Tuesday, August 23, 2011

august 23rd, 2011

"define poetry"

says a man struck with spontaneous interest,

interest he has surely attached intellectual power to.

“Define poetry,” he repeats with passive demand.

“Define the medium you so willingly cling to—

the style which so proudly sits atop your meaningless

and pretentious

pedestal of artistic beauty.

Define the form you bow to

solemn night after solemn night—

the hidden hopes of bound immortality which rise

from splotches of ink that stain your skin.

Define the carnal desire to write partial stories and images

disguised as art—

praised only by fellow poets,

read only by fellow poets

and understood only by fellow poets.

Go ahead and smear your abstract bullshit reasons

across every inch of my mental den—

I’ll eagerly await the inescapable moment

in which I dismantle your scripted,

vague attempt at the explanation I seek.”

“Poetry is whatever the hell I want it to be.

Tonight it is this;

the Devil’s advocate,

a reflection upon an idea I love and understand,

an idea I have chosen to dissect

but one I rarely choose to define.

Sure—my answer evades strong labels

and sought-after specifics.

Poetry isn’t simply fiction,

nor is it a simple blend of honest societal reflections

surrounded by flowery imagery.

I have my definition of poetry

and it fancies change

just as we humans fancy change.

And with the completion of each new poem

my approach

and my goal

and my love alters slightly,

riding the swift winds of transformation.

Poetry is mine to sculpt because I hold the clay

between my unrelenting fingers.

Others may feel the inability

or lack of desire

to toy with the “sacred” concept of Poetry.

I don’t consider them a threat

and never will.

I only check my rear-view for the ones

who no longer question dedication,

the ones who feed their hunger

because they must.

Those are the fingers I fear…

but have yet to meet.”

The man’s response is entirely up to you

because I see it as forever irrelevant.

Art is what you make of it,

so I recommend you cozy up to the idea

of being your biggest fan for a while.

Pay little mind to those who try to tear you down,

for there will be many.

Justifying it as jealousy is an arrogant remedy

but often effective and true.

Failing to turn a profit will never break my spirit,

no matter how baffling the business minds find it.

I use rejection letters as bookmarks

because in my mind

they mistakenly passed on good poetry.

Monday, August 22, 2011

bartleby snopes "story of the month"

My story how we die is deeply doe eyed is up for "Story of the Month" on Bartleby Snopes so vote for me below... or be an ass and vote for another piece you like better.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

new publications

After a year-long drought of litmag rejections I seem to be on a bit of a roll. You can currently find me in the newest issue of Bartleby Snopes and Out of Our.



how we die is deeply doe eyed is published on the Snopes page and will soon be available in print for purchase. Come August 27th you can vote for "Story of the Month" so throw me a bone.

my generation and forever grasping and clutching are published in Out of Our, which is available now for purchase but is not yet featured on the site. Mine are actually the first two in the magazine, so cheers to that.

Still looking for a physical publisher for my new book (I'd prefer to have one published for me at least once in my life) and for my new manuscript which is basically a best-of collection. Until then, I'll just keep on chooglin'. Thanks for the support.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

first draft of "remain frantic"

I got the first draft of Remain Frantic in the mail today. A few changes need to be made but it's just about done. Expect it to go on sale before the end of September.

Here's a picture of the cover layout. More updates to come.