A Poetic Exorcism

In order to play lyricist
Like a game of chess
You need a strategy that
Bleeds memories and
Purges the ethereal soul
Of its demons, fears, and
Hesitations as they hamper
Even the best of exorcists

And make sure to exorcise
Through poetic exercise that
Rings out the soul in melodious
Cacophony and chimes a triangle
Of hope, understanding, and
Raw reflection; a dance with lascivious
Passion and a sprint
with modest
Rumination
To lift the
Weights off your back
And build the muscle
Of your soul

For even an exorcism most mellifluous
Requires an introspection, most meticulous

--Adina Rosenthal's poetry has recently appeared at The Camel Saloon, vox poetica, Yes, Poetry, and Heavy Hands Ink. Her short story "Succubus-in-Law", will appear in Gus Ginsburg's forthcoming anthology Bride of the Golem. Her thoughts can be found at adinacate.blogspot.com.

Warmth, much later

Sense (emotional remorse) without saturation
            sans
deplorable nuances of a deafening cheer.  Dimmed
                                                                                    flood
forgoing anorexic devotion
—thrills upon orated notions
         depicting cross and weight of transgressional circumferences

 

                                    wound of windy springs
clutching role and woven abjurations
premise-lung piercing veil of diligent coverings—
                                    pastel
positional worries highlighting
modular obscenities
delegating toward an ear’s most
anecdotal naïveté.  

--Felino A. Soriano (b. 1974) is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities. In 2010, he was chosen for the Gertrude Stein "rose" prize for creativity in poetry from Wilderness House Literary Review. Philosophical studies collocated with his connection to various idioms of jazz explains motivation for poetic occurrences. For information, including his 44 print and electronic collections of poetry, over 2,700 published poems, interviews, and editorships, please visit his website: www.felinoasoriano.info.

Sounds of Whispered Highlights

Framed
                                    angles
                        italicized an
hour’s specialized
                        engagement.
 Of frigid symptoms
            (Winter white
                                    arid
             circumference)
decomposes     entire
                        entities
                  and
      various interpretations
                        of day’s
obvious
                        serialized
abstractions.  

--Felino A. Soriano (b. 1974) is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities. In 2010, he was chosen for the Gertrude Stein "rose" prize for creativity in poetry from Wilderness House Literary Review. Philosophical studies collocated with his connection to various idioms of jazz explains motivation for poetic occurrences. For information, including his 44 print and electronic collections of poetry, over 2,700 published poems, interviews, and editorships, please visit his website: www.felinoasoriano.info.

Missed Fortune

Trust manifest

            an articulated
fulcrum of verb and
   delineated
               delirium.  As
home and path re-
        create persona
            of
blatant absence

                        walk of
                    alphabetic
                             maze
ends as     antiquated
fences      broken by
weighted         deliberations.  

--Felino A. Soriano (b. 1974) is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities. In 2010, he was chosen for the Gertrude Stein "rose" prize for creativity in poetry from Wilderness House Literary Review. Philosophical studies collocated with his connection to various idioms of jazz explains motivation for poetic occurrences. For information, including his 44 print and electronic collections of poetry, over 2,700 published poems, interviews, and editorships, please visit his website: www.felinoasoriano.info.

Move, remove

erracotta veins
path relevant relayed splayed conceptions of the walker’s
tamed consistencies. 
                                    With

                             appetite attractions hysterical methods

roam systems dis
locate
placeable rhetoric submitted
dialectical swarms of the mind’s compulsive addiction

blend               spasm              interrelated blame toward
constant

abdications.   

