Thursday, February 25, 2010
Mr. Mosley
For anyone doubting the validity of using Wordpress to make our websites - though I'm going to try and do dreamweaver - check out Walter Mosley's website. http://www.waltermosley.com He's bigtime and you'll see at the bottom it says powered by Wordpress. He's also a hero of mine, my favorite living author - he wrote Devil and a Blue Dress, which was then the Denzel Washington movie, and he's written about 28 other books. He's pure fiction, says he couldn't write a passable poem to save his life, but he adores it nonetheless, and says - for all you straight fiction writers - even if you're half a poet, it will make your novel twice as good. Walter Mosley is a poet though, even though he says he isn't, and if you read something of his you'll see what I'm talkin' about.
Excerpt from beginning of novel I'm working on (sorely lacking in post ideas):
***My name is Devin Morning. I’m writing this in an attempt to describe what happened to me, and how I found my way back, because if it happened once, can’t it happen again? And what protection or fortification do we have as people and animals and humans, besides these abilities to process pain, even joy? To save it; make something out of it worth keeping – that which, with any luck, might stave off future relapses of the stuff we’ve worked so hard to throw out.
Among the first obsessive behaviors I remember was a fixation on other people’s shoes. Eighth grade, and my eyes were coming off the ground at a forty-five degree angle, and I knew to look up and see it was my friend Tak Ishi when I saw that vicious pair of brown Reeboks.
“What up,” Tak said.
“Aye,” I replied, coming back to the world of peoples’ eyes. Tak and I were good friends. The thing was we had six out of seven classes together that year. So we ended up traversing the halls and breezeways, eventually becoming tight in an unspoken sort of way. Just then Nathanial Weber came whizzing by with his massive head and clocked me right on the shoulder. Oooouuuww. He must’ve had his middle knuckle stuck out a little. Then he faded off, weaving through the human traffic and laughing, his big fucking head seemingly going up in smoke. I clutched my right shoulder and winced a bit. It was purely my lack of retaliation that egged him on, and I knew it. He punked me ‘cause he could. But should I have to stoop to his level?
Tak barked at Nate as he disappeared down the hall, half defending my honor and half laughing with him at me, chiming in with the gesture of the punch. He was playing the neutralizer – but I knew he was with me. He was the peaceful sort, so he and I proceeded on and out of the building into the explosive California sunlight. Sunlight in California is a way of life, and everything caters to that. The asphalt schoolyard had thirty-five basketball hoops – sixteen full courts and three half courts – which, to a thirteen-year-old who had grown up in the golden state, was both archetypal and radical. It was awesome. There was nothing better than being out there, sweating and competing, talking and taking shit.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” one dude yelled as he laid one in the hoop, keeping his shooting hand up long after the fact, and even going so far as to shove his limp wrist in his opponent’s face, so he could smell it. After three minutes of this unbridled bragging, he took off down court to play some defense. It would come back – even if he was wearing those prized new Nike Air Jordans.
Tak and I made our way to the court we regularly played on with the rest of our friends – guys I grew up with – and counted ourselves in. We got picked up right away. Lunch was only half an hour so the games were intense. Tak was short and stout but bulldozed his way around while playing. You couldn’t catch him, and if you did, don’t stand in his way. It wasn’t a long distance between him and the ground, I guess, so he seemed to dribble a mile a minute, and the rest of his movements somehow reflected this phenomenon. I – on the other hand – was tall but liked to play point guard, opting, rather, to head up the flow and pass it off. But this time, I decided to try and take it inside, managing to juke the guy out guarding me! but blowing the lay-up. It was really a foul, but I was content to hustle back. Sometimes my lack of competitiveness got on people’s nerves, because they didn’t get how I was just enjoying myself either way. My teammates looked at me, frustrated. Still, I let it go.
The bell rang and game dispersed just as quickly as it had formed. Tak and I intersected pathways, almost literally bumping into each other, and headed to history class together, talking about was a dumbshit Nathanial Weber was.
