occasional thoughts

occasional thoughts

Thursday, February 16, 2012

this is what we call a catch up post. why is it a catch up post? because i'll catch you up with all the exciting (read: boring) stuff that has been happening with me lately.

first, i was offered a contract for how they strike a balance between calligraphy and death metal. after much debating, and by debating i mean jumping up and down and yelling, i signed the contract. the press will remain a secret until the book is published, but rest assured avid reader, big things are in the works. expect to see the book early to mid 2013.

second, i've had a bunch of poems published since we last spoke. there is new work in dogzplot (francis and sarah poems), kill author (francis and sarah poems) and, again, in NAP (poems from my forthcoming NAP chap i tried to bear the elephants and lost). i'm excited and honored to be in these three journals. the links are on the right hand side of this page. read them!! beach sloth is cool always, but seems to be extra cool whenever a new NAP comes out. he did a small write up of NAP 2.3, read it here. he likes me. i like him. we can go to california and get married! will you marry me beach sloth? also i have a poem forthcoming from word riot. i racked up three healthy rejections from them before getting this poem accepted, so i'm just a bit psyched.

third, i had three poems published at thirteen myna birds (again, a link is on the right hand side of the page). the way that thirteen myna birds works is that they feature thirteen works at a time. as new pieces are added the old ones are shuffled off to die alone in a nursing home. it's sad, i know. i actually really like this idea and method of publishing. however, i'm also vain as fuck. i want people to be able to always read my wonderful poems. so i am going to post all three here! they're all, again, from my NAP chap, coming out this summer! enjoy!


lines on the highway going south

her thoughts winter, early evening.
a lucky strike tucked behind her ear
whistling show tunes and crawling south,
she steers my body like a pickup truck
covered in dents, a real barebones ford.
drifters pick strawberries from the tires,
nap in the transmission.
she shifts with my spinal cord,
the roof of my mouth, the clutch.
i ride a silver bicycle made of metal from her cavities.

a porch chair weathers the storm

rooms hidden within rooms, placed behind cobblestone walls.
there is sour water collected in my basement.
some would call this puddle a flood,
insist it be pumped out before the old bathroom sputters
an accusation in guttural tones:
your cousin shot heroin with bent knees on my bitter floor.

with soggy money i cannot afford this hurricane.
kindling: a photograph of the way you extend your neck,
a carnival of wasp stingers, parched as circuits.
the water must ruin crowded boxes
which have not been opened since before the doctors
thought to give me medication.

my house has doors that gasp cardboard.
apprehension, a whirlpool sucking in new water
like balsa wood and shop class finger shavings.
i put on soaked corduroy legs. my basement
will stay a dark swimming hole.
in the backroom is a waterproof gun case and i wonder
if my children will find the baked and cracked play-doh.

red spray on the wall in the pattern of a hand waving

i am underwater or thrashing on a carousel
or defeated in a chair while ants swarm over fingertips.
i play hangman with anton chekhov
in an abandoned storefront. charred roof beams,
cinder, gritted fists. a bit like gravity tied to a balloon,
all electric noise and sparks.

with vertebrae bent out of shape
he looks at me like folded paper, declares
this word does not contain the letter p.

he leaks like a faucet removing both shoes,
sketches the jungle inside a mason jar.
no plants, just dreadful bodies
covered in gashes and bright orange filament
keeps them tethered to the ground.
anton chekhov is lost in this jungle.

for the word, i guess shaving. he mutters
about rats and shooting himself in the thigh:
how the cartridge burrows through raw flesh, howling.

will the letter p emerge in the final act,
drape a plastic bag around my neckline,
gentle as sunburn flaking skin?
the hangman, drunk on warm pig’s blood and human meat.
i will not make the front page, instead newspapers read:
the dog’s fur contains battery acid, a stray nucleus.

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