--Felino A. Soriano (b. 1974) is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities. In 2010, he was chosen for the Gertrude Stein "rose" prize for creativity in poetry from Wilderness House Literary Review. Philosophical studies collocated with his connection to various idioms of jazz explains motivation for poetic occurrences. For information, including his 44 print and electronic collections of poetry, over 2,700 published poems, interviews, and editorships, please visit his website: www.felinoasoriano.info.

bodies of the random permissions

head in the eye of
3rd generational                        pollution
            pontificate       concise interpretational correctness

*
mood and elevated study
notes as studious components
devolve corrupt, and, elongate
stubborn sensitivity

|a|
birth reconfigures familial hearsay
verb as crown
                                explicates scent and moving assumptions
                                    full as thoughtful advantages
derisive upon extractions of an inconsistent philosophy

--Felino A. Soriano (b. 1974) is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities. In 2010, he was chosen for the Gertrude Stein "rose" prize for creativity in poetry from Wilderness House Literary Review. Philosophical studies collocated with his connection to various idioms of jazz explains motivation for poetic occurrences. For information, including his 44 print and electronic collections of poetry, over 2,700 published poems, interviews, and editorships, please visit his website: www.felinoasoriano.info.

The Speed at Which My Mind Travels

accelerated slow motion
      you
are my best friend
                         you silly son of a bitch

with your optical illusions
that lead me
                 carefully
astray
sweetly

    as if you know
exactly
           what it is
that I want

            

                but wish to never attain

Cleansing

after finishing up
some work in the garden
the serial killer
inserts his hands
below the sink head
to wash off the dirt

-Maxwell Baumbach is a manchild from Elmhurst, IL. He has authored the chapbooks "Suburban Rhythm" (Scars Publications, September 2010) and "You're Welcome" (Alternating Current, March 2011). His first full length collection, "At Age Twenty," is slated for a January 2012 release from unbound CONTENT. In his spare time, Maxwell enjoys watching unhealthy amounts of Sports Center and sleeping.

Taxi Cab Confession

I saw a taxi that had your name
on its driver side door
and I couldn't help but think
that if it violently collided
with my vehicle and I died
in a fiery blaze that there is
a good chance
that it would probably
be symbolic
somehow

--Maxwell Baumbach is a manchild from Elmhurst, IL. He has authored the chapbooks "Suburban Rhythm" (Scars Publications, September 2010) and "You're Welcome" (Alternating Current, March 2011). His first full length collection, "At Age Twenty," is slated for a January 2012 release from unbound CONTENT. In his spare time, Maxwell enjoys watching unhealthy amounts of Sports Center and sleeping.

The Hand of Friendship

Now hear this, new neighbor! John and Linda Somerset have decided to combat urban alienation by hosting an open house for the whole cul-de-sac! We’ll be all moved in by Friday; come at six pm. The buffet menu is antipasto, chicken Tetrazzini, cioppino and black-bottom pumpkin pie. Kids and critters are welcome, but remember only the kids are welcome to our pool!

The note was put in the mailboxes of the other six houses in the cul-de-sac. Two of the houses were foreclosures, so long deserted that their “For Sale” signs had been stolen. The third house was occupied by a shift worker with a time conflict. The fourth house was occupied by a devout family who never fraternized outside their own church. The fifth house was occupied by a couple with dander allergies, who had to avoid animals. The sixth house was occupied by a registered sex offender who had to avoid children.

But the open house was not unattended. The city collected mail and circulars from deserted homes, and had no record of a permit for the Somerset pool. Therefore, at six exactly, a process server arrived with a court summons.

--Robert Laughlin lives in Chico, California. Two of his short stories are Million Writers Award Notable Stories, and his novel, Vow of Silence, was favorably reviewed by Publishers Weekly. His website is at www.pw.org/content/robert_laughlin.

Transact

Come find us tucked within your concrete scapes,
Not flaunting our wares in wild merriment.
Nowadays, we take on different shapes
When we taunt and tease and tempt and torment.
We do not believe we are dangerous
Despite our customers' bleak track record,
And doubtless you have been warned about us,
Labelled more trouble than you can afford.
It is never our intent for your health
To suffer though, for where would we be then?
We are nothing without you and your wealth,
This goblin market in the hearts of men,
And from deep within each the ancient cry
Still resounds loud and clear, 'Come buy, come buy!'

