Sunday, February 28, 2010
FACT-oid
Nightly, Hans Christian Anderson left a note at his bedside stating, "I only seem dead." He had an uncontrollable fear of being pronounced prematurely dead and then buried alive.
Calliope Nerve Interview Series: Michael T. Weems
Tell us about your new play Wincing at the Light.
Wincing at the Light is first real attempt at fusing together my two biggest interest – theater and sports. From it’s blurb: ‘When a professional hockey team comes calling, Ben has to celebrate. His zealous festivities leave him with an upset girlfriend, a lovelorn best friend, an under appreciated teammate, and an ankle device monitoring his movements to a probation officer. As their final playoff game approaches, Ben not-so-deftly navigates the temptations that could potentially undercut his future and leave him with all or nothing. Wincing at the Light is a comedic portrayal of what can happen when loyalty, friendship, and love are forced to face off to decide the true winner.’
I grew up a sports nut – playing hockey, baseball, football, everything really. I continued into college and finally hung up the skates when overnight hockey trips were dropping the GPA to dangerous levels. While difficult for some to fathom as material ripe for staging, I ask them to think of the high drama involved in an athlete’s day to day sports life – trades, injuries, travel, contract negotiations are all commonplace events. The play comes at a time when the extremes of this lifestyle have been placed forefront the media’s eyes (*coughTigerWoodscough*). The sports world may not be the most obvious source material, but indeed was one that helped provide the right balance of calamity and truth to this little family.
How did you become a playwright? What are some other plays that you've written?
Once I’d settled in NYC, I knew right off the bat that I never wanted to go the ‘bartender/waiter’ route here. I have the utmost respect for those who do, but I’d been working in restaurants for a solid six consecutive years prior to that. So, I temped. Once one gets over the chameleon like skills needed to jump from firm to firm, boredom quickly sets in. I had in my mind a story I thought needed to be told and without a real idea of how to structure it, started writing Fragments, which became one of my more successful pieces to date. It took time, readings, and patience and eventually the play was edited from a monstrous 120 something pages down to a more manageable 60. Some other produced pieces include: Necessary Adjustments (A family satire on a wedding gone terribly wrong), Bludgeon the Lime (Featuring several couples sent away to a tropical island to resolve their troubles through ‘isolation therapy’) and Quiet Bed (A full length play comprised of four vignettes – each exploring differences in bedside manner, expectations, and lies. – for more info on any/all plays and work visit www.michaeltweems.com)
Tell us about some of your writing.
While I feel like my writing has grown by leaps and bounds since earlier works, I’m always excited about the ability to mature and grow as a writer. A good deal of my work focuses on the dynamic of relationship and the dialogue, often cited as well done and realistic, is what drives that. Despite my ambitions, I recognize that I’m not in a place where I’m a mature or seasoned enough playwright to write a big sweeping drama, but make steps every day to expand from my comfort zone.
What's it like being an actor in the big city?
It’s daunting to say the least. Imagine a world where you could be entirely happy doing one particular job day in and day out everyday of your life. Imagine there are a few thousand other guys who are taller and handsomer and smarter and who have more credits than you and who are going for the same exact role as you and have probably played said role to rave reviews. We call those weekdays.
What type of acting roles do you prefer? What are some of the roles you've been in?
I love originating roles – having that clean slate and nothing to compare to. Just innovation. I can’t pick between comedy and drama – as each is equally settling. There’s nothing like a big dramatic scene to get the blood going and the audience on edge, but at the same time it’s always a treat to make people laugh. Some favorite roles played – ‘El Gallo’ in The Fantasticks (My first musical lead), ‘Rob’ in Twilight of the Golds (Probably the most solid dramatic work I’ve done and great cast), ‘Justin’ in I, Undertow (a chance to not only originate a role, in a play by a good friend and incredible writer/director – Blake Bradford, but to reprise it and grow with the character), dual roles in Office Hours (being directed by my wife and being part of one of the funniest scenes I’ve played), and Cliff Roney in Floyd Collins (my first leap as an actor – as I had only started a few years before and in this beautiful musical, found myself sharing the stage and holding my own against people who would go on to work on Broadway).
What makes you so creative? Is it natural, learned, or both? Do you techniques to help you along?
I think it’s a two pronged attack – both having the stories to tell and the storytelling abilities to do so. I grew up in an environment that fostered creativity, imagination, and the arts and later in life have been blessed with friends, actors, writers, and directors who have been instrumental in fostering a community of artists looking to make the best work possible. I’m not sure that I maintain any ‘techniques’ but certainly have my tools that help me along. It definitely involves planning/plotting, not setting the story/characters in stone/and having a kick butt editor. I hate grammar.
Believe in writer's block?
Absolutely. It’s a beast. Some days are the dream – flying along and knocking out a scene, resolving a plot point that might’ve been bugging you, or just getting a chunk of pages done. And others you just stare. And stare. I do believe it’s something that can be rectified, but that part takes incredible patience. The best advice I’ve heard, though it’s not been 100% for me, has been to just write anything. Write a review about a song, a poem, a two minute play. It’s frustrating when you have your eye on the prize, but valuable.
What advice do you have for someone looking to create a living from their creativity?
Any opportunity to share your work and words is valuable. My first production came from a blind submission. I had an incidental meeting with the producer at a short play festival (for which I wrote) and the end result was them producing several of my full length plays. At the same time, always protect yourself and integrity to the utmost degree. Finding the right director is always the key – someone with whom you can have an honest, direct give and take. Someone you can trust to say that ‘maybe this line didn’t work’ or ‘this part is clunky’ but in a way that is a solid unified vision and which doesn’t sacrifice the story.
Also, for those starting off or who consider yourself without resources – I’ve stuck pretty staunchly to a formula. Essentially: 1.) Write play. 2.) Have those nearest and dearest (though honest and constructively critical read and give you edits) 3.) Sit on it for a few weeks, a month even. Let it sit in your brain. 3.) Edit. 4.) Invite actors/directors/friends who aren’t even in theatre over – have pizza and cheap beer. Read it together and take notes at the end. I’ve gotten such incredible feedback from people in all modalities. 5.) Edit and let it sit for a while. 6.) Repeat step #4 if you feel it’s needed, if not then send your baby out into the world.
Rejection will come in spades. It will sting like crazy at first, but your skin can toughen. This isn’t to say you can’t get upset sometimes – I still get rejections for festivals or publications that I really want. Some people even choose to glorify this in a mechanism of coping/resolution. Just don’t stop.
Diversify. As you can imagine, there’s a small percentage of writers who can make a living from their writing alone. Expand your horizons. Write a short story, a poem, check out freelance gigs - anything. Always be increasing your body of work. I currently write four music reviews per month for new album releases, have dabbled and loved sketch comedy writing, and it’s helped my body of work infinitely.
As you may know I hold two black belts and own a small martial arts school, I can't help but notice on your resume it says your trained in stage hand-to-hand combat... what was that like?
It’s a lot of things – equal parts scary and fun. It’s really all about being in safe hands and communicating with your partner. I’ve had my share of bumps and bruises (minor concussion, torn ankle ligament, fell through a cheap table) that were results of miscommunications in fight/movement scenes and really no one’s fault in particular, but something that can take you out of a scene and play. And on the other hand, I’ve been with such excellent fight partners and choreographers that even while amidst rehearsing and fully immersed in the character/scene – they were cognizant of my body hitting the ground safely.
Do you consider yourself an underground artist?
If we’re to define ‘underground’ as edgy and out of the mainstream, my answer would probably be no. I’m far from the other end of the spectrum (safe/mainstream) but think I just fall in the middle. I’m beyond lucky to have been granted the productions for my work and the opportunities I’ve been able to create.
What's on your recommended reading list? Favorite author?
A few favorites of the top of my head: Austin Grossman - ‘Soon I Will Be Invincible’; Michael Chabon – ‘The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay; Charles Baxter – ‘Through the Safety Net’ (amongst many others of his); Tom Robbins – ‘Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates’ (amongst others); as well as the works of Tim Dorsey, Ann Beattie, John Updike, and Pablo Neruda.
Listen to music while you write? Who?
I usually do listen to music while I write. If I get frustrated and hit a wall or the aforementioned (gasp!) writer’s block, I shut it off and go into hiding or self isolation. A few favorites – Dave Matthews Band, The Killers, Dianna Krall, Eddie From Ohio, Dispatch, and many others.
What's your secret for memorizing lines?
My secret would be handwriting all my lines. Seeing them in my own (chicken scratch) penmanship somehow personalizes it for me and makes it feel a bit more organic.
What's next for Michael T. Weems?
Lots! My full length play Wincing at the Light goes up in NYC at the end of this month (February 25th-27th). I have a few pieces being published soon – the premiere of my short story ‘Upside Down Sky’ and several poems. Currently about ½ way done with my first rough draft for a new full length – a modern American take on arranged marriage. Lastly, a new world. My wife, two sons, and I are moving permanently to Texas in a few weeks.
Wincing at the Light is first real attempt at fusing together my two biggest interest – theater and sports. From it’s blurb: ‘When a professional hockey team comes calling, Ben has to celebrate. His zealous festivities leave him with an upset girlfriend, a lovelorn best friend, an under appreciated teammate, and an ankle device monitoring his movements to a probation officer. As their final playoff game approaches, Ben not-so-deftly navigates the temptations that could potentially undercut his future and leave him with all or nothing. Wincing at the Light is a comedic portrayal of what can happen when loyalty, friendship, and love are forced to face off to decide the true winner.’
I grew up a sports nut – playing hockey, baseball, football, everything really. I continued into college and finally hung up the skates when overnight hockey trips were dropping the GPA to dangerous levels. While difficult for some to fathom as material ripe for staging, I ask them to think of the high drama involved in an athlete’s day to day sports life – trades, injuries, travel, contract negotiations are all commonplace events. The play comes at a time when the extremes of this lifestyle have been placed forefront the media’s eyes (*coughTigerWoodscough*). The sports world may not be the most obvious source material, but indeed was one that helped provide the right balance of calamity and truth to this little family.
How did you become a playwright? What are some other plays that you've written?
