january 19th, 2011

people are strange

Why did I agree to come?  I don't even like the beach.  I hate going in the water, you get all sandy when you come out and the water's freezing.  I don't know why she likes the beach.  Why did I agree to come?  It's too hot.  I'm going to burn, I know it.  Is that weird old man looking at me?  Is he walking over here?  Oh god, oh god.  Is he-- he is!  Lord in heaven I know I have sinned...

"Hello young sailor," said the old man.

"Oh, hi."

"I came over here for a reason, because God told me to.  I came over here to give you this here shark's tooth."  Contrary to his delusional identification, he actually held in his hand a white plastic fork.

"Thank you?"  I replied.

And away he walked.

january 18th, 2011

$200 on the feisty one

My purpose here is unknown, that much is for sure.  Today is my birthday. I'm 25 years-old and I'm at a cockfight which was spontaneously organized just two hours ago.  Clothed in pajamas (be they outstandingly pricey and 100% satin) I stand out like a 25 year-old Caucasian male in the audience of an illegal cockfight in Guatemala  at 3:15 in the morning.  I no longer care about reputations or suggested standards or accomplishments made on Wall Street by fellow high-school graduates Mother always felt I should model my life after.  I need not remind you of my whereabouts or chosen attire.  Although... a reminder would solidify my confidence rested behind each; I am sitting in a crowd of screaming locals, wearing a pair of bedtime-tuck-me-in pajamas two sizes too small.  And I don't give a fuck.

january 12th, 2011

january 6th, 2011

Here's a poem I wrote with Miss Erin Dillon.

plucking away

"Damn, is this really all I'm left with?"  Agnes was staring at the remaining white hairs planted on top of her head.  She panned down to study her well nourished, but wrinkly face in the mirror.

"Perhaps I'll try that new can opener Gladys gave me tonight."  Agnes frequently caught herself involuntarily speaking aloud.  Most of these geriatric blurts were bland observations or rhetorical questions she could not begin to answer.  Her sanity teetered above a beautiful landscape; tilting left... then right... back left... all while maintaining a serene, steady smirk.  The beast of solitude who once haunted her dreams oddly fled for the mountains when faced with the actual handshake.  She believed it was God granting her a  holy badge of courage.  An explanation was never given but Agnes no longer feared the unpredictable sound of silence.

Years ago, probably six or seven, Agnes owned a beagle who escaped through a hole in the backyard fence.  A search ensued but the dog was nowhere to be found.  After nine days had passed the little boy who lived across the street admitted he had been hiding the dog under his bed.  He maintained his innocent and naive aura with brilliance... until his mother heard a stifled bark seep from the crevice below the child's bedroom door.  The gig was up.

The boy confessed wearing a face wet with tears.  Agnes sighed with conflicting emotions and handed the leash to the boy too stunned initially react.  She knew it was the only conclusion that rang pure truth, and she sought nothing more passionately.

barnes and noble rejection response

Dear ______ _________,

I have chosen to respond to your rejection letter for one simple reason: I believe in my book, Jack Defeats Ron 100-64, far too much to roll over and gutlessly accept defeat from the bookstore I have grown to revere as King. You, Barnes and Noble, are Mecca for physical, tangible literature and my book is a superior achievement in just that— physical literature. I do not type that and grin snidely, quite the opposite in fact. Making large, bombastic claims about my book is supremely uncomfortable for me. I despise self-promotion and swallow in fear each time I solicit a bookstore or magazine (which I have been doing constantly). This being said, I believe my claim. I believe every damn word.

Poetry is dying. Poetry is being administered morphine intravenously every half hour on the dot. It is no longer cool, no longer respected and no longer given proper attention… all for good reason! “Poets” decide they want to be poets before one line is inked to page. It’s a title. A title that, in certain groups, catapults you into desired obscurity where women want to sleep with you because you’re outwardly emotional and men give you nods of approval because you put it out there mannn. Poetry doesn’t sell because current poetry is horseshit, not because it’s an unprofitable niche of art. Jack Defeats Ron 100-64 can sell because it has the moxie to lure a fan base and the honesty to intrigue a community of people who always wanted to be part of contemporary writing. I have full confidence my book has the power to resurge a brittle breed of minds. Give JDR the chance to become a national phenomenon.

Initially I planned on disrespectfully revealing my immediate (and sustaining) anger towards your seemingly template, paint-by-numbers rejection, but this passive aggressive sentence satisfies my quench. A chip on my shoulder will motivate me, but allowing you to see that chip is a mistake. I have shown you a slice of it in this paragraph, slice being the keyword. I will continue to nurse my chip and do so in order to achieve all I feel I deserve. And I know I deserve to be on bookshelves in Barnes and Noble stores across the United States.

We both know another rejection will be nothing but a scratch, so why not grant me access to the machine now? All I’m asking for is a chance. Thank you kindly. Long live the printed word.

Sincerely,

Cliff Weber