--Ian Chung is Fiction Editor at The Cadaverine. His work has appeared in Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, Foundling Review, The
Cadaverine and Poetry Quarterly, among others. He was nominated by Camroc Press Review for Sundress Publications’ 2010 Best of the Net anthology. Currently, he reviews for The Cadaverine and Sabotage. Since October 2010, he also edits Eunoia Review, an online literary journal.

The Hidden Word

Making my way to you
across the room, throbbing
music pulsing, thumping
in time to the beat of
hearts all around, I might
linger awhile and speak
a casual word to
persons unknown to you,
insignificant folk
not worthy of your fears
and jealousies because
there is one thing we share:
a meeting of the eyes
perhaps, or even just
a chance fleeting glance
is enough to be sure.

--Ian Chung is Fiction Editor at The Cadaverine. His work has appeared in Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, Foundling Review, The
Cadaverine and Poetry Quarterly, among others. He was nominated by Camroc Press Review for Sundress Publications’ 2010 Best of the Net anthology. Currently, he reviews for The Cadaverine and Sabotage. Since October 2010, he also edits Eunoia Review, an online literary journal.

Vitamin C

I love you like an addict needs a high
To stay afloat, treading water until
The next wave of narcotic numbness breaks
Upon my brain-sands and washes away
The dank detritus that accumulates
Only in your absence. Can you taste me?
For I taste the loss of you, like a blade
Cutting lines on the table, on my tongue.
The tang of blood no longer bothers me,
Shed in brokenness but to heal us whole.

--Ian Chung is Fiction Editor at The Cadaverine. His work has appeared in Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, Foundling Review, The
Cadaverine and Poetry Quarterly, among others. He was nominated by Camroc Press Review for Sundress Publications’ 2010 Best of the Net anthology. Currently, he reviews for The Cadaverine and Sabotage. Since October 2010, he also edits Eunoia Review, an online literary journal.

TaNka+10: A Generated Experiment

the scent of mango
is fixed in the memories
of an old people
under an alien sky
trying to build a new life

the scepter of mangrove
is fixed in the memsahibs
of an old pepper
under an alignment skydiver
trying to build a new lifeboat

the sceptre of man-hour
is fixed in the menages
of an old peppermint
under an allegation skylight
trying to build a new lifeline

the schema of mania
is fixed in the mends
of an old percentage
under an allegory skyscraper
trying to build a new lifespan

the scheme of maniac
is fixed in the menials
of an old perception
under an allergy slab
trying to build a new lifestyle

the schemer of manic-depressive
is fixed in the mentalities
of an old perch
under an alley slacker
trying to build a new lifetime

the schism of manicure
is fixed in the mentions
of an old percolate
under an alleyway slag
trying to build a new lift

the scholarship of manifestation
is fixed in the mercenaries
of an old peregrination
under an allocation slander
trying to build a new light

the schoolboy of manipulator
is fixed in the mercies
of an old perfect
under an allowance slap
trying to build a new lighthouse

the schoolgirl of manner
is fixed in the mergers
of an old perforation
under an all-rounder slat
trying to build a new lightning

--Ian Chung is Fiction Editor at The Cadaverine. His work has appeared in Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, Foundling Review, The
Cadaverine and Poetry Quarterly, among others. He was nominated by Camroc Press Review for Sundress Publications’ 2010 Best of the Net anthology. Currently, he reviews for The Cadaverine and Sabotage. Since October 2010, he also edits Eunoia Review, an online literary journal.

Safe Words

By now you must admit
Love is an arranging.
We tidy the attics
Of our respective lives
And present them, proudly,
As a fait accompli,
Trusting now everything
Must be pleasing, wholesome,
Fit for our consumption.
And have we not laboured
To learn our lines and play
The parts we were assigned?
There is artistry here,
In the way we choose words
To say or not to say.
Language will protect us
From the things we cannot
Bring ourselves to confront.
Love is our dialogue:
I won’t tell, if you won’t.

