Call me an idealist, I don’t mind. Bullets and bombs will never be the answer to addressing our differences.
gray flecks on my beardcrow’s feet nestled under my eyes-
reminders that time never rampages,
like enemy tanks
on a muddied battlefield, but instead
drip drip dripping
like glaciers baking in the sun,
and I am in no hurry to grow old
and pass on into the ether, but I do fear being forgotten
encased in amber freely
float shards of damaged hearts and shattered dreams
future scientists will never comprehend how we were capable of
welcome to conformitypopulation infinity
where trash cans form a
silent dawn patrol, transversing
and in every home, pestilential secrets are sealed, the hinges on every door
weakened by promises left desolate
these freak flags won’t fly here without
invoking a bloodless coup
our spaces are filled up with so many useless notes,
coined by uninspired copywriters
peddling you this
half-assed ideal of a better life
that has never been yours to
learn to live, learn to love, learn
to fuck, learn to chase the perfect
whiskey with an ice-cold beer
lose money at the poker table,
root for the wrong team, fall in love
with a dangerous woman. or a
drive like you stole it
oprah doesn’t give a fuck about you
It’s been a while, I know. Almost a year since I last posted something on this blog that’s been abandoned.
But some things have happened in the meantime…bought and moved into a new house, spent too much on new furniture, saw the new Star Wars movie three times, built a pretty sweet vinyl record collection – that’s a blog for another time, promise! – and turned 44 years old.
Oh, and my cat died. I miss him terribly.
Oh, and Donald Trump happened. Fuck that guy.
I would love to regale you with swashbuckling tales of literary madness, that I wrote a novel-length manuscript, got an agent, sold said manuscript to a publisher, and did a book reading tour in support of the book.
No, no, nope, and no. None of that happened. In fact, I stopped writing altogether.
I had some harsh conversations with myself about my writing. In short, I came to the realization that I don’t have the discipline (read: attention span) to write a full-length novel. Or a novella, for that matter. My writing comes in bursts, short threads that I can work with within a smaller confine, but this writing approach doesn’t work well when you’re trying to write 50,000 or more pages, then edit the fucking brute.
I would have seemed hypocritical from me to continue posting stuff on my blog about the “writing process” when I was failing miserably at it. About what little progress I was making. About how frustrating I found writing becoming.
So I gave up. No, not writing; posting on my blog.
What I did learn, much to my eternal surprise, is that I have a knack for poetry. Yup, poetry.
Why is this surprising? Because I used to hate poetry. HATE poety. HATED HATED HATED it. Honestly, it was personal biases that got in my way. Poetry always seemed soft and quaint, in the words of John Keating, something “to woo women with.” It wasn’t until I started reading what you can call “outlaw” poetry, i.e., the Beat Poets, Richard Brautigan, Sapphire, and, of course, Charles Bukowski, that I saw writing in riddles and codes, dancing with metaphors and similes, that’s when I was able to unlock why poetry matters.
I did find a community of poets and writers on Instagram, of all places, that willingly and openly shared their work. Since I was there already, I figured I would jump into the pool. My first attempts were tentative, small attempts at mimicking what I knew. The more work I read on IG, the more I felt confident about posting my own words. In the year or so that I began posting my poetry and micro-poetry on IG (more than 700 posts!), I’ve garnered a pretty sizable following, and have made strong connections with the poetry community on IG.
Time, then, to also start showcasing my poetry here.
I have no bold plans for this blog, nor do I have bold plans for my writing. I’m still writing poetry, which I will be posting here frequently (and thank you in advance for reading it; critiques are welcome, unabashed fandom is greatly recommended), and I’ll update my site on random thoughts and observations that come to mind. Just not politics, though; my political ranting days are over, and, besides, with the public cannibalism that goes for presidential campaigning these days, my teeth-gnashed rants are not the sort of thing I want to contribute. I’ll wear my politics on my sleeve and go about my business.