And then there was always that sky, there, hanging over us like a tarp to keep out rain – and it didn’t, much. It was Los Angeles. The sun was like three feet of brand new fresh snow. No, like a blizzard! It was everywhere, on everything. Caught in the spirals of our attention; clear sheets twisting on a sumptuous breeze.
Back in fourth grade, now, and it was a minimum day. We got out at 12:30pm, but the school buses didn’t know this. My friends and I and my twin brother were usually bused to another school about ten blocks up where they had an after-school program. Well, on this day the buses didn’t come so three of my friends and I (my twin brother, Jared, was already learning to use his left brain and, turning back, I remember him jumping up and down like a baboon, flagging desperately for me to call the whole thing off) decided to walk it. We knew the way, so what the fuck?
The sun was too bright as we ambled those twelve blocks up Airdrome Ave., four ten-year-olds along the grid-gripped streets of L.A., the wide sky and those manicured lawns, with – most likely – high tops on (three years later I’d know exactly what kind). When we were not far from the destination, my three friends decided, unanimously, to venture into the 7Eleven on the corner to play the few arcade games they had wedged inside the store. This seemed like a bad idea to me. We’d come this far already, and by now I’d picked up the notion that this probably wasn’t such a good idea to begin with, a realization which, a few blocks back, had begun bursting into worry. “No! Fellas,” I said, “Let’s stay on track!”
“Just for a minute, Dev,” they moaned in unison, not really giving a shit whether I was coming in or not, and dipped inside the convenience store.
I kept going, at odds.
When I got to our after-school school, a lone, canoodling kid, the principle pulled me into her office and called my dad and put him on speakerphone. He replied benignly out of sheer shock and disbelief – the emotional incursion of it all – “That’s not good.”
And though they were mad and disappointed and worried, my parents were relieved I hadn’t gone into that 7Eleven. That part showed good judgment. Either way, they were well aware, by this time, of the disparity evident in my nature. Once they saw me kicking my feet to my own ass, as if I was playing leap-frog with the air! out in the middle of the soccer field during a game. And over and over I was doing it; it was some tension in my knees combined with an implicit urge in my buttocks, which led me to want to keep bringing my heels up to them, so I did. Over and over. This one didn’t last long, though. More prominent was when I was sitting at the kitchen table bucking my shoulders to my neck – shrugging, basically, except to the opposite effect.
What the hell is wrong with this kid?
Later, one Nathanial Weber, the bully of my eighth grade year, imitated me as I flickered my eyelids constantly. To his credit, I might not have known otherwise the extent it was depicted – how crazy I looked, like a butterfly losing its wings – but to mine, I was already aware enough to know I couldn’t stop. Fuck him, he had some cheesy flatfooted Converses on anyway.
Ninth grade my friend Tak Ishi moved away to go to some other high school I’d never heard of. Ah well. At the beginning of that year I forgot all about it and fell in love with the first girl who ever liked me, and this is where the story really begins.
More importantly, the only way we can experience love is if we feel we deserve it, so this is another stab at that.***
Among the first obsessive behaviors I remember was a fixation on other people’s shoes. Eighth grade, and my eyes were coming off the ground at a forty-five degree angle, and I knew to look up and see it was my friend Tak Ishi when I saw that vicious pair of brown Reeboks.
“What up,” Tak said.
“Aye,” I replied, coming back to the world of peoples’ eyes. Tak and I were good friends. The thing was we had six out of seven classes together that year. So we ended up traversing the halls and breezeways, eventually becoming tight in an unspoken sort of way. Just then Nathanial Weber came whizzing by with his massive head and clocked me right on the shoulder. Oooouuuww. He must’ve had his middle knuckle stuck out a little. Then he faded off, weaving through the human traffic and laughing, his big fucking head seemingly going up in smoke. I clutched my right shoulder and winced a bit. It was purely my lack of retaliation that egged him on, and I knew it. He punked me ‘cause he could. But should I have to stoop to his level?