Once I’d settled in NYC, I knew right off the bat that I never wanted to go the ‘bartender/waiter’ route here. I have the utmost respect for those who do, but I’d been working in restaurants for a solid six consecutive years prior to that. So, I temped. Once one gets over the chameleon like skills needed to jump from firm to firm, boredom quickly sets in. I had in my mind a story I thought needed to be told and without a real idea of how to structure it, started writing Fragments, which became one of my more successful pieces to date. It took time, readings, and patience and eventually the play was edited from a monstrous 120 something pages down to a more manageable 60. Some other produced pieces include: Necessary Adjustments (A family satire on a wedding gone terribly wrong), Bludgeon the Lime (Featuring several couples sent away to a tropical island to resolve their troubles through ‘isolation therapy’) and Quiet Bed (A full length play comprised of four vignettes – each exploring differences in bedside manner, expectations, and lies. – for more info on any/all plays and work visit www.michaeltweems.com)
Tell us about some of your writing.
While I feel like my writing has grown by leaps and bounds since earlier works, I’m always excited about the ability to mature and grow as a writer. A good deal of my work focuses on the dynamic of relationship and the dialogue, often cited as well done and realistic, is what drives that. Despite my ambitions, I recognize that I’m not in a place where I’m a mature or seasoned enough playwright to write a big sweeping drama, but make steps every day to expand from my comfort zone.
What's it like being an actor in the big city?
It’s daunting to say the least. Imagine a world where you could be entirely happy doing one particular job day in and day out everyday of your life. Imagine there are a few thousand other guys who are taller and handsomer and smarter and who have more credits than you and who are going for the same exact role as you and have probably played said role to rave reviews. We call those weekdays.
What type of acting roles do you prefer? What are some of the roles you've been in?
I love originating roles – having that clean slate and nothing to compare to. Just innovation. I can’t pick between comedy and drama – as each is equally settling. There’s nothing like a big dramatic scene to get the blood going and the audience on edge, but at the same time it’s always a treat to make people laugh. Some favorite roles played – ‘El Gallo’ in The Fantasticks (My first musical lead), ‘Rob’ in Twilight of the Golds (Probably the most solid dramatic work I’ve done and great cast), ‘Justin’ in I, Undertow (a chance to not only originate a role, in a play by a good friend and incredible writer/director – Blake Bradford, but to reprise it and grow with the character), dual roles in Office Hours (being directed by my wife and being part of one of the funniest scenes I’ve played), and Cliff Roney in Floyd Collins (my first leap as an actor – as I had only started a few years before and in this beautiful musical, found myself sharing the stage and holding my own against people who would go on to work on Broadway).
What makes you so creative? Is it natural, learned, or both? Do you techniques to help you along?
I think it’s a two pronged attack – both having the stories to tell and the storytelling abilities to do so. I grew up in an environment that fostered creativity, imagination, and the arts and later in life have been blessed with friends, actors, writers, and directors who have been instrumental in fostering a community of artists looking to make the best work possible. I’m not sure that I maintain any ‘techniques’ but certainly have my tools that help me along. It definitely involves planning/plotting, not setting the story/characters in stone/and having a kick butt editor. I hate grammar.
Believe in writer's block?
Absolutely. It’s a beast. Some days are the dream – flying along and knocking out a scene, resolving a plot point that might’ve been bugging you, or just getting a chunk of pages done. And others you just stare. And stare. I do believe it’s something that can be rectified, but that part takes incredible patience. The best advice I’ve heard, though it’s not been 100% for me, has been to just write anything. Write a review about a song, a poem, a two minute play. It’s frustrating when you have your eye on the prize, but valuable.
What advice do you have for someone looking to create a living from their creativity?
Any opportunity to share your work and words is valuable. My first production came from a blind submission. I had an incidental meeting with the producer at a short play festival (for which I wrote) and the end result was them producing several of my full length plays. At the same time, always protect yourself and integrity to the utmost degree. Finding the right director is always the key – someone with whom you can have an honest, direct give and take. Someone you can trust to say that ‘maybe this line didn’t work’ or ‘this part is clunky’ but in a way that is a solid unified vision and which doesn’t sacrifice the story.
Also, for those starting off or who consider yourself without resources – I’ve stuck pretty staunchly to a formula. Essentially: 1.) Write play. 2.) Have those nearest and dearest (though honest and constructively critical read and give you edits) 3.) Sit on it for a few weeks, a month even. Let it sit in your brain. 3.) Edit. 4.) Invite actors/directors/friends who aren’t even in theatre over – have pizza and cheap beer. Read it together and take notes at the end. I’ve gotten such incredible feedback from people in all modalities. 5.) Edit and let it sit for a while. 6.) Repeat step #4 if you feel it’s needed, if not then send your baby out into the world.
Rejection will come in spades. It will sting like crazy at first, but your skin can toughen. This isn’t to say you can’t get upset sometimes – I still get rejections for festivals or publications that I really want. Some people even choose to glorify this in a mechanism of coping/resolution. Just don’t stop.
Diversify. As you can imagine, there’s a small percentage of writers who can make a living from their writing alone. Expand your horizons. Write a short story, a poem, check out freelance gigs - anything. Always be increasing your body of work. I currently write four music reviews per month for new album releases, have dabbled and loved sketch comedy writing, and it’s helped my body of work infinitely.
As you may know I hold two black belts and own a small martial arts school, I can't help but notice on your resume it says your trained in stage hand-to-hand combat... what was that like?
It’s a lot of things – equal parts scary and fun. It’s really all about being in safe hands and communicating with your partner. I’ve had my share of bumps and bruises (minor concussion, torn ankle ligament, fell through a cheap table) that were results of miscommunications in fight/movement scenes and really no one’s fault in particular, but something that can take you out of a scene and play. And on the other hand, I’ve been with such excellent fight partners and choreographers that even while amidst rehearsing and fully immersed in the character/scene – they were cognizant of my body hitting the ground safely.
Do you consider yourself an underground artist?
If we’re to define ‘underground’ as edgy and out of the mainstream, my answer would probably be no. I’m far from the other end of the spectrum (safe/mainstream) but think I just fall in the middle. I’m beyond lucky to have been granted the productions for my work and the opportunities I’ve been able to create.
What's on your recommended reading list? Favorite author?
A few favorites of the top of my head: Austin Grossman - ‘Soon I Will Be Invincible’; Michael Chabon – ‘The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay; Charles Baxter – ‘Through the Safety Net’ (amongst many others of his); Tom Robbins – ‘Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates’ (amongst others); as well as the works of Tim Dorsey, Ann Beattie, John Updike, and Pablo Neruda.
Listen to music while you write? Who?
I usually do listen to music while I write. If I get frustrated and hit a wall or the aforementioned (gasp!) writer’s block, I shut it off and go into hiding or self isolation. A few favorites – Dave Matthews Band, The Killers, Dianna Krall, Eddie From Ohio, Dispatch, and many others.
What's your secret for memorizing lines?
My secret would be handwriting all my lines. Seeing them in my own (chicken scratch) penmanship somehow personalizes it for me and makes it feel a bit more organic.
What's next for Michael T. Weems?
Lots! My full length play Wincing at the Light goes up in NYC at the end of this month (February 25th-27th). I have a few pieces being published soon – the premiere of my short story ‘Upside Down Sky’ and several poems. Currently about ½ way done with my first rough draft for a new full length – a modern American take on arranged marriage. Lastly, a new world. My wife, two sons, and I are moving permanently to Texas in a few weeks.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
COSTUME PARTY
COSTUME PARTY
next year halloween i am wearing a tucked-in purple shirt
that is my costume i am jerry seinfeld
i am jerry seinfeld you are dancing it is terrible
i don't have the heart to say it my heart has no mouth
my mouth is full but not full of candy
my mouth is full of emptiness i am chewing i am swallowing
i am choking i am vomiting there is nothing
i am nothing
i am a shell wearing a tucked-in purple shirt and size 32 jeans
what's the deal with airplane food
--Zachary Whalen lives in British Columbia. His poetry has appeared recently in Clutching at Straws, Deuce Coupe and Gutter Eloquence, among other places.
The Kiss
The Kiss
The distending night
covers over me with a cold
warmth,
me the ungrateful,
for this kiss
of the void,
without which
I might find myself
alone.
--John Pierce lives and teached in central Texas. He has had work published in Defenestration, Wild Violet, and The Shinnery Review.
Baby Steps
Baby Steps
I knew you would take them one day
but when they finally came
and I watched you waddling
like a red-headed penguin in baggy blue jeans
and floppy baseball socks
I could not believe what I saw
because to me you are still a baby
the one who held my little finger
with your entire hand
hours after birth.
Fourteen months,
twelve days,
nine hours and forty minutes later
you only need mama
to hold your hands
momentarily until you explode and dash away
on frightening downhill sidewalks
around the curvy paths of apartment complexes
and serpentine zoo walkways
to laugh at the tree-dwelling monkeys
and gaze lovingly
at the water-submerged hippopotami
behind the green-tinted Plexiglas.
I only have two questions -
ones you will answer in months
and years ahead.
Where will your next steps lead you?
And . . .
Will you still need papa’s strong arms
to pick you up
whenever you fall down again?
--Joseph DiLella is a college professor by trade, a creative writer by avocation. He's published poems and short stories in such journals as Mad Swirl (where he's a featured poet), Clockwise Cat, Calliope Nerve, and Static Movement.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Rose Petals in a Dark Room
Rose Petals in a Dark Room
I walk in a mastery of the night and light
my money changers walk behind me
they are fools like clowns in a shadow of sin,
they’re busy as bees as drunken lovers,
Sodom and Gomorrah before the salt pillar falls.
In a shadow of red rose pedals
drunken lovers walk changing Greek and Roman
currency to Jewish or Tyrian money-
they are fools, all fools, at what they do.
Everyone’s life is a conflict.
They are my lovers and my sinners
I can’t sleep at night without them
by my bed or the sea of Galilee.
Fish in cloth nets are my friends and my converts.
I pray in my garden alone; while all the rest
who love beside me sleep behind their innocence.
The rose is a tender thorn compared to my arrest.
and soon crucifixion.
It is here the morning and the night come together,
where the sea and the land part;
where the building crumbles
and I trust not myself to them.
I am but a poet of the ministry,
rose petals in a dark room fall.
Everyone’s life is a conflict.
But mine is mastery of light and night
and I walk behind the footsteps of no one.
--Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at: http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa.
I Am Old Frustrated Thought
I Am Old Frustrated Thought
I am old frustrated thought
I look into my once eagle eyes
and find them dim before my dead mother,
I see through clouded egg whites with days
passing by like fog feathers.
I trip over old experiences and expressions,
try hard to suppress them or revisit them;
I’m a fool in my damn recollections,
not knowing what to keep and what to toss out-
but the dreams flow like white flour and deceive
me till they capture the nightmare of the past images
in a black blanket wrapped up
and wake me before my psychiatrist.
I only see this nut once every three months.
