends disappear while the work remains behind glowing like embers. The ending of “Why Am I Here?” is great -- the baseball imagery, the stranded loves, the outfielder striking out again. That poem understands grief without trying to tidy it up into wisdom.
Also: “Art is not a guest list” deserves to be on a t-shirt, a mural, and probably taped to the door of every reading series in America.
Yay!!! Doing it that’s all.