Tak barked at Nate as he disappeared down the hall, half defending my honor and half laughing with him at me, chiming in with the gesture of the punch. He was playing the neutralizer – but I knew he was with me. He was the peaceful sort, so he and I proceeded on and out of the building into the explosive California sunlight. Sunlight in California is a way of life, and everything caters to that. The asphalt schoolyard had thirty-five basketball hoops – sixteen full courts and three half courts – which, to a thirteen-year-old who had grown up in the golden state, was both archetypal and radical. It was awesome. There was nothing better than being out there, sweating and competing, talking and taking shit.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” one dude yelled as he laid one in the hoop, keeping his shooting hand up long after the fact, and even going so far as to shove his limp wrist in his opponent’s face, so he could smell it. After three minutes of this unbridled bragging, he took off down court to play some defense. It would come back – even if he was wearing those prized new Nike Air Jordans.
Tak and I made our way to the court we regularly played on with the rest of our friends – guys I grew up with – and counted ourselves in. We got picked up right away. Lunch was only half an hour so the games were intense. Tak was short and stout but bulldozed his way around while playing. You couldn’t catch him, and if you did, don’t stand in his way. It wasn’t a long distance between him and the ground, I guess, so he seemed to dribble a mile a minute, and the rest of his movements somehow reflected this phenomenon. I – on the other hand – was tall but liked to play point guard, opting, rather, to head up the flow and pass it off. But this time, I decided to try and take it inside, managing to juke the guy out guarding me! but blowing the lay-up. It was really a foul, but I was content to hustle back. Sometimes my lack of competitiveness got on people’s nerves, because they didn’t get how I was just enjoying myself either way. My teammates looked at me, frustrated. Still, I let it go.
The bell rang and game dispersed just as quickly as it had formed. Tak and I intersected pathways, almost literally bumping into each other, and headed to history class together, talking about was a dumbshit Nathanial Weber was.
And then there was always that sky, there, hanging over us like a tarp to keep out rain – and it didn’t, much. It was Los Angeles. The sun was like three feet of brand new fresh snow. No, like a blizzard! It was everywhere, on everything. Caught in the spirals of our attention; clear sheets twisting on a sumptuous breeze.
Back in fourth grade, now, and it was a minimum day. We got out at 12:30pm, but the school buses didn’t know this. My friends and I and my twin brother were usually bused to another school about ten blocks up where they had an after-school program. Well, on this day the buses didn’t come so three of my friends and I (my twin brother, Jared, was already learning to use his left brain and, turning back, I remember him jumping up and down like a baboon, flagging desperately for me to call the whole thing off) decided to walk it. We knew the way, so what the fuck?
The sun was too bright as we ambled those twelve blocks up Airdrome Ave., four ten-year-olds along the grid-gripped streets of L.A., the wide sky and those manicured lawns, with – most likely – high tops on (three years later I’d know exactly what kind). When we were not far from the destination, my three friends decided, unanimously, to venture into the 7Eleven on the corner to play the few arcade games they had wedged inside the store. This seemed like a bad idea to me. We’d come this far already, and by now I’d picked up the notion that this probably wasn’t such a good idea to begin with, a realization which, a few blocks back, had begun bursting into worry. “No! Fellas,” I said, “Let’s stay on track!”
“Just for a minute, Dev,” they moaned in unison, not really giving a shit whether I was coming in or not, and dipped inside the convenience store.
I kept going, at odds.
When I got to our after-school school, a lone, canoodling kid, the principle pulled me into her office and called my dad and put him on speakerphone. He replied benignly out of sheer shock and disbelief – the emotional incursion of it all – “That’s not good.”
And though they were mad and disappointed and worried, my parents were relieved I hadn’t gone into that 7Eleven. That part showed good judgment. Either way, they were well aware, by this time, of the disparity evident in my nature. Once they saw me kicking my feet to my own ass, as if I was playing leap-frog with the air! out in the middle of the soccer field during a game. And over and over I was doing it; it was some tension in my knees combined with an implicit urge in my buttocks, which led me to want to keep bringing my heels up to them, so I did. Over and over. This one didn’t last long, though. More prominent was when I was sitting at the kitchen table bucking my shoulders to my neck – shrugging, basically, except to the opposite effect.