--Ian Chung is Fiction Editor at The Cadaverine. His work has appeared in Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, Foundling Review, The Cadaverine and Poetry Quarterly, among others. He was nominated by Camroc Press Review for Sundress Publications’ 2010 Best of the Net anthology. Currently, he reviews for The Cadaverine and Sabotage. Since October 2010, he also edits Eunoia Review, an online literary journal.

If You Want It To Be Easy

Don’t shuttershock light back into quarks.
Don’t have staring contests with the man on the moon
reducing him to a high-school nerd of an asteroid
fumbling all over undiscovered space and sky
until he crashes into adolescent galaxies
with all the debonair of a prepubescent black hole.

Don’t challenge the stars to cross their eyes when they don’t have any.
The next time you want to make a wish,
they’ll organize a meteor uprising
as a boycott against falling for you.

Don’t break men in half
when they are made of millions of atoms
and half-lives
and so half
is, in all logical reality, a half-hearted copout.

This universe is in love with disorder,
so why break
when you can be a ball-buster?

Fall together.
Come worldly as they come.

When the world tries to stop you in your tracks,
rewind yourself forward.
Finish in the past tense.
Love like you were dying.
Live as if stopclocks waited on your every gasp and heave
to declare mutiny from mortality.

There are formulas for forever hiding in your fingertips.
Swallow your shortcomings.
Act like you know.

--Jennifer-Leigh Oprihory (a.k.a. Phoenix) is a poet, scientist, editor, activist, life-lover, caffeine-junkie, and connoisseur of all things carpe diem and light. Editor-in-Chief of the online poetry journals Borderline and Anatomy & Etymology, she wants to change your world, one word at a time. Her poetry has appeared in journals including Four and Twenty, Troubadour 21, The Legendary, and Spoken War. For more info, visit http://phoenixpoet.info.

Maps V

Mondrian life in Maple leaves
Strewn at the entrance of
Wal-Mart, written history in
The aisles and the sand around
A dying man like police tape
Under my pillow, "Dream no evil."
Low-slung bell bottom jeans
With a holster at your hip,
Fire no shots, I've thrown
My condoms to the ground!
I made you into art and all
I got was one more drunk
Pussy at four A.M. Buy
Pesticide, meet me at McDonald's,
Leave the back door unlocked
Mom will be home soon

--Charles Alexander Themar lives in Denton, TX and enjoys malt liquor and soap operas. He will trade a knight for a bishop and hasn't been to the dentist in years, but don't tell anyone that.

Ordinary night

I wake up in the night and look at you
while you sleep;
if you can paint you will be master,
but now you are masterpiece.
I am watching your back
with the baby’s wrinkles
and that thing that you call hair and I call
fire,
how it falls down on your white neck-line
and you are silent in the white sheets,
I imagine them yellow,
my favorite color,
(Van Gogh’s too),
you breathe slowly and lightly like a swan in the lake,
and I count all the inhalations and exhalations,
I count 537 and
fell asleep.

please,
don’t wake up.

--Peycho Kanev has been writing poetry for the past 10 years. His poems have appeared in more than 400 literary magazines. He is nominated for the Pushcart Award and lives in Chicago. His new poetry collection “Bone Silence” was released in September 2010 by Desperanto, NY.

The way it happens

To feel it,
to grasp your heart
and to die while you write
poetry
is not so regally like let’s say
kissing untouched beauties
between the sheets.

to listen to Mahler
and after that to throw away
all the symphonies like
garbage.

Summer time,
I kiss the hog
and whisper
good night, darling, good night
child.

--Peycho Kanev has been writing poetry for the past 10 years. His poems have appeared in more than 400 literary magazines. He is nominated for the Pushcart Award and lives in Chicago. His new poetry collection “Bone Silence” was released in September 2010 by Desperanto, NY.