It is at times like these I know not where I walk
or venture. I trip over my piety and spill my coffee cup.
I seek sanctuary in the common place of my nowhere life.
Solid footing is a struggle in the sock of depression
it is here the days pass and the years slip like ice cubes.
--Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at: http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Raindrop Baby: Three Versions
Raindrop Baby
(Version 1)
I’m a Chicago raindrop baby
silhouetted in the night,
single-ringed single person
minus the 24 carat gold.
A harvester of night life,
star crystal, seated, well
proportioned,
a gatherer of sluts
in my imagination.
Raindrop Baby
(Version 2)
I’m a raindrop Chicago baby
silhouetted in the night,
single-ringed single person
minus the 24 carat gold.
A harvester of night life,
star crystal,
a gatherer of sluts
in my imagination.
Raindrop Baby
(Original V2)
I’m a raindrop baby
silhouetted in the night,
single-ringed single person
minus the 24 carat gold.
A harvester of night life,
star crystal,
a gather of sluts in my imagination,
a wild driver of the
anal sinful products of sex.
I run the highways drunk
as a skunk with his ass high in the air
in search of what I wished
or dream wild factual fantasy about.
Offended I simply piss somewhere.
Where does the highway buckle up:
DUI, DUI?
Are these your initials lover
on my driver’s license
or just a pained memory
the morning after my dream
turned to real urine?
--Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at: http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
If You Find No Poem
If You Find No Poem
If you find
no poem on
your doorstep
in the morning,
no paper, no knock on your door,
and your life is poorly edited
but no broken dashes
or injured meter
and you don’t wear white
dresses late in life
embroidered with violet
flowers on the collar;
nor do you have
burials daily
across main street,
and no one whispers
in your ear, Emily Dickinson-
you feel alone-
but not reclusive-
the sand lady
still sleeping in your eyes-
wiping your tears away-
if you find
no poem on
your doorstep-
you know your not
from New England.
--Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at: http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa.
Illinois Farmers
Illinois Farmers
Illinois writer in the land of Lincoln
new harvest without words
plenty of sugar pie plum, peach cobbler pie,
buried in grandma’s sugar
factory sweets and low flowing river nearby-
transports of soy bean, corn, and cattle feed
into the wide bass mouth of the Kishwakee River.
It’s the moment of reunion,
when friends and economy come together-
hotdogs, marshmallows, tents scattered,
playing kick ball with that black farm dog.
It’s a simple act, a farmer gone blind with the night pink sky,
desolate farmer, simple flat land, DeKalb, Illinois.
Betsy and Phil invite us all to the camp and fireside.
But Phil is still in the field, pushing sunset to dusk.
He is raking dry the farm soil of salvation, moisture has its own religious quirks,
dead seed from weed hurls up to the metal lips of the cultivator pitting.
The full moon is undressing, pink fluorescent hints of blue, pajamas, turned
inward near midnight sky against the moon now fully naked and embarrassed.
Hayrides for strangers go down dark squared-off roads with lights hanging,
children humming school tunes, long farmhouse lights lost in the near distance.
Humming till dawn, Christian songs repeated over God’s earth.
Dead go the sounds of the tractor, with the twist of a switch off,
down to the dusk and off the road’s edge.
It’s the moment of reunion.
--Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at: http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa.
FACT-oid
"The trail of broken hearts. They all belong to me." --W.A.S.P.
Alice in Wonderland Syndrome is a malady whose sufferers have a distorted sense of both space and time and believe their body, or parts of their body, had changed in size or shape.
Alice in Wonderland Syndrome is a malady whose sufferers have a distorted sense of both space and time and believe their body, or parts of their body, had changed in size or shape.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Constance Stadler Reviews David E. Patton's The Trinity
Constance Stadler Revies David E. Patton's The Trinity (Turkey Buzzard Press)
The Trinity, for David E. Patton, is not some doctrinal construct, it is wholly interior: the `sacred `body, soul, mind' of the self. As he tells us at the very onset of our immersion, there is another layer of meaning where narcissism, grandiosity, and ego hold sway, thus subverting an engaged, fully developed human being.
`Human being' is a pivotal concept in Patton's work. Now while that might seem to be a statement applicable to any book of poetry, that simply is not the case. In fact, it is put forth here, that the way in which Patton examines conscience of a single soul as well as the way he engages with the human condition, truly distinguishes his art.
There are several topics that are explored within this volume that fall under this seminal concept. One is the state of race relations in 21st century America. Patton is a black man, he speaks with a personal voice as in One Black Man's Heart is Worthy:
A black man's heart is telling time toward morality that never waits for the right moment to drum the last beauty of a heartbeat. … In the heat of a segregated heart the Godhead of our barbarism with its cold talent of icy intellectual control, thematic and heroic to know the way that the dead Gods go, imposes its will on the emotional freedom of the bold, composed of the artful and the arbitrary taught by the old who know that the fall from grace is never fully told.
In fluid prosodic words, Patton confronts us with not just our hypocrisies but the consequences of prejudiced beliefs for every member of society.
In Angels are Painting Poems, he speaks of his lived reality, his eviscerations, in words that describe horrors with stilling beauty.
Deep within my bones is a soul that knows their secrets, this knowledge is to keep me wrapped against the cold demons that would engulf would enfold would enrich my knowledge of war that is kept just beneath the breath of my dark brown stark skin.
Their master is my soul throbbing like a wounded half-uttered sound that possesses the talent of the silent wisdom foretold by the Gods who on Sunday morning unfold by the grace of the cross used as a licking stick to whip the faithful into ship-sharp shared shape.
One poem, On Jury Duty, is to be celebrated not only for its gifted execution, but for the seminal concept behind the creation of the work. Spring is put on trial for the crime of promising rebirth; a rebirth that, he argues, cannot be realized.
The tree drops its pink petals in a sweet smelling show of gravity. I am a juror in the case against the holy canonical hour of spring.
The prosecutor of answers weeps vowels and strangled consonants while spring is left to plead its case with the evidence of the Purple Martins' return to the crime laden streets of my dear lady St. Louis.
The sun is the judge while the wind blows its argument into a crack in the sky and the blacks in orange jump suits following in a row are held prisoner by a chain of dandelions strung around their ankles and handcuff's of pigeon's feathers around their wrists, Lady Justice who weeps behind her rag, the darkness she sees, the darkness of their skin hoping to win their freedom from the slavery of a straight haired of the so-so city of Americus where we are told what to believe in our busy baring buying of beer and bratwurst.
Another theme that inspires this deeply spiritual writer is Man's violation of the sanctified harmony of the cosmos. This is seen in full in The Cat's Curfew is Caught Like a Mouse:
The wistful whispers of the moon hidden behind clouds that reflect the yellow light of street lamps humming their electric refrain above cars parked curbside for the night, clouds that blink in a far, far away heaven of the strict samurai of the spacious sky.
All in all the entire world goes about its singular duty of feeding itself without the production of waste, man alone is the wasteful one in fat belly cities and the far flung fields of wheat, soy and corn. We fill the earth with things made by our hands, a wasteful creature is God-made man but, we are doing as only we can as human within our skin.
Perhaps, it is when wholly in the realm of the spiritual that the beauty of this poet's words almost consumes the reader.
I am the lover of a mosquito's breath smelling of sweet blood. I am the lover of a letter from the global God's glory written in leaves pasted with the rankest rain running on the dark hair's hugging of the song of my skin. I am the lover of the individuality of trees.
I have washed away my sins in the muck of the Mississippi and it turned the blown brown river a sycamore's bark green that fed the fishes and fulfilled their needs to feed; fat bellied they cried out to the moon's silver stolen reflection riding on the dangerous dark green grime of the dangerous flow of the warm weight of willing water.
On the back cover of The Trinity is a black and white photo of Patton in the nude on one bended knee. His two arms rest on the knee cap of his other leg, the back of his palms frame his face as an ancient Oriental fan, he looks to be in a state of profound contemplation and reverence. Only such a man could write this book.
The Trinity is available from Turkey Buzzard Press or by contacting the author.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Four Pieces by Jonathan Penton
(in the room the young men come to see
a lecture on Krishnamurti)
Arabic numerals and e-mail addresses shudder poorly into notes on happiness and pain
we’ve Romaine goddesses, red-string kabbalists, invoking chants so much older than their faith
these are not the worst conceits:
to plead with these gods of yesteryear
(so much younger than the air)
in our flashpoint of emptiness
the best we’ll find is this:
Om shanti shanti shanti
Om shanti shanti shanti
Om shanti shanti shanti
Om shanti shanti shanti
******************************
I have yet to learn to take you as you are
I have yet to learn to take what I can get
I am still afraid of giving up and letting go
I don’t know whom I’d give you to
*******************************
So perch atop this mountain built with Speed Stick-flavored sweat
Knowing one misstep will bring it down
Plant one foot in the graves of those who've forgotten you
And one foot on the children who don't care
Take your shriveled cock, the one as removed from eternity as time will let it be
Tell yourself it's better to resist gravity
And the thrill of impact is someone else's memory.
*********************************
You call it my masculine side
I call it my asshole
there are many like it
but this one is mine
And what I call integrity
You call my narrow mind
I'll keep it all
keep it safe from you
'cause I'm starting to suspect
you got nothing to offer in trade
--Jonathan Penton is the editor of UnlikelyStories.org and the manager of Make It New Media, LLC. He is in possession of an enormous wit and capable of devastatingly pithy self-description, but he just can’t see the profit any more. "in the room the young men come to see a lecture on Krishnamurti" was previously published in Poets’ Corner.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Growing An E-mail List Ain't Exactly Like Growing A Garden/Book Giveaway
"I take pills that make everything Orange." --The Invention of The Lie
In honor of February, George Washington, and because I love Caterpillars equipped with Hookas, I can not tell a lie...
Or maybe, I'll save that confession for another day. But we the editors of Calliope Nerve do need your help. We must grow our e-mail list. Like hot Sci-Fi channel Cylons, we have a plan. We want 1000 subscribers ASAP. (And pronto too.) There are projects to announce, books to release, original material to disburse, and acquisitions made.
It's time to tell the world our story, which is really your story too. The story of the artist.
Did you know that all Calliope Nerve writers, artists, and editors have never been compensated one dime for their work? We're here because we love quality "writes." Now, we're working on moving Calliope Nerve up a notch so that we can get more exposure for our weblog, publishing arm, and rare bookstore and most importantly our contributors and authors.
