New book and more news

So I have a new book in the works, a shorter one this time around, but I'm very excited about it. The main piece is a short story adapted from the novel The Stranger by Albert Camus. I expect this collection to be finished in August or September and it will definitely be for sale on Lulu's online store.

Also-- as of today you can buy my first book, Matzo Ball Soup, on Lulu (with its original and intended cover design, ooh la la). Like JDR it's selling for a modest $9.99. And don't be confused by the pen name, I published this one as Rupert Pupkin. But hey-- that's the name of this website! You bet your fucking ass it is.

http://www.lulu.com/browse/search.php?&fKeywords=Cliff+Weber

That's about it for now. I'll keep you updated on the new book, but honestly, this one is more of a project for me than anyone else. The sales on my first two books piss me right off so for the time being I don't give a shit how many sell. Call it a defense mechanism and you'd probably be correct. Buy it or don't, I'm sick of pretending that somehow this time around hundreds of people will suddenly find a shit to give. It's good writing, it's a project I put a ton of goddamn time into, so if you find yourself interested I encourage you to invest the fucking money and support literature. After all, you're here reading this post.

To end this I'm going to post a piece from the new, yet to be titled collection. This story itself isn’t new, but it's all typed up and perty! So here's organic angst, which I'm quite fond of. YES-- I said I like it. Fuck off.

june 22nd, 2011

Here's an older piece from my first book.

candy coated

A smorgasbord of tarantula hands and kayak lips, silly putty earlobes and fiberglass fingernails, grocery bags under exhausted eyes, wet smiles that make you want to weep, jagged knuckles of dusty sandstone, gaping nostrils that echo loud and long, slinky necks supporting chins that hang like a wet shirt on a clothesline. Tonight these are my people and they return my cold stares with equal enthusiasm.

june 1st, 2011

may 31st, 2011 part 2

no comment

I like to think I intimidated them, that they couldn’t get through the first section out of furious envy, that they’re bitter and jealous and can’t muster up the courage to dole out even a single compliment, a single piece of acknowledgment in any possible way.

I like to think my love and devotion to the art blinded them into childish figurines incapable of admitting that maybe my shit isn’t so bad, that maybe it’s actually good and has potential.

I’m not asking for a fucking medal, just input from those who claim to be writers.

My creative writing teacher at Santa Barbara City College never wrote back after I emailed him about my first book. He was the first person to ever play music for me as I wrote. He put on the song “Acknowledgment” by John Coltrane and gave us 10 minutes or so to write anything at all. For whatever reason I decided to write prose (for the record I want to say that I consider prose to be poetry, but I do not consider poetry to be prose… similar to the way that a square is a rectangle but a rectangle is not a square). Anyways, pretentious rants from a drunk man aside, I wrote a piece called “acknowledgment.” In desperate need of participation points (required to pass) I volunteered to read. I did so with a trembling voice and a shaky pair of hands. After finishing and most surely stumbling over a few words, I received nothing. No applause, no whispered words, nothing. Prior to this moment, it was standard practice for everyone to give a slight round of applause to the brave/arrogant willing student. I received silence and what felt like dozens and dozens of burning sets of eyes. Was it respect? Was it reactionary confusion and shock? Or was it disapproval? All I know is that since then I have published two books and currently feel my left hand closing against my will. Give in and allow a night off? Go fuck yourself.

My high school English teacher who inspired me in many ways allowed me access to his inner beast as well, years later that is. A complete lack of effort to communicate and brazen disinterest in reading or purchasing my books has left me baffled. Perhaps he fears my attitude and commitment. Perhaps he’s perplexed by my sudden ability and dedication to the combination of words. Perhaps he’s seen the years pass and justifies his teaching as being more important to society; hurling his own desires as a writer into the trunk of a car doused in gasoline. “Burn baby, burn,” he cackles.