Shadows

The shadows are thicker near the harbors,
the ships are looking like ghosts,
water runs cool and dry down my sleeve
and the memories are forgotten

They are coming from spaces that I will never see,
where the shadows are not different from the rest,
and my soul is their cargo, their dead weight,
but none of this matters any mor

--Peycho Kanev has been writing poetry for the past 10 years. His poems have appeared in more than 400 literary magazines. He is nominated for the Pushcart Award and lives in Chicago. His new poetry collection “Bone Silence” was released in September 2010 by Desperanto, NY.

Sameness

I am riding the bus back home
after the 12 hour job;
re-reading Umberto Eco’s –
Foucault's Pendulum
as the bus keep on going
and I notice something;
this guy two seats from me
is reading some book too,
that is okay I say, but he
put his bus ticket between
the pages which he reads
right now, like I do, and
that is something strange
for me, always has been,
a lot of men looking like
me, doing the things that
I do, the same way, the
same manner,
they read the way I read,
the bleed the way I bleed,
they breathe the way I breathe,
they kiss the way I kiss,
and they most probably
copulate the way I do;
I feel strange, frightened,
banal, trivial, hackneyed;
I want this to stop, I don’t
want to be repeated and
unoriginal and yet I know
that this is impossible;
right?
please, tell me,
Jesus?
Muhammad?!

--Peycho Kanev has been writing poetry for the past 10 years. His poems have appeared in more than 400 literary magazines. He is nominated for the Pushcart Award and lives in Chicago. His new poetry collection “Bone Silence” was released in September 2010 by Desperanto, NY.

2:35 A.M.

The grass is shaking
but not because the storm outside;
it’s filled up with the red ants of
death - so pure, so alive,
and it is 2:35 in the morning
like every god-damned day is
2:35 in the morning,
and I take a peek outside
waiting for some revenge
upon my view on the world affairs;
but nothing is changed:
the red ants are running upon my
drunken arms
heading for my heart,
singing sweet songs of maidens
and children dead at birth,
and the storm outside is quiet now;
and the ants, my ants of death
are running away from me,
screaming with their little mouths:
“There is no soul inside”,
and finally I sleep with no remorse,
the perception of tomorrow lost
like a roach in garbage,
the ants are burning in my dream,
and I am happy for a while,
feeling mortal, too fragile,
so far away without moving a muscle,
sinking into the lie of
the new day.

--Peycho Kanev has been writing poetry for the past 10 years. His poems have appeared in more than 400 literary magazines. He is nominated for the Pushcart Award and lives in Chicago. His new poetry collection “Bone Silence” was released in September 2010 by Desperanto, NY.

Transgressive: A Prelude

Standing on a stage, swinging the mic stand back and forth in a hypnotic sludgy haze, hair and beard dripping cheap dye from sweaty eyes, cheap stage blood running down a bare chest turning a scrawled prophetic message into a smudged mess of meaningless gibberish, a barked diatribe from a throat burning with Everclear fumes, foreseeing a new front in American Anything.

And none of it was as controversial as a kiss.

--Walter Beck is from Indiana where he is known for his intense poetry, performances and activism, as well as his often bizarre appearance on-stage.

Makeshift Route

I jump from sentiments to ideas.
Below,

hazard-mania of a populace jolts.
And I yank my gait,
unknown noise blaring from the dementia block.

Glints of figures waver before bleach-saturated trees.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
fused to my arm, (The drugs decaffeinated, yet still pepped)
“Theme acts as plot!” I marvel,

and glares devolve the erratic parking-lot.
I regurgitate diluted nirvana,

thinning out the gout in my temples. But the midday crisis of concentrated slums
mount my city line. jumbling as

a hooded dot shivers up

enlarging,


until the lock of her hair bulges out
against her pale, sweaty face.
She’s oblivious to

the comfort in Morse code,
hissing out from the car alarm on the fritz. Her features full frontal,
I draw back my proximity, eliminating ruminations on thought.
Conversing with her? Think;

kicking a stone with

morose dynamics, down the

fidgety horizon. Fading its last depression.
If I take this detour-- where
construction workers loiter, newspaper funnies spread like wings
at the corner-- then crowding myself is selective:

dissipation.