All of you that have email lists, contacts, zines, blogs, please posts links, etc to our website with this message:
"Calliope Nerve: Small Press at it's finest. Dreams at their biggest. Ink makes us beautiful! Subscribe to Electric Hookah the free Calliope Nerve e-mail newsletter."
Carbon emails and/or email your links, etc to CalliopeNerve AT gmail.com. We'll randomly choose three winners on March 1st, 2010 to receive a copy of any book out of our catalog.
Word of mouth works too. :) Much blessings and a heartfelt thank you for everything.
You know the rest folks...
Peace, Love, Death-Metal,
Nobius
Out
In honor of February, George Washington, and because I love Caterpillars equipped with Hookas, I can not tell a lie...
Or maybe, I'll save that confession for another day. But we the editors of Calliope Nerve do need your help. We must grow our e-mail list. Like hot Sci-Fi channel Cylons, we have a plan. We want 1000 subscribers ASAP. (And pronto too.) There are projects to announce, books to release, original material to disburse, and acquisitions made.
It's time to tell the world our story, which is really your story too. The story of the artist.
Did you know that all Calliope Nerve writers, artists, and editors have never been compensated one dime for their work? We're here because we love quality "writes." Now, we're working on moving Calliope Nerve up a notch so that we can get more exposure for our weblog, publishing arm, and rare bookstore and most importantly our contributors and authors.
All of you that have email lists, contacts, zines, blogs, please posts links, etc to our website with this message:
"Calliope Nerve: Small Press at it's finest. Dreams at their biggest. Ink makes us beautiful! Subscribe to Electric Hookah the free Calliope Nerve e-mail newsletter."
Carbon emails and/or email your links, etc to CalliopeNerve AT gmail.com. We'll randomly choose three winners on March 1st, 2010 to receive a copy of any book out of our catalog.
Word of mouth works too. :) Much blessings and a heartfelt thank you for everything.
You know the rest folks...
Peace, Love, Death-Metal,
Nobius
Out
Stephan Anstey: Introduction to a Poet
Stephan Anstey: Introduction to a Poet
You have probably not heard of the poet, Stephan Anstey, even though he is one of the most gifted and prolific writers extant. There is a good reason for that: he hasn't wanted you to know.
Recently we, at Calliope Nerve, revisited what artists we would champion. It was decided that our voice would be in the name of art, pure and simple. While you will read of many poets and writers who have published extensively in book and chap form and more, we strengthened our commitment to celebrating all artists that add to the fiber of the tapestry of The Word.
Stephan Anstey has written over 10,000 poems; a comparative handful are published. He has written three books: 1,000, Dragon In My Closet, and Minor Gods and Jellyfish. While the first two are available through the website of his publication, Shakespeare's Monkey Revue, none have been published by any of the generally recognized small press publishers. It is put forward that the primary reason for this is the preference of the poet.
His corpus of works has been carefully read, and the poet interviewed at length.
Meet Stephan Anstey.
A writer with a voice shaped by multiform influences ranging from the cadences, imagery and woven truths of a Lewis Carroll, the pure sentience and unrelenting observations of the Bukowski who caustically spits on wasted sperm in Three Oranges, the lean, crystalline Japanese form poetry of Matsuo Basso and Kobayashi Issa, and much more. Thus while it may be said that every poet has an `original voice' (a wildly overused term), some, we put forth brazenly and tautologically, are more original than others.
Anstey's definition of the art form says volumes:
"Poetry is the fascist act whereby one human, with sheer force of will, inserts a thought or feeling of their choosing into the head of an unsuspecting audience with a callous disregard for the consequence a new thought might bring."
First reaction: recoil, deliberate provocation? Second reaction: reflection. While many poets say, they relegate control over a piece when it is `freed' to merge with a reader, is that truly so? If one makes the universal personal, and the personal universal, is power not an issue? If political polemics in their knee-jerk reductionism can enflame, what is the potency of the most hermetic form of word usage? In the process of creating a work, what type of artist writes to please an audience? With respect to that last question, most would probably be comfortable in saying, `no type of artist'. So if an entire concept, a condensed world view, a slice of the eternal is put forth, the artist cannot know what the reaction will be. It may be life affirming, life affecting, life destructive and all gradations in-between. It can have no impact. But the artist does not know this, and Anstey avers that the poet does not care about the possibilities of such synergy. If they do, they are out of synchronicity with the creative process. What becomes clear from the onset is that the hackneyed thought, the `appropriate' response, is not part of this writer's conceptual framework or lexicon. This singularity and distinctiveness of thought and expression are evident throughout his work.
The concept behind 1,000 was to write 1,000 poems in a month. It was accomplished. On one day, 132 poems were written. Again, the general association is that such proliferation of work cannot possibly yield quality art. This helps all who subscribe to `writer's block' feel better. The only way this can be assessed is by looking at the work; work Anstey acknowledges changed him.
can I have fries with that freedom?
The gold-leafing that adorns the top of my statehouse
makes me feel rich
until I remember the little flags
at the cemetery
that decorate the slabs of marble and granite
etched with the names
of the currency that paid
so dearly for the sparkle I enjoy.
when she told me
when she told me how her daughter died
my heart stopped
i have a daughter
who is breathing
and my heart beats
depend on her
every uncanned laugh
poured into me
with every argument
about her eye-color
shaken
and stirred
until, stronger than a martini
she intoxicates me
all of my driving
for greatness
or something near it
the terror of life
a single heartbeat
from a crash
hating haircuts
when my friend shaved his head
I shook mine.
not for the bits of graying hair
on the ground.
for the callous disregard
he had for all those tiny
specks of creation
that
for a brief time
were him.
If this is fascism, than it wields a totalitarianism of somber reflection on the meaning and cost of patriotism, on the depth and evisceration requisite in loving, on the minutiae of those times of veneration that are so blithely missed. The currency of having the opportunity to live freer penetrates. Being an adoring father intoxicates the reader. Reverence for the vital which only this artist can see is placed in our hands in beautifully burnished poetic language and a lattice of structure so rarefied it almost escapes unseen. Anstey's `tyranny' leaves room for a reader to move through apertures of humanity and exposed soul; an excellent argument for `pardon' and deeper descent.
His favorite chap-child is Dragon in My Closet. The poet tells us why:
DIMC is my favorite mostly due to the fact those are the poems that I've read a few times and have gotten high-praise. They're easy to read mostly and relevant to my audience. Binding and selling it made a lot of sense and definitely worked for me. I don't think they're 'my best' -- but I do think they represent a certain vein of poetry I was writing for a long time. The overall theme of the Dragon in my Closet chapbook is an exploration of my relationship with the important relationships in my life. Myself (title work), my kids (Tigerlily), my wife, my grandparents, my community (I am still).
In reading the conclusion of I am still we are enveloped in a multitude of feelings. This is punctuated by the placement of those three words as stand alone statement observing a world without, a world passing by, a world that touches, a world that, sometimes, defies sense `in a blur of humanity dead/dying and newborn'. Thus, `my howls are silent'. Does the notion of imprisoned cries and the refusal to challenge the imminence of our eradication not pierce to core? Particularly when succored by such deceptively `simple' (should the adjective not be distilled?), poignant verse.
I was still
thinking about my sister in Miami
enjoying 80 instead of 32 even
though she claims she misses home
even if home is long gone like Kerouac
and Ginsberg's howl. she doesn't think about
the beat or the way things move so damned fast
black and white
and every damned color
dashing by in a blur of humanity dead
dying and newborn
I am still
trying to figure it all out
sometimes it makes me crazy
I am not the best mind or even among them in my generation
my howls are silent. I go gentle into each good night
The title poem has a "to do list" hanging under a clock that `stopped at the precise moment I was born', when the child-man was still free to dream of `flying machines and swords'. It reads:
"7 things I need to do before the end
a) eat a salamander
b) kiss a girl
c) catch a fish with my bare hands
d) go to south africa
e) leap a tall building in a single bound
f) write a book
g) see a dragon"
We travel a lifetime in this list, and then, in the realization of one goal, yet back again. For as Anstey shows us, the fallacy is assuming linearity in the journey, or perhaps it is but another illustration of the heart stopping child-like vision requisite in any great artist; the capacity to stare into a dark closet and watch miracles emerge.
As the author explains, the theme of his most recent compilation, Minor Gods & Jellyfish is, in part, the product of who and where he was when writing it, but also a focus on `… the relationship between life and higher power. There are a lot of poems in that collection that explore the question of faith and a relationship with God.' The dedication is two-part, to his family and:
… to all those who care enough and believe enough and want enough to struggle with faith. Of all the virtues, I believe faith is the {most} difficult. I admire, respect and love anyone strong enough to dare it. So this one's for you.
Here the poet soars as he delves into the cloud coverings that have reduced many to prosodic palaver. From I'm not brave enough for you:
In my defense, there are no trials, every butterfly is one chance
once spent (dollarless and destitute) this journey
is prosecuted. I am pocked with the craters
of gray daylight. I am dusty with dry humor
and the notion that we can dare music here
amidst the knowledge that love will grease the wheels
as the squirrels project us into lunar light.
Here is a created human being holding on to the trails of whimsy wind fall and the knowledge that hope is as evanescent as a yellow swallowtail alighting on poised finger, even as he mourns his disfigurement as a creation of any divinity.
In what is one of the penultimate poems of this volume, in what is as emblematic a revelation of the contribution this writer makes to art, the `poet' confronts the concept that a literary god is the `source' or the hope of spiritual redemption, or transformation, or sustenance for all of us who wish and wonder, and flailingly doubt and sometimes, even … pray.
Never mind, Bukowski's still Dead
You know, sometimes, right at 2:23pm,
I want to kick Bukowski right in the balls.
Don't misunderstand me, I love the guy,
and I agree with him on the value of 3 oranges.
But, I don't care what he thinks: he ain't God.
It's not even that I believe in God,
which I might, not because the big questions are answered
but because, I can accept that they aren't.
No, I can also accept that maybe God is just the hope
there are answers.
But dammit Bukowski, a poet can not be pliable.
Love is always a command.
Faith must be a dictum.
If we are our own God
then we are less than nothing.
Why we are here, I do not know
but it does not involve beer.
We not here for death, nor death for us,
trembling is not a reason
and love is no blanket for thoughts
or the dead.