There are more examples, more personal disappointments and more rejections from people claiming to be something they are not, but to continue would be superfluous. I’ll always be bitter so this only ignites the fire. But don’t take me for someone who loves to glorify the struggle. I simply prefer to write about what I know, how I feel, who I listen to and who I ignore.

If you’re scanning this piece for contradictions, I suggest you step the fuck back because it’s full of ‘em.

I’m no genius writer, I’m just willing to churn out more than the delusional sap who’s been told his words flow like caramel. His “craving” will soon subside as mine subtlety struts by unannounced. Notice the alliteration; how it’s significance can be argued for pointless hour upon hour, when all that matters is whether or not the sentence flows better as a result. Or maybe it’s just personal preference. Don’t discount that. Maybe every sentence Toni Morrison writes isn’t supposed to be analyzed to the bone. What’s wrong with intended personal significance that may not translate the exact same message to every brain? By making writing personal we can make it relatable in all kinds of new ways. Write what you know and the right ones will follow.

Life isn’t shit, it just favors the greedy. Help me find a detour.

may 31st, 2011

impulsion

Dresses were thin, trousers were rolled up and sunburns escaped no one. Weekend monkeys hiccupped, holding bottles of rum as they waltzed alone under striped umbrellas. The sun nibbled on our shoulders like carnivorous dandruff. Sunscreen was applied. And applied. And applied again to bronze backs acting as non-stick surfaces.

It was summer and all of us knew it. Hell, three quarters of the town showed up. I don’t even like the beach, but the sunrise lifted me out of bed and it only felt natural to gather up the family and head West. It was a short drive, just one I seldom took. I liked being inside. I liked my records, my television and my silence (when it was granted, which was also seldom).

But today… today was different. Today the sun shone so aggressively while somehow remaining friendly. It shook me out my slumber and slammed me against the wall, only to then offer me an ice cold glass of cherry lemonade. How was I supposed to turn that down? It was cherry, my favorite.

So away we went, beach towels and sandals and innocent grins. Yet none of us knew why we were so excited, so childishly giddy. It didn’t really matter in the scheme of things, so none of us harped on the confusion for more than a moment. Had plans been made they were surely broken because as we tumbled out of the front door three neighbors in plain sight were doing the exact same thing. Wide-eyed and drooling behind stiff pairs of sunglasses. At least ours were stiff. None of us were beach nuts or surf junkies. We like being inside. We like the feel of shag carpet beneath our toes.

Not today though. Today our toes craved the sinking, grainy feeling of sand and not a word was spoken until I shifted the car into park. Unspoken, unanimous impulsion.

may 21st, 2011

A new piece written with Erin Dillon.

submerged

There's only a thick,

sympathetic silence between us.

"A determined soul will always manage,"

states the silhouette.

I shake my head in tender agreement.

The pink image of a girl

smiles down from a summery beer ad.

Her searing green eyes

capture my focus.

A number of men try shifting her gaze

but it belongs to me.

I tighten my grip

and whisk her into the stairwell.

"I ain't felt so safe in a long time,"

whispers the delicate starlet.

In his failure the believer finds triumph.

May 19th, 2011

This is a cover of the poem "slim killers" by Charles Bukowski from the book Mockingbird Wish Me Luck.

slim killers

four motherfuckers knock at my door

and I open it

I'm drunk and they're massive.

"Bunch of slim killers," I say.

they stroll in with arrogance,

naive machismo

demanding a ride

while pretending

to ask for one.

we pile in,

all of us stinky drunk.

"I write too," exclaims one of the faces.

"I write poetry, like you."

His moment of vulnerability

attempts to mask his vile indecision,

his stench of desired acceptance.

back at my place I remain king.

one by one they pass out

like terrified, clever possums.

heavy aspirations

mixed with inflated egos

lead to disappointing self-realizations,

involving drink intake

and not.

come morning,

when they awake to a blinding

and cruel hangover,

one sure to be nursed with sympathy,

they vomit in turn

and leave with whatever dignity

they're able to muster.

as fans of my work,

I feel indifferent.