(Team Bernie, in case you’re wondering…)
I can’t promise exciting things, other than I’m helping out on an anthology that will hopefully see the light of day this spring, and putting together a collection I will self-publish before the year is through.
And fuck Donald Trump.
Thanks for reading. Talk soon.
I’m pleased to announce that Uno Kudo Volume 4 is now available for purchase in hardcover over at Amazon.com.
You may recall I’ve spoken about Uno Kudo before. My work has been featured in both Volumes 1 and 2, and I also served as an editor for Volume 2. Not only did I serve as an editor for this volume, but my short story, “Anatomy Lab Class Assignment,” is one of the featured stories in this anthology of poetry, prose and art.
I have to say, without reservation, having read an advanced copy of this outstanding collection, that this is the best volume from Uno Kudo so far. Edgy? Yes. Daring? Yes. Refreshing? Yes. Definitely off the beaten path.
Do yourselves and those you love a favor, along with the terrific assortment of poets and writers documented below, and purchase your copy of Uno Kudo Volume 4 right now, just in time for the holidays. You won’t regret it, and you won’t be let down. Pinky swear.
I have to remind myself daily that no matter what’s thrown at me in an attempt to piss me off, it’s not going to send me off the deep end. This is why I’ve read “The Shoelace,” a poem by the great Charles Bukowski, a lot lately. Read it, and you’ll see why it’s become my mantra, my koan, my litany against me losing my fucking mind on the stresses of life.
a woman, a
tire that’s flat, a
desire: fears in front of you,
fears that hold so still
you can study them
like pieces on a
it’s not the large things that
send a man to the
madhouse. death he’s ready for, or
murder, incest, robbery, fire, flood…
no, it’s the continuing series of small tragedies
that send a man to the
not the death of his love
but a shoelace that snaps
with no time left …
The dread of life
is that swarm of trivialities
that can kill quicker than cancer
and which are always there –
licence plates or taxes
or expired driver’s license,
or hiring or firing,
doing it or having it done to you, or
roaches or flies or a
broken hook on a
screen, or out of gas
or too much gas,
the sink’s stopped-up, the landlord’s drunk,
the president doesn’t care and the governor’s
lightswitch broken, mattress like a
$105 for a tune-up, carburetor and fuel pump at
and the phone bill’s up and the, market’s
and the toilet chain is
and the light has burned out –
the hall light, the front light, the back light,
the inner light; it’s
darker than hell
and twice as
then there’s always crabs and ingrown toenails
and people who insist they’re
there’s always that and worse;
leaky faucet, christ and christmas;
blue salami, 9 day rains,
50 cent avocados
or making it
as a waitress at norm’s on the split shift,
or as an emptier of
or as a carwash or a busboy
or a stealer of old lady’s purses
leaving them screaming on the sidewalks
with broken arms at the age of 80.
2 red lights in your rear view mirror
and blood in your
toothache, and $979 for a bridge
$300 for a gold
and china and russia and america, and
long hair and short hair and no
hair, and beards and no
faces, and plenty of zigzag but no
pot, except maybe one to piss in
and the other one around your
with each broken shoelace
out of one hundred broken shoelaces,
one man, one woman, one
so be careful
Yes, things have been rough recently, and my levels of frustration have reached astronomical levels. But in the grand scheme of it all, everything that’s conspiring against me and my family – our careers, this very possible relocation, my daughter’s illness (which I haven’t really discussed, but I will in a future blog) – is just a collection of broken shoelaces, or, as my wife puts it, “death by a thousand paper cuts.” If we let those broken shoelaces impact us, then we’re heading straight to the loony bin.
And we can’t have that.
PS – I’m fine, actually. This isn’t some veiled request for help or anything like that. It’s just that when there’s a lot of balls that need to be juggled all at once, you need to look to something to help you sort things out. I started this blog nearly 2 years ago as a therapeutic outlet, and it’s a good time right now for sorting things out as I’m getting my writing back on track. Thanks for reading!