--Constance Stadler is the Review Editor for Calliope Nerve and author of Paper Cuts which marked the debut of Calliope Nerve Media. She has been writing, publishing, and editing poetry from the prehistoric epoch of print journals to modern e-times. As a political anthropologist specializing in North Africa and a violinist, her influences are multiform. Work in formative years with the late poet Gwendolyn Brooks was seminal, but no less so than Sufi Dervish dancers, and the challenges of mastering Bruch's first concerto.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Superman
Superman
“No,” his student lover said before she filled a box with cosmetics, underwear and a few school books that she kept in his Montreal apartment for the sake of convenience. Darcy “did not understand her.” Students thronged the halls Monday morning, clustered about stairwells, blocked entrances, confabulated in hordes, and Darcy ducked a backpack swung by a girl who didn’t trouble herself to see if the way was clear.
A generic type of face, a generic type of girl, long lank hair, skinny body, midriff exposed, she would continue into the non-descript as she matured and think herself beautiful. The last two days he was reducing all his students to stereotypes because human complexity was too difficult to fathom. He promised never to attend another workshop on how students learn and how to teach them how to learn.
Before Demeter huffed out of his place, he had to gnaw on his bone of contention:
“You let the Nazi fuck you!”
“He’s not a Nazi. You’re crazy jealous, that’s all.”
“His political affiliation is not the point.”
“Then why do you keep calling him a Nazi?”
Because the online porn he had watched last week depicted hunky blonde guards wearing black and silver uniforms in a prison full of women they violated. Konrad also fixed the leaking pipes under his bathroom sink. Let the landlord tend to it, he had advised Demeter when she complained about the nerve-wracking, noisy drip.
“Damn ubermensch!”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Never mind, I don’t need to hear anything more, Darcy. It’s over. I’m out of here.”
Seeing Konrad weave his energetic way through the crowd, Darcy ducked into a convenient washroom where he had to piss or wash his hands because why else would he linger in a room where two male students handled their Johnsons in the urinals? One had to be careful given hypersensitivity to perceived sexual harassment and inappropriate conduct these days. Oh, Demeter, that Grecian goddess who had deigned to embrace a less than divine professor. Darcy should never have flirted with the girl in his office. If not there, where? His intellect fascinated her, so she said.
While shaving every morning Darcy admitted that time was winning the race and he knew that youth answered to youth, leaving him behind in the dust of age. Konrad, a German exchange student in his class, sat next to Demeter most of the semester. He participated in group work with her and so obviously bulged in her presence that Darcy sometimes wanted to hurl chalk at the hulking Teuton’s head. Just last week on a hot day Konrad had entered the class room in shorts and tank top, his physique hard and magnificent, wunderbar. He had come to Quebec to get a sense of North American life.
A perfect example of Nordic fascist sculpture, he could pick and chose, so he picked and chose Demeter. It didn’t help that she had asked him to come to her --- to her lover’s --- apartment to study and fix the pipes.
Darcy opened the washroom door to exit after a quick rinse of his hands, and banged right into the Teutonic superman blocking the threshold. This was the first time they met since Konrad had ploughed Demeter Saturday afternoon during their study session while he, terrified of flying, returning home from a three day New York conference on contemporary pedagogical techniques, had sweated on a turbulent plane. Of course he thrust himself into the bedroom where Konrad adroitly jumped out of his girl friend and off the bed, more amused than apologetic, huge and breathless. Darcy had said in a voice
like a knife.
“Please, do finish your exercise.”
He had walked out of the apartment, staying away just long enough to give the lovers time to vacate the premises. Over the weekend he had jogged the city streets for hours, and lifted weights at his rarely-visited gym, didn’t shower and puked up his last drink Sunday night before he fell asleep. Once firm and sweet, his life seemed to him soft and rotten like an old watermelon. In the corridor, he was forced to look up to the frigging Nazi who stood taller than he. Any closer and they could kiss which might have solved all his problems, or created more. Darcy stepped back to let Konrad enter.
Deutschland
Uber Alles.
Priding himself on professional integrity when it came to marking, he had never favoured Demeter who was bright enough anyway to achieve A’s on her own merit, nor would he penalize her new and young lover, however much he wanted to brand Fs – failure – all over that astonishing body. Two weeks left in the semester and he’d simply not
address them in class, would not demean himself by begging for Demeter to return. He could almost hear the chill winds shivering his heart. In the hall he ran into one of his other students: Clarisse, shy and retiring who trembled whenever she asked a question in class.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. I wasn’t looking.”
Stooping to pick up the papers she had dropped, Darcy smiled his forgiveness. With encouragement a pretty thing could emerge from the mouse hole in which Clarisse hid herself. Konrad barged past and Clarisse absolutely ignored him. Not one secretive glance, not one quick turn of the head to admire his herculean ass; no, she focused
her attention on Darcy who was still holding her papers. Basking in her warmth, Darcy sucked in his stomach, glad to have showered and properly shaved this morning. And the summer was long.
“Clarisse, I’ve been meaning to speak with you about your work. With a bit of extra help you’ll do just fine. Can you drop by my office today, say, around two?”
“Oh, yes, please, that would be, I mean, if you have time for me, sir.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll make time for you, Clarisse.”
Checking his zipper, he then hurried to class.
--Kenneth Radu's fiction has appeared online in Spilt Milk, Four-Cornered Universe, vis a tergo, Poor Mojo's Almanac(k), and elsewhere. He's now working on a new collection of stories and is the author of The Devil is Clever: A Memoir Of My Romanian Mother.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Man
Man
A hooded man
stands on the median
of a busy boulevard.
His necklaced-cardboard sign sulks:
“Homeless.
Help Me Please.”
Red traffic light
my rabid eyes despise
his existence.
Homeless, eh?
Jobless, eh?
You lout.
My raccoon eyes
dyed from another forty hour workweek
in endless succession of forties pissed out only to ingest more.
Bureaucrat bloodhounds
skinned off raise Wall Street botched,
no time now for overtime only cutbacks so watch your back ‘cause layoff lingers.
One paycheck less,
I’d be cowering in a concrete crevice
coveting a trash-canned leftover loaf of bread.
I cannot face
his face,
a homeless man haunting.
--Jeff Wyman recently earned a Master of Arts in Writing and Literature at Rivier College in Nashua, New Hampshire. His poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Breadcrumb Scabs, The Stray Branch, and InSight. He lives the life of a lonely writer trying to navigate society, but his societal GPS is woefully inept.
Alice In Wonderland and Philosophy (curiouser and curiouser)
More fodder for Calliope Nerve:
Should the Cheshire Cat's grin make us reconsider the nature of reality?
Can Humpty Dumpty make words mean whatever he says they mean?
Can drugs take us down the rabbit-hole?
Is Alice a feminist icon?
Should the Cheshire Cat's grin make us reconsider the nature of reality?
Can Humpty Dumpty make words mean whatever he says they mean?
Can drugs take us down the rabbit-hole?
Is Alice a feminist icon?
blood drips into gravy
blood drips into gravy
when cut-wrist-blood adds flavor to the salisbury steak television dinner
gravy swaying gently on your thighs
maybe the once-a-week therapy sessions are nothing more than
quick-slip-fucks to your insurance company
and the heroin eyes sneaking up on you each morning
are more stone culprit than actual existence
to move a blue-heavy arm away like it's a twenty-pound fly
aggravating your routine is something worth examining without
a clipboard-bearded professional providing multiple options
jenny-jane wants you to go back to deep-sea fishing
because at least then you were only drinking straight-gut-whiskey
heroin just makes you think smart and fuck dumb
hours and hours of limp-intellect-laziness
at least when you were drunk, you'd bring me flowers
of course she never mentions your ability to watch endless hours
of daytime soap-opera television, your soft-kind-manners
early-on in the relationship she confided that she liked you better
when you smelled dirty, sweaty, that it made her growl
hangovers make you want to shower, hot water, cold towels
this is like a baked oven creating blanket-thick layers
it certainly wasn't any fun calling 911 and reporting on noah,
cops and medics all circling in vulture loops, licking like lizards
but somewhere the brain-garage knew it was all a performance
and soon silence would return if she could just stop talking
how could you promise me stability being nothing but a junkie?
i do know there is another television dinner in the freezer,
chicken nuggets with macaroni and cheese, a blueberry muffin
noah and his dripping-blood-wrist-distraction, gone just as today
slides on up to midnight, vacant and silent, after-dead
Author's Blurb: Derek Richards has two ferrets. Boo is a punk rocker, trouble-maker, stealing food from the puppy and biting her on the cheeks when she disapproves. Lola is an elegant lady, who likes her belly rubbed in moments of weakness. This has nothing to do with poetry, he just wanted to write about his ferrets.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
executing children
executing children
these pretty feet were never kissed by jesus,
says starwhite betty,
she is lying on railroad tracks,
her head heavy pumpkin blood.
she was eight years old when her brother
got hit and run dead by a faded green taurus,
one dirt-dirty sneaker flung into
a web of spiralling moss across the street.
one nation under god,
executing children,
i had a dream, says the killer,
now riding on the back of a bus.
starwhite betty peers down and grimaces
at the blood stains on her dress.
they'll hang you, is what she says,
her virginity drying in the sun.
she was twelve years old when her godfather
tied her wrists to an oak with fishing rope.
the emergency room doctor seemed particularly
horrified at the pink maze of ant bites on her arms.
one nation under god,
executing children,
i know they will, says the rapist,
a jury away from heavy pumpkin blood.
--When Derek Richards is unable to fall asleep and the cupboards are empty of spirits, he often counts the nasty spiders he's personally removed from the planet. If that fails, he tries to count the number of insects who have thrived and tortured people because of those dead spiders.
sibling rivalry
sibling rivalry
turn me on, baby, stay ugly.
maintain ransacked across your face,
the bulging blue-dead veins
poking through your arms
keep me focused
on further ruin,
another fuck to decompose.
i'm beginning to see the resemblance
of your sister in the poison
of my eyes,
turning you will be even easier,
i know this,
because your lips are already thin and dry.
you see, angela, still clung to a soul,
thought it made her close to special.
ain't it funny how want and need,
alive and dead
can be as thin as those same lips.
just ready to say yes, to imply more,
to admit to doing anything.
tonight we're taking anthony's car
down to baleville, near the river,
we're going to a little club i know.
you're going to dance and shake,
like it and smile,
believe me, you will be a star.
and as always, you'll spread for the scraps
and beg for the spills of gravy,
you're beautiful, you know, when you do that,
not as ugly as right now.
i remember the last words angela spoke,
the moment absorbed by her mascara,
lipstick smudge and the cry of sweat.
how did it ever come to this?
it was cold, so i placed my jacket over her,
knelt close, smiling and warm,
i'm not sure, sweetheart,
but i do know, you're sweet sister is next.