What the hell is wrong with this kid?
Later, one Nathanial Weber, the bully of my eighth grade year, imitated me as I flickered my eyelids constantly. To his credit, I might not have known otherwise the extent it was depicted – how crazy I looked, like a butterfly losing its wings – but to mine, I was already aware enough to know I couldn’t stop. Fuck him, he had some cheesy flatfooted Converses on anyway.
Ninth grade my friend Tak Ishi moved away to go to some other high school I’d never heard of. Ah well. At the beginning of that year I forgot all about it and fell in love with the first girl who ever liked me, and this is where the story really begins.
More importantly, the only way we can experience love is if we feel we deserve it, so this is another stab at that.***
Friday, February 19, 2010
Following in the Footsteps
After seeing a couple other people post poems they love, and feeling jealousy snipe at my bones, I'd thought I'd do the same. This is probably my favorite poem by Charles Bukowski, and I love tons of his; he's probably the reason I'm here - alive, and well, approaching happiness. It's long, but what the hell, I feel like a giant just typing it out. Thanks for listening.
one for the shoeshine man, By Charles Bukowski, from "Love is a Dog from Hell"
the balance is preserved by the snails climbing the
Santa Monica cliffs;
the luck is in walking down Western Avenue
and having the girls in a massage
parlor holler at you, "Hello, Sweetie!"
the miracle is have 5 women in love
with you at the age of 55,
and the goodness is that you are only able
to love one of them.
the gift is having a daughter more gentle
than you are, whose laughter is finer
than yours.
the peace comes from driving a
blue 67 Volks through the streets like a
teenager, radio tuned to The Host Who Loves You
Most, feeling the sun, feeling the solid hum
of the rebuilt motor
as you needle through traffic.
the grace is being able to like rock music,
symphony music, jazz. . .
anything that contains the original energy of
joy.
and the probability that returns
is the deep blue low
yourself flat upon yourself
within the guillotine walls
angry at the sound of the phone
or anybody's footsteps passing;
but the other probability -
the lilting high that always follows -
makes the girl at the checkstand in the
supermarket look like
Marilyn
like Jackie before they got her Harvard lover
like the girl in high school that we
all followed home.
there is that which helps you believe
in something else besides death:
somebody in a car approaching
on a street too narrow,
and he or she pulls aside to let you
by, or the old fighter Beau Jack
shining shoes
after blowing the entire bankroll
on parties
on women
on parasites,
humming, breathing on the leather,
working the rag
looking up and saying:
"what the hell, I had it for a
while. that beats the
other."
I am bitter sometimes
but the taste has often been
sweet. it's only that I've
feared to say it. it's like
when your woman says,
"tell me you love me," and
you can't.
if you see me grinning from
my blue Volks
running a yellow light
driving straight into the sun
I will be locked in the
arms of a
crazy life
thinking of trapeze artists
of midgets with big cigars
of a Russian winter in the early 40s
of Chopin with his bag of Polish soil
of an old waitress bringing me an extra
cup of coffee and laughing
as she does so.
the best of you
I like more than you think.
the others don't count
except that they have fingers and heads
and some of them eyes
and most of them legs
and all of them
good and bad dreams
and a way to go.
justice is everywhere and it's working
and the machine guns and the frogs
and the hedges will tell you
so.
one for the shoeshine man, By Charles Bukowski, from "Love is a Dog from Hell"
the balance is preserved by the snails climbing the
Santa Monica cliffs;
the luck is in walking down Western Avenue
and having the girls in a massage
parlor holler at you, "Hello, Sweetie!"
the miracle is have 5 women in love
with you at the age of 55,
and the goodness is that you are only able
to love one of them.
the gift is having a daughter more gentle
than you are, whose laughter is finer
than yours.