--Steven Leonardo Clifford was born in 1984, and lives in New York. He’s diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder, and remedies his mental illness by writing poetry and fiction.

Spell Tangent

White gleams mulch over the black shore,
swishing deceivingly, scaly sand layered back to
ruffles of roofs where

ink soaks the irregular crevices,

observed by the idea of foreign eyes.
narratives tangle.

The mischievous horizon winks itself,
disemboweling the sapphire sky

before a deck of outsiders: (( “Who’s that strange man?” ))
(( “Where?” ))

A dotty figure quivers up among commotion.

(( “There” )), he links his steps through wood-knots,
while humming an unknown song. (( “What Melody is that?” ))
(( “Midnight’s made magical. by all the scars
dancing with concealed conscious.” ))
And the wooden steps went hazy in

the moonlight’s angle. when the dream-catcher is out on bail,
undulating his causal lean. He makes a circle with his finger tip
with a whoop sound effect.

And cackles. (( “I don’t get it?” ))
(( “You know, those psyche secrets we sense…n’ collect.” ))
(( “Yeah, but what now?” )) He snubs out his cigarette
past oblivion to loose tobacco and a massacred filter.
( “They say smoking’s metered damage in
a world of chaos.” ))…)… like the sparks dwindling into the frail dunes
that he glares at,

as if to study.

--Steven Leonardo Clifford was born in 1984, and lives in New York. He’s diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder, and remedies his mental illness by writing poetry and fiction.

Movement

Misshapen courtyard is amidst
deconstructive sunbeams, corrugating the brick walls,

some students encircle,
their intervals spaced

wide

as dilated pupils. Somber breaths. Wordless cigarette drags.

Thinned youth,
sloth-pace passing

And passing. And passing.
And swigs of spiked coffee

fatigue,
not vitalize.

Persons straggle,
still. The Underground diggings
not so convenient.

The substitute --crackling thru earphones-- is the hyperreal glitz:
an auto-tuned youth. A kid home from boot camp

scrounges thru his pockets as a taxi huffs.

Departing, dust across the road puffs up in wispy silk flows.
That kinetic vibe of an idle field

remains,
once the revelry clears. My city feels rented.

--Steven Leonardo Clifford was born in 1984, and lives in New York. He’s diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder, and he remedies his mental illness by writing poetry and fiction.

Student and Student

Clustering fragments
circulate a wrecked ideology, functionality

clotted. My indecisive voice cracks,
in this new school stage. What magnets repel,
and does the flipside attract? Which end matters?

Renovation drips to the floor,
by a breached ambience. Whored pensiveness
injects the flickering blue blaze. insinuating white bookshelves,
afloat

among walls of radical waters.
that mutates over my cousin’s face. I move my head crabwise, taken by a

micro-being trip. I scrutinize the room’s framework,
down to each fizzing molecule. Apply reason to the raw blueprint,
or is everything stone cold? Am I manipulative?

“Does your life ever seem.…
unreal?” The ductile windowsill convulses. “No.” Everybody says no.
If I understand otherwise, I negate. She’s never talkative

unless I instigate. We’re muted to the inquisitive show,
spewing chaotic noises.

And I dropped out of duality. My eyes are compromised, intuitively
plucking thoughts, the fetuses actively aborted.

Nothing but neutral ground to cover.

--Steven Leonardo Clifford was born in 1984, and lives in New York. He’s diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder, and remedies his mental illness by writing poetry and fiction.

Calliope Nerve Interview Series: Ron Graham

Ron, tell us about your books: Stress Free Entrepreneurship and When Things Break. Why are they important?