--Derek Richards
Blurb: 39 years of age is a horrible place to be. Enough said.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Quoteable
"Enough with the gloom and doom. These days I'm excited to be an author and even more excited to be a reader. Never before has it been easier to find a new release or an out-of-print backlist title, from the comfort of your local independent to the ease of an online retailer to the portability of an e-reader. And never has it been easier for a book lover to communicate with their fellow readers and even authors themselves. Books are about community and the joy of storytelling. For my money, this is the brightest the present and future of books has looked in a long, long time."
--Jason Pinter at the Huffington Post. Follow the link and read the whole article.
--Jason Pinter at the Huffington Post. Follow the link and read the whole article.
praising chaos
praising chaos
chronic deflation arrested by upheavel,
further indisputable proof
the chaos theory
is crucial for my healing.
when has the violent gust of broken glass
sunk me into melancholy
instead of wild-iris?
a halo of angst
as prodigal colors reversed.
whimsical glimpses of peace and rest
are as deadly as rush hour mirages.
it is by their glow my pulse expands,
sipping on adrenaline
until decades
play out
between thumps.
i'm going out.
call me when the world tilts angry,
when the zagging hum of disheveled place
crashes into honest brutal time.
and then i will hurry home,
gasping for breath, out of tune,
relieved.
--Derek Richards has 4,232,117 friends in his neighborhood. It's a small neighborhood but everyone likes him because he has a cute puppy named Sidney.
The Disappeared
From P.D. Lyon's Caribu & Sister Stones:
Along the lane
Straight down as rain
Without wind
Without sound
Wrapped in briar vines
Emerging posts of bone
As if some ancient mariner
Draws me in a secret un-gloved caress.
I wanted to keep you for myself.
I wanted you to stay, because you went.
But the police,
After further questioning
Came up with ideas all their own
And in so doing, made contact with
The families of the disappeared.
Occasionally,
To men in long wrinkled coats, they speak,
A fog of voices drifting apart,
Before reaching any type of destination.
Taking turns, cast looks around,
As if this really were sea
And answers like shoals of silver fishes lurk
Just beneath the surface.
Careful. Pretending not to notice
How each movement flickers in the lights
As if this really were all some cinematic image
Screened with no one but the actors in the audience.
Their silence magnifies only certain sounds:
Elastic latex snap,
Slicing shovel slaps,
Unsteady cigarette sighs,
Plastic, almost echo, abruptly ending zip.
Believing their expectations to be accurate predictions
They came for something clear and full of meaning,
Something settling and complete,
To find, as if some great surprise,
Only the obvious inescapably revealed.
Unlike them I know you not by what you’ve lost,
But rather by what you’ve brought back.
It was that which drew me
In secret un-gloved caress
And now plays out
Along the landscapes of my every night
And haunts my every morning with regret.
I wanted to touch that forbidden you again.
To trace upon that more secret map
Etched, invisible to the naked eye,
Every line of your journey.
To put my lips to you,
Circling with the tip of my tongue,
So that I’d know, everything.
I wanted to sift your powder through my fingers,
Into that coloured jar covered with a brass cap,
Tucked into my bedside drawer,
Sprinkled, whenever I wanted,
Not just as some aphrodisiac
Or good luck charm across my bed
But so, engendered with bodily fluids
You’d take on some other life
And I’d find out,
Just exactly, what it was, that I’d be thinking
As I lay there in the dust
Of the disappeared.
--PD Lyons blog for poetry publishing info and new releases is http://pdlyons.wordpress.com/. Lyon's LULU page is available at http://stores.lulu.com/pdlyons.
The Disappeared
Along the lane
Straight down as rain
Without wind
Without sound
Wrapped in briar vines
Emerging posts of bone
As if some ancient mariner
Draws me in a secret un-gloved caress.
I wanted to keep you for myself.
I wanted you to stay, because you went.
But the police,
After further questioning
Came up with ideas all their own
And in so doing, made contact with
The families of the disappeared.
Occasionally,
To men in long wrinkled coats, they speak,
A fog of voices drifting apart,
Before reaching any type of destination.
Taking turns, cast looks around,
As if this really were sea
And answers like shoals of silver fishes lurk
Just beneath the surface.
Careful. Pretending not to notice
How each movement flickers in the lights
As if this really were all some cinematic image
Screened with no one but the actors in the audience.
Their silence magnifies only certain sounds:
Elastic latex snap,
Slicing shovel slaps,
Unsteady cigarette sighs,
Plastic, almost echo, abruptly ending zip.
Believing their expectations to be accurate predictions
They came for something clear and full of meaning,
Something settling and complete,
To find, as if some great surprise,
Only the obvious inescapably revealed.
Unlike them I know you not by what you’ve lost,
But rather by what you’ve brought back.
It was that which drew me
In secret un-gloved caress
And now plays out
Along the landscapes of my every night
And haunts my every morning with regret.
I wanted to touch that forbidden you again.
To trace upon that more secret map
Etched, invisible to the naked eye,
Every line of your journey.
To put my lips to you,
Circling with the tip of my tongue,
So that I’d know, everything.
I wanted to sift your powder through my fingers,
Into that coloured jar covered with a brass cap,
Tucked into my bedside drawer,
Sprinkled, whenever I wanted,
Not just as some aphrodisiac
Or good luck charm across my bed
But so, engendered with bodily fluids
You’d take on some other life
And I’d find out,
Just exactly, what it was, that I’d be thinking
As I lay there in the dust
Of the disappeared.
--PD Lyons blog for poetry publishing info and new releases is http://pdlyons.wordpress.com/. Lyon's LULU page is available at http://stores.lulu.com/pdlyons.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Belize
From P.D. Lyon's Caribu & Sister Stones:
The cinnamon woman pulls me down
In an ancient heat
Her golden fingerprints
Whisper of an unborn midnight
Long long ago in the dream time
Before moonlight ever was
And every shadow moved with care
Beneath a hunter diamond sky
Before the horse spirit was hid
Beneath slimy limestone floors
Covered with pottery chips and rusted cans
All twisted up in fibre root and rot.
The cinnamon woman pulls me down
In an ancient heat
Her golden fingerprints
Show me another way to that secret place
And how to draw up the horse spirit
So that it may once more
Run on into the high bush country
Where our flesh lays in blossoms of hibiscus
And the caves of heaven are radiant with swimmers.
--PD Lyons blog for poetry publishing info and new releases is http://pdlyons.wordpress.com/. Lyon's LULU page is available at http://stores.lulu.com/pdlyons.
Belize
The cinnamon woman pulls me down
In an ancient heat
Her golden fingerprints
Whisper of an unborn midnight
Long long ago in the dream time
Before moonlight ever was
And every shadow moved with care
Beneath a hunter diamond sky
Before the horse spirit was hid
Beneath slimy limestone floors
Covered with pottery chips and rusted cans
All twisted up in fibre root and rot.
The cinnamon woman pulls me down
In an ancient heat
Her golden fingerprints
Show me another way to that secret place
And how to draw up the horse spirit
So that it may once more
Run on into the high bush country
Where our flesh lays in blossoms of hibiscus
And the caves of heaven are radiant with swimmers.
--PD Lyons blog for poetry publishing info and new releases is http://pdlyons.wordpress.com/. Lyon's LULU page is available at http://stores.lulu.com/pdlyons.
Flora’s Yard
From P.D. Lyon's Caribu & Sister Stones:
A September still day
only cricket sounds
rippling sunlight.
soft breeze
a cool dream echoes
memories and moonlight.
in maple shade
her potted plants,
already sucked up morning
now with greedy leaves
strain, for afternoon.
--PD Lyons blog for poetry publishing info and new releases is http://pdlyons.wordpress.com/. Lyon's LULU page is available at http://stores.lulu.com/pdlyons.
Flora’s Yard
A September still day
only cricket sounds
rippling sunlight.
soft breeze
a cool dream echoes
memories and moonlight.
in maple shade
her potted plants,
already sucked up morning
now with greedy leaves
strain, for afternoon.
--PD Lyons blog for poetry publishing info and new releases is http://pdlyons.wordpress.com/. Lyon's LULU page is available at http://stores.lulu.com/pdlyons.
My Kitchen Partner
From P.D. Lyon's Caribu & Sister Stones:
in the middle of the night
Frigidaire dim glow
secret chocolate cake
ice cold Ballantine Pale Ale
curtains swayed by open windows
bare feet linoleum
slow dance
blessed an absence of air conditioning
not missing the tango at all
--PD Lyons blog for poetry publishing info and new releases is http://pdlyons.wordpress.com/. Lyon's LULU page is available at http://stores.lulu.com/pdlyons.
My Kitchen Partner
in the middle of the night
Frigidaire dim glow
secret chocolate cake
ice cold Ballantine Pale Ale
curtains swayed by open windows
bare feet linoleum
slow dance
blessed an absence of air conditioning
not missing the tango at all
--PD Lyons blog for poetry publishing info and new releases is http://pdlyons.wordpress.com/. Lyon's LULU page is available at http://stores.lulu.com/pdlyons.
Monday, February 15, 2010
You In The Photo
From P.D. Lyon's Caribu & Sister Stones:
maybe you came to see the play?
took time out from whatever whack shit you were into
but you were there
pulling up your pant leg
photographer catching those church glass and black stockings,
"bell bottom blues" you smiled
already missing a front tooth.
eyes sapphires of something
wanting only to fly
a rush of tender unrelenting love
a treasure worth protecting.
have we ever grown up?
don’t our little fingers still destroy
whatever holds our wonder?
--PD Lyons blog for poetry publishing info and new releases is http://pdlyons.wordpress.com/. Lyon's LULU page is available at http://stores.lulu.com/pdlyons.
You In The Photo
maybe you came to see the play?
took time out from whatever whack shit you were into
but you were there
pulling up your pant leg
photographer catching those church glass and black stockings,
"bell bottom blues" you smiled
already missing a front tooth.
eyes sapphires of something
wanting only to fly
a rush of tender unrelenting love
a treasure worth protecting.
have we ever grown up?
don’t our little fingers still destroy
whatever holds our wonder?
--PD Lyons blog for poetry publishing info and new releases is http://pdlyons.wordpress.com/. Lyon's LULU page is available at http://stores.lulu.com/pdlyons.
Will We Be Married?
From P.D. Lyon's Caribu & Sister Stones:
when we no longer need warmth.
when promises kept un-kept,
plans made un made,
no longer matter.
when words are beyond reason,
any sound confusing.
Hope a thing for idiots
and idiots deserving of all out rage -
then will we be married?
--PD Lyons blog for poetry publishing info and new releases is http://pdlyons.wordpress.com/. Lyon's LULU page is available at http://stores.lulu.com/pdlyons.
Will We Be Married?
when we no longer need warmth.
when promises kept un-kept,
plans made un made,
no longer matter.
when words are beyond reason,
any sound confusing.
Hope a thing for idiots
and idiots deserving of all out rage -
then will we be married?
--PD Lyons blog for poetry publishing info and new releases is http://pdlyons.wordpress.com/. Lyon's LULU page is available at http://stores.lulu.com/pdlyons.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Minor gods & Jellyfish
Minor gods & Jellyfish
Oh Darling, I see how life is killing you
from the inside — lashing you —
a merry painful flog from the belly up to the heart.
There are no prayers for you,
only disdain from the minor gods,
that holy bitch Love,
and her sisters Faith (with all her whining)
Hope, weeping, and greedy Charity
stealing away to the beach where she can watch
her ships sail off.
My Darling, the ocean blooms with a billion jellyfish
ready to sting your breasts
to sting your legs
to sting your back
That is the only truth that matters now.
Sadly, I can not save you (no one can).
Please, lay still on the rough cold sand,
let those pitiful gods piss on you
and be a balm, let the pain fill you,
let your simple little screams be a song.
I will keep your time.
Oh Darling, between these minor gods and jellyfish
let us swim and die a thousand times, or, if the sanctity of pain is kind
just once with hate.
--Stephan Anstey has written over 10,000 poems. He is a poet with an attitude as original as his voice. His has been called a modern day Lewis Carroll with a wonderful emotional core at the center of his work. Great lyricism, Stephan dances with language. Check out his recent chap Minor Gods and Jellyfish.
Tripping the moon
Tripping the moon
Three nights ago,
the moon was pregnant and paused.
She asked me,
will you visit me when I grow thin?
I climbed a single star, to see her
closerly - and winked, yes into the oh
of her mouth. Then dove back into the poplar.
Two nights ago, i met the squirrel,
I tamed him, i taught him how to lash
poplar together. He ate his last acorn,
then sat upon the raft with me - floating
above the pettiest coats of clouds.
I drank champagne with him, celebrated
you, and love, and all the little offenses bravery leads us to,
and the moon - she waited patiently
skinnier as lassoed butterflies.
Last night, I kissed you goodbye
stripped you naked from the green dress
adored you in the newly red, and sang l
love's song in your left ear.
The moon was proper enraged, but forgave,
me and the squirrel, on the raft.
It was too dark, I think, for stars,
and so i begged you, join me in scarlet
we'll settle differences in the gray dust
of the cold cold moon.
Tonight, we rise and dance, she's a quarter gone
and leaving fast. That is how love works
one grovel at a time beneath a waning moon.
--Stephan Anstey has written over 10,000 poems. He is a poet with an attitude as original as his voice. His has been called a modern day Lewis Carroll with a wonderful emotional core at the center of his work. Great lyricism, Stephan dances with language. Check out his recent chap Minor Gods and Jellyfish.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
I pause in a glade
I pause in a glade
Hail merry butterfly, full of grace,
God is with thee.
Two flaps fall, two flaps, rise
the sunlight is the blessed revelation of every possible future.
Hail beautiful butterfly, sinless and free,
God is with thee.
Sit. Settle. Wait. Wait. Extend your wings.
Reflection on the water, then over the tall grass
Hail King Butterfly, full of wisdom,
God is with thee.
Wordless sing, Soundless, rise.
Your eternal kingdom of now is the holy truth of meadow and heart.
--Stephan Anstey has written over 10,000 poems. He is a poet with an attitude as original as his voice. His has been called a modern day Lewis Carroll with a wonderful emotional core at the center of his work. Great lyricism, Stephan dances with language. Check out his recent chap Minor Gods and Jellyfish.
Quoteable
"I can't take anymore.
I have no more wings.
I can't take anymore.
The gates of heaven sealed.
Don't you hear me?
Don't you hear me?
Don't you fear me
Of never coming back?
Do you know what it's like
When heaven's hung in black?
...Don't you leave me to die." --W.A.S.P.
Nursing Home
Nursing Home
I look behind the withered wrinkles of 80 years of hurt
into the almost-in-hell twinkle of her deadish eyes
her breath creaked with splintered years but she said
nothing.
I touched the greenish bulge of vein in her left hand
where every day throbbed like arthritis and reached
toward the expected comfort of her notions of grave
I smelled cold stale piss in the dark sunless air
around the worn ragged edges of her broken sofa
hanging too damned long, like the want of youth.
Again, the sound of dying creeps up her throat.
All of her, still, the young goddess as years crack
and fold into the iron bars of age.
--Stephan Anstey has written over 10,000 poems. He is a poet with an attitude as original as his voice. His has been called a modern day Lewis Carroll with a wonderful emotional core at the center of his work. Great lyricism, Stephan dances with language. Check out his recent chap Minor Gods and Jellyfish.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Take 15% off at Lulu.com
"All children, except one, grow up." -- J.M. Barrie
Here's another opportunity to purchase one of the fine original books from Calliope Nerve Media and save money. Check out our newest offering Michael Mc Aloran's chap The Rapacious Night.
Enter coupon code: WASHINGTON and take 15% up to $25.00 off on all LULU.com orders through 2/15/2010.
Here's another opportunity to purchase one of the fine original books from Calliope Nerve Media and save money. Check out our newest offering Michael Mc Aloran's chap The Rapacious Night.
Enter coupon code: WASHINGTON and take 15% up to $25.00 off on all LULU.com orders through 2/15/2010.
Less Writer, More Businessperson
Found in Peter Boweman's The Well-Fed Self Publisher (and how true it is):
"I find myself increasingly reluctant to work with authors who believe their work is done when manuscript has been completed... this business is so competitive that it makes no sense for us to acquire a title that will not realize full potential without the author's help." --Kent Sturgis
"I find myself increasingly reluctant to work with authors who believe their work is done when manuscript has been completed... this business is so competitive that it makes no sense for us to acquire a title that will not realize full potential without the author's help." --Kent Sturgis
Chemicals
Chemicals
she was being repaid
the gratitude of a screaming enfant terrible
for all her giving
her four year old is reversing
into a disobedient analyte
for the first time
in her short life
she has a child
she has her spunk
she has her measure of predicting
as only a mother can tell in advance.
--Jay Coral currently lives in Los Angeles and can be found at http://bluejayeye.blogspot.com/.
Beautiful Secrets
Beautiful Secrets
My life is not all as it seems.
Translucent laughter hiding thoughts,
And secrets stashed in dusty seams.
You think you know my many dreams,
My whispers, precious hidden knots,
My life is never as it seems.
Delve within smiles, my deep bloodstreams
Of twisted mindsets, silly thoughts,
And secrets kept in lukewarm streams.
Go deeper, you’ll find my daydreams,
Of love, and lust and black inkblots,
My mind is not all as it seems.
In trickles of teardrops and screams,
Insanity drives mindless plots,
And nightmares stashed in half-crazed eyes.
In daylight, see broken dreams,
Good-bye in one hundred gunshots.
My life is not all as it seems,
And secrets stashed in hidden seams.
--Suhui Zhang is currently plotting to take over the world. Unfortunately, being under 18, the law forbids minors from taking over life as we know it. (Lucky for you!). Suhui lives a normal life at a not-so-normal art school where the teachers try their best at pronouncing her name right. She goes by Sophie, for those who can't pronounce it right (99% of the time).
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Harvesting Pumpkins
Harvesting Pumpkins
From villages in Iowa,
Indiana, Minnesota and Nebraska
and from towns in the Dakotas,
Wisconsin and Michigan,
there stream to Chicago in spring
parades of lithe girls
looking for boys
who will look at them
but who find instead
men who will wine them
through summer,
who will wait until fall
to thresh in the fields
one summer can ripen,
men who will watch
till a pumpkin falls from the vine.
This is the courtship
village girls dream of,
laugh about, hope for.
Come fall, these are the men
who fill silos of girls
from Elkhart and Davenport,
Ely and other small places,
lithe girls who in spring
come to Chicago
looking for boys
who will look at them
but who find instead
the reapers, the men.
--Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, MO. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. He has had poems published in or accepted by The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, Calliope Nerve, Public Republic (Bulgaria), Avocet Review, Revival (Ireland), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), Poetry Friends, Poetry Super Highway, Pirene's Fountain (Australia) and other publications.
CATS AND MOTHERS GROW SOMEWHAT ALIKE
CATS AND MOTHERS GROW SOMEWHAT ALIKE
‘Oh, to be a mother, a gift like no other…’
For Carmen,
When you were younger you became a mother, a mother eager
and loving, lovingly attached to your two sons, not unlike the
mother cat to her litter of kittens newly delivered in the closet
corner. The cat suckling its new born, you feeding your sons
each in turn, each provided the sustenance vital for growth,
vital for each one’s development as each sought to greet, then
grasp the meaning of their surroundings, learning, gathering
in knowledge – assorted information so necessary in daily life.
The mothering cat slowly, surely brings its litter out from its
lair, coaxing, then herding them – each one carefully so as not
to loose sight of any – until they become familiar with their
environment, preparing them either for eventually entering
the natural world outside the house, or to learn the inside outs
of the household domain pending its master’s desires. Your
sons grow like stable trees sturdy, strengthened first by instinct,
yours, then theirs, and family coached information, then formal
schooling. Eventually both, sons and kittens, must break their
maternal bond, must find their own paths as did Roethke’s cat.
It too eventually left its doorside spot, its observation post,
whether to enter the opened screen or to snuggle under a step.
--Fred Wolven is editor of Ann Arbor Review a poetry ezine open to quality work from poets throughout the world. Author of The Cat Outside His Door: Poems After Roethke, a book looking for a publisher, Fred is a retired prof, an avid reader, and life-time student of the late poet Theodore Roethke.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
AS THE MORNING UNFOLDS BEFORE ME
AS THE MORNING UNFOLDS BEFORE ME
This is for you, Carmen…
During my early morning walk with the sun barely
visible over the southeastern horizon, approaching
the western boundary of the property I hear and
then notice the red-tailed hawk, perched above the
Catbird’s seat in the top of the tallest Florida pine,
all the while emitting its call, repeating over and
over; two buildings away, sitting atop the peak
its mate, smaller in size, answers plaintively, more
subdued, more guarded in their call and response.