These are attempts at regaining relevance. I used to have a larger engineering-oriented audience about 15 years ago, and then the Internet changed, and I went in a different direction myself. But I have used them both in classes I've taught, on start-ups and on engineering failures, and while the classes have been well-received, that doesn't necessarily translate into people lining up for the books. It might be that I have to market myself better, and, well, I'm working on it.

You own and operate Clarity Strategic. What does your business do?

Clarity Strategic is a consultancy. I offer basic Web design, social media and overall Internet strategy. It's a start-up, and while I've done good work when the work has been there, like all start-ups it's a bit of a struggle to find the work. Most entrepreneurs will tell you that you must always be "about the grind" to make that business growth happen. And YOU know that's pretty much the life of the author as well, because who is an entrepreneur if not an author?

How does Social Media play into your career?

I think it's worth pointing out that the Internet has given us more opportunities to use our voice, than has ever been available before. With blogging, podcast, vodcast, social media, etc. etc. there are many, many channels for good voices to be heard.

The flip side is, we have to be the good voices, because those same channels are crowded with voices clamoring for attention. With great power comes great responsibility, once again.

Social Media is us, using the Internet to communicate with us in various ways. It's kind of like the culmination of previous social incarnations, like message boards, Usenet, chat rooms, instant messaging, etc. - it's all integrated now. And a major result of that is that you really can't do business the way we used to, not any more. You can't control the message and have potential customers hear only what you want them to - social media and its associated chaos have put paid to all that. Our choice now is this: we know the conversation about us is already happening. Do we want to be PART of it, or not? I, like many others, say "WE DO!!!"

That the Internet has become mostly Social Media doesn't change one thing: we still have to write, and write well. I mean, if we expect to be heard. And as in any other form of writing, business and technical writing - my specialties - only improve in technique through practice.

You write to become a better writer. Knowing this, I'm writing all the time. And I'm making friends online with others who feel this too. Yeah, I'd say I'm prolific. Not like the famous guys like Seth Godin or Chris Brogan or Brian Solis or anyone like that, but I am getting stuff out there, and grinding to get it seen by pairs of eyes.

The great thing about social media is that it offers almost constant inspiration, new ideas every day, new people to question you. And I listen to people: I really try to keep a finger on the pulse not only of social media, but of popular culture - at least, in those areas where I can make a positive contribution.

Do your readers want to understand social media a little better?

Kabani, Shama Hyder. The Zen of Social Media Marketing.

That's a good place - a very good place - to start.

How did you become an author? How many books and articles have you written?

I have no books in print. I have these two e-books, along with two others I have taken off the shelf for being outdated. I may be updating them eventually, but there's a lot to do. But I became an author after teaching college writing for several years – I have seen young people who really can't write well, and I've helped them. When they were willing. LOL

I've written several conference papers and articles for non-refereed publications from my life as an engineer. But blogging and guest blogging – and efforts like this – have pretty much replaced that. Blogging is where we publish today, for the most part, and it works well as a knowledge management system. It's a way we can quickly locate our best stuff for collecting into an e-book.

Consider yourself prolific?

Prolific is something like Janet Evanovich, with a slew of detective novels. You become prolific, I think, by finding that niche that people love, and really exploiting it. I have some expertise in some areas, but have not yet really connected with my own audience. They're out there. I just have to find them.

Who or what inspires you to write?

Need. Again, a writer writes knowing he has a voice that must be heard. Why do we feel our voices must be heard? Because there is a need out there going unfulfilled until we are heard.

Why do you write?

I'll give the same answer here: I believe there is a need I can fulfill, and fulfill uniquely.

Believe in writer's block?

Screw writer's block. The world's still turning, and it doesn't feel sorry for me. LOL Seriously, if I can't write, for whatever reason, I do something else for a little while, then force myself to write SOMETHING. Just to get off dead center.

What techniques do you use to market yourself, your business, and your books?