Down near the lakeshore, a grey heron stands
erect on the bank reaching its three and a half
feet stretched height, its wings spread out
anhinga-like to catch the growing morning’s
warmth of this pre-winter sun’s rays. In the
waters along the shore, a hundred feet away
a younger, more dimutive heron, an offspring
no doubt, moves, now and again darting and
dipping its beak into the calm liquid, feeding on
whatever is available. And just a few feet from
this youngster, a still younger bird, a yet smaller
anhinga floats and also fishes, diving fully under
imitating its parents and resurfacing ten feet away.
Noticing such as the morning unfolds before me,
I continue my hour’s walk following the fence line
around the approximately mile and a half property
observing the varied mix of brush and shrubs, the
overhanging trees, and even weeds jutting some
ten feet into the air. The occasional pine stands
out in its height and sparse foliage. Returning
home I sip on a bottle of fresh spring-fed, chilled
artisan well drawn water, and sit here by the porch
window so I can overlook the mirror-like surface
of the lake. Of course, it is in moments like these,
while completing my solitary trek around the acreage,
that I acknowledge our connection, your very real
presence in my life for giving me such a visage,
for opening me to the possibilities surrounding us.
Such as you, the one in a lifetime woman, without
who I am but half the man, only a shell so shallow
in skeleton and skin, helping transform me into the
living, breathing person you greet with that smile
in your voice and an enticing grin spreading wide
across your face with your eyes opening letting the
light emphasize the sparkle so readily every time
you come into view. Such, my Love, is life with you.
--Fred Wolven is editor of Ann Arbor Review a poetry ezine open to quality work from poets throughout the world. Author of The Cat Outside His Door: Poems After Roethke, a book looking for a publisher, Fred is a retired prof, an avid reader, and life-time student of the late poet Theodore Roethke.
For sale
For sale
I found a Craigslist reader
he secretly recited in Cartesian delight:
"vintage dresser with magical oak"
and bought it!
I showed the reader
the bug-laden furniture
the missing leg and the broken mirror
and he shrugged
recycling my doubt
to expose the pith of his shortcomings.
And to iron it all
he paid me with gold
for the price of my meager essence.
--Jay Coral currently lives in Los Angeles and can be found at http://bluejayeye.blogspot.com/.
Quoteable
"The goal isn't always to spread an idea. Sometimes the goal is to make change happen. A book is a physical souvenir, a concrete instantiation of your ideas in a physical object, something that gives your ideas substance and allows them to travel." --Seth Godin
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
HOW COME THE REST OF THIS WORLD SEEMS TO RELAX
HOW COME THE REST OF THIS WORLD SEEMS TO RELAX
Wondering
if I took the pill
already so I won’t
do a double dose,
I walk back to the computer,
sit here and write the
new poet from Nigeria
asking what part of
the country he is from.
I want to be sure he
is acknowledged correctly
in the journal issue.
Now, turning to look
out through the porch
on the small lake
with its calm waters,
I watch the resident ducks
and wait for the small
blue heron and its
companion white and
their friend the little angehia
which trolls along diving,
searching and resurfacing
again and again.
This morning is peaceful
though we didn’t manage
to get through breakfast
before you had to dash
off to work. Seems like
too often one of your
staff is calling in
or not, and you already
work ridiculous hours.
--Fred Wolven is editor of Ann Arbor Review a poetry ezine open to quality work from poets throughout the world. Author of The Cat Outside His Door: Poems After Roethke, a book looking for a publisher, Fred is a retired prof, an avid reader, and life-time student of the late poet Theodore Roethke.
Wrestler
Wrestler
Ripped to the bone,
the superhero of the hour
beats upon yet another villain
with chairs, ropes,
fake but effective blows,
until a fan favorite
enemy of the people
is pile-driven home.
The ring offers
stardom for up-and-comers
infamy for losers,
battle weary bruisers
V-shaped Adonis’s
taking midnight promises
and dives
for dollars.
Abused,
used,
mind-riddled
confused,
the pusher-man delivers
backstage near the lockers
another concoction
a grocery list long
filled with chemistry
a pharmacist would be proud to create.
Throwing himself into the part
in front of 20,000 plus
the fighter fills the bill,
a role every man woman and child
expects and adores
as our beleaguered veteran
fake breaks
another archetype of
Andre the Giant stature.
In the locker room
our re-born hero flexes
to himself and his contemporaries
but at home, adrenaline used up,
knees creak,
neck snaps, crackles, pops
like the cereal he loved as a child.
Drinking Old Milwaukee
a six-pack full to ease the pain,
he smashes cans against his forehead,
another breakfast of champions
gone to his head.
Toilet stopped-up
in his trailer – the only place he calls home -
the strongman takes refuge
in the forest by the park,
and returns home
to a dozen or more children
who jump, pull him down
to their pint-size
out of fun, adoration and love
for what he pretends to be on stage,
but for what he is
in real life
with them.
Later that evening,
he faces mortality
- his hundredth match
in two hundred days -
as he steps into
another gym in
another small town.
After weights are lifted,
syringes emptied,
muscles tightened,
toned by steroids,
the boy inside him reflects
for the first time in years,
that he's only a match away
from his once perfect body becoming fodder
for another want-a-be star
or worse yet . . .
food for the worms.
The veteran
takes center stage once more
for the final journey
of his life,
an adventure
written by promoters
who never fail to please
the savage beast
in each of us.
--Joseph DiLella is a college professor by trade, a creative writer by avocation. He's published poems and short stories in such journals as Mad Swirl (where he's a featured poet), Clockwise Cat, Calliope Nerve, and Static Movement.
Quoteable
"The seeds of all evil are sown in their mind and harvest the sad fields of woe. Cause dead boys are martyrs that live on forever but now it's too late for their souls."--W.A.S.P.
Monday, February 8, 2010
missile at the conga line
missile at the conga line
Americans have the problem
of believing everything
they do has global importance
campaigns are waged to change
the world
every protest led by long haired
college students
protesting everything but accomplishing
little more than getting the organizers
laid
once, to impress a girl,
i attended an anti-war rally
but i was far from the pacifist
conspiratorialist
conga thumping or ganja smoking
white dreadlocked tambourine
enthusiast
that painted the streets
i was uncomfortable around them
i didn’t know their jargon
& i was convinced they saw through
me
to the girl
i was a man wed to my ideals
& we fucked later
far away from that place
in a deserted parking lot
in my starved for life
Toyota Tercel
Mission Accomplished
Iraqis, though, are still getting bombed
by anti-war presidents
6 or 7 years later.
--Andrew Hilbert lives and works in Orange County, CA. He is a regular contributor to NewVerseNews.com and has appeared in Chiron Review, Pearl, Calliope Nerve and the Blue Collar Review.
Unrequited
Unrequited
Sometimes it seems like life picks you up,
brushes you off, makes you believe everything
is going to be okay,
and then punches you in the stomach.
The majority of my recent relationships
have been like that.
I wish I could tell you that
this isn’t third or even fourth time
I’ve written this poem.
They like me sure, but they don’t love me, don’t know how to.
I tell myself do not fall in love; hope maybe it will hurt less.
I didn’t notice your fingers, already wrapped around my heart.
So enamored I didn’t feel the first pull, twist.
Should have known
when I started to lose sleep thinking about you.
The final snap of aorta would not have come as a surprise.
The phrase “I just want to be friends” twisting in my stomach.
The word “unrequited” a neon sign blinking:
“You don’t get to have this,”
an endless loop of: “It’s not you, it’s me.”
I have heard the lines: “I don’t want to hurt you,”
and “I don’t want to lose our friendship”
so many times I should have them tattooed into my skin.
I have given these parts of myself away so effortlessly
only to feel like I’m being punished for doing so.
Some days are better than others.
But there will be nights I lie awake
wondering whether something may be wrong with me,
whether all I get to have is these little moments of amazing.
They pile on top of each other to form empty promises
of relationships that never quite happen.
I am beginning to sense a pattern here.
There are days where I just stand there,
try really hard not to fly apart.
Maybe you did not understand
when I told you that this time together meant something to me.
I thought it meant something to you too,
apparently not enough.
I am so tired of being your comfort blanket,
of being the cornerstone that you use
to hold up the archway of your self-esteem
just so someone else can drive through.
So no, we can’t just be friends.
You don’t get to have this heart, for free anymore.
--Jaime Martin is a writer, performer, comic artist, and professional nerd. He has been a featured performer at the New York Comic Con and The Bowery Poetry Club. He was the co-host of the infamous Nerd Slam at the 2009 Individual World Poetry Slam. He has studied several martial arts and likes to tell inappropriate jokes in mixed company. He is probably at this moment looking for a better job than the one he currently has (please help him, he is awkward). He likes firm hugs and pie, please feel free to give him either or both next time you see him. He currently lives in New York City and wishes they would bring Firefly back.
The Cat
The Cat
Only a matter of time now,
steeled ourselves,
having conversations of what to do with the body,
she is old and tired,
barely eats,
trying to make her as comfortable as possible.
Maybe a week or so at best,
trying to rationalize reasons,
hope you are making the right decision,
starting to feel the pang,
the pull on your heart strings.
Soon, you will be ready;
you think she already may be;
only a matter of time,
we are letting her go..
--Jaime Martin is a writer, performer, comic artist, and professional nerd. He has been a featured performer at the New York Comic Con and The Bowery Poetry Club. He was the co-host of the infamous Nerd Slam at the 2009 Individual World Poetry Slam. He has studied several martial arts and likes to tell inappropriate jokes in mixed company. He is probably at this moment looking for a better job than the one he currently has (please help him, he is awkward). He likes firm hugs and pie, please feel free to give him either or both next time you see him. He currently lives in New York City and wishes they would bring Firefly back.
Bullseye Haiku
Bullseye Haiku
He takes perfect aim,
kills lovers without remorse,
true love's assassin.
Snapped vertebrae,
adamantium laced spine,
post paralysis.
You, damaged hero,
carve one concentric circle
for each lover.
This one, for Karen,
this one, is for Electra,
this one, is for me.
You sad, sick bastard,
you will steal no more lovers,
pathetic madman
I know your secret.
Through your crooked, blood-soaked smile
you are so empty.
--Jaime Martin is a writer, performer, comic artist, and professional nerd. He has been a featured performer at the New York Comic Con and The Bowery Poetry Club. He was the co-host of the infamous Nerd Slam at the 2009 Individual World Poetry Slam. He has studied several martial arts and likes to tell inappropriate jokes in mixed company. He is probably at this moment looking for a better job than the one he currently has (please help him, he is awkward). He likes firm hugs and pie, please feel free to give him either or both next time you see him. He currently lives in New York City and wishes they would bring Firefly back.
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