So far, I've depended heavily on social media. But that's not nearly enough. I have to do blog trades, and let new audiences see my ability. I have to launch a podcast – I had one ten years ago – and use that to grab new audiences too. And I have to speak at conferences – something I've always enjoyed. But the fact is, you have to give yourself away a lot, to gain the trust and respect that will get others to drop a buck on you.

What advice do you have for authors who want to go full time with their writing?

If others want to write, and market themselves online, they must be made to know that there is no end to the marketing effort. NO days off. So get used to it, get to like it, embrace it. Once you're good at it, then stuff really starts to happen. That's success: when stuff happens.

What's on your recommended reading list?

Well, besides Shama's book above, which I of course recommend, I'm looking at picking up Chris Brogan's Trust Agents, and Brian Solis' Engage – a couple more social media milestones. After that we'll see. I read quite a few graphic novels for pleasure, and have read the Harry Potter books and most of Jane Austen's works again and again.

How do you feel about publishing/reading tech today? (i.e. Blogging, ebooks, LULU, on demand publishing, I-Pad... etc.) How do you feel technology effects readers and publishers? Will e-books replace the real thing?

I've been on the Internet now for 25 years - that's likely to be longer than anyone else you know. And in the early days, it was possible to easily find a niche for what you know. I'm sorry to say that it's not as easy now, and my status as an Internet veteran doesn't make it any easier for me. If anything, I have to always redefine myself to remain relevant in a world filled with such cacophony.

As for whether e-books will replace the real thing, to that I say “not before something else comes along and replaces e-books as we know them today.” But eventually we're going to have some sort of hand-held device (more powerful than an iPad and easier to read than a smart phone), or possibly a personal attachment (more intimate than a wristwatch) that we depend on for just about everything we read. It just won't get here in my lifetime. But not too long after.

Why is the small press important?

Someone has to allow new talent to break in. We don't know whose work is going to SELL until it actually sells. I mean, there's someone great out there, that we can't depend on big, profit-driven publishing houses to find for us. It might be you. It might be me.

What's next for Doctor Ron?

The next thing for me? Maybe I should get to know some of your readers. Let them know how to reach me. I LOVE to talk cross-disciplinary. :-)

Ron can be reached via his website: http:// www.claritystrategic.com.

Ellipsis

“…” [RefLection]
MelancHoly ellipses trail crestFallen courtesy calls
But they aren’t for you, no they aren’t for you
I   w a n d e r, seeking symPathy;
CircumSpect and offEnded
By cavaLier disCussing
I wonder, was
It worth the
Trouble
Of
D
r
o
p
s
By the wet floor sign in the shining halls of my asylum
Where I’m the only one
Who wanders, who
D
r
i
f
t
s
Around–
Around the passAges–
Around my crystal casements–
And leaves pools of refLection
On my undulating linoleum to HighLight
The rich Scarlet brushStrokes of drops in lacunae

Sailor

Sickly, feeble,
A sailor scales his Molehill
     Ascending through shifting grass
High blossoms- seared in arid sun
Wilt and weep, swaying lightly
      Golden rays of August
       Shine on his gray hair
        Wheeze, hack and trudge up
             The Mountain he remembers taller
                   The sun he remembers brighter still.
                  Lick cotton mouth, gaze at rooftops:
                  Assets that slaughtered to rise above,
                 Shredded forests to scrap together
            Frayed rope swing to scrap together
         Phallic rebels on rusted white trucks
     Black Swan Lake bows to Capitalism
    Calls in distant memories, missed
  Yellow caps handicap small hands
       Touching upon incorrigibility
              But he never grabbed;
                The sailor only had
                          Left velvet
                                         s
                                       u
                                     n.

--Josh Miller fights inveterate bouts of cynicism, misanthropy, psychosis, and Faustian desire buried just below the cracking surface of his leviathan subconscious. Mentored by a brilliant Vulcan, Josh abandoned his aptitude in mathematics, commerce, and the rational to passionately pursue the splendor of the facetious, the mysterious, and the disturbed.