the peace comes from driving a
blue 67 Volks through the streets like a
teenager, radio tuned to The Host Who Loves You
Most, feeling the sun, feeling the solid hum
of the rebuilt motor
as you needle through traffic.
the grace is being able to like rock music,
symphony music, jazz. . .
anything that contains the original energy of
joy.
and the probability that returns
is the deep blue low
yourself flat upon yourself
within the guillotine walls
angry at the sound of the phone
or anybody's footsteps passing;
but the other probability -
the lilting high that always follows -
makes the girl at the checkstand in the
supermarket look like
Marilyn
like Jackie before they got her Harvard lover
like the girl in high school that we
all followed home.
there is that which helps you believe
in something else besides death:
somebody in a car approaching
on a street too narrow,
and he or she pulls aside to let you
by, or the old fighter Beau Jack
shining shoes
after blowing the entire bankroll
on parties
on women
on parasites,
humming, breathing on the leather,
working the rag
looking up and saying:
"what the hell, I had it for a
while. that beats the
other."
I am bitter sometimes
but the taste has often been
sweet. it's only that I've
feared to say it. it's like
when your woman says,
"tell me you love me," and
you can't.
if you see me grinning from
my blue Volks
running a yellow light
driving straight into the sun
I will be locked in the
arms of a
crazy life
thinking of trapeze artists
of midgets with big cigars
of a Russian winter in the early 40s
of Chopin with his bag of Polish soil
of an old waitress bringing me an extra
cup of coffee and laughing
as she does so.
the best of you
I like more than you think.
the others don't count
except that they have fingers and heads
and some of them eyes
and most of them legs
and all of them
good and bad dreams
and a way to go.
justice is everywhere and it's working
and the machine guns and the frogs
and the hedges will tell you
so.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Guinness on Me
This is my third blog for the week for class - it's been a free week, write whatever we want to write. I must say that anybody who attempts to not be self-indulgent on these blogs is kidding themselves. C'mon man, this is a fucking diary, you know what I'm saying? And honestly, if I went to a blog of an author who I was digging, it would be to hear him or her talk about THEMSELF. I wouldn't be searching for benevolence - although I always LOVE to hear about their influences - I'm looking for insight into THEM. They're the person who's, so magically, making me feel less alone. Like last semester when I took a class by Marion Winik, my favorite parts which were priceless were when she rambled on, graciously, about the craziness and/or beauty of her own life.
That being said, I read my first fiction piece aloud ever in my life tonight. It was a lot of fucking words - for Steve's workshop I'm taking this semester. It felt pretty damn good, though, too. The title of this blog came from the piece, called, Rusty Gold - and it's such a beautiful thing when you read it, you know, 'cause then you come home and it's not yours anymore. You've given it away - and so I read it again when I got home and it was kind of like (a little) I was reading someone else's work, you know? I had an objectivity that was a relief. I was happy not to own this thing anymore. Other ears had heard it so I couldn't just look on it as my own supple creation anymore; it was now prone to the rigid fibrillations of the earth. I couldn't guard it like that anymore. As has been the case when I've read other poems and pieces, it's like part of my body is now reconciled to be free again. I'm open.
Cheers!
That being said, I read my first fiction piece aloud ever in my life tonight. It was a lot of fucking words - for Steve's workshop I'm taking this semester. It felt pretty damn good, though, too. The title of this blog came from the piece, called, Rusty Gold - and it's such a beautiful thing when you read it, you know, 'cause then you come home and it's not yours anymore. You've given it away - and so I read it again when I got home and it was kind of like (a little) I was reading someone else's work, you know? I had an objectivity that was a relief. I was happy not to own this thing anymore. Other ears had heard it so I couldn't just look on it as my own supple creation anymore; it was now prone to the rigid fibrillations of the earth. I couldn't guard it like that anymore. As has been the case when I've read other poems and pieces, it's like part of my body is now reconciled to be free again. I'm open.
Cheers!
And That's That
Funny story. I'm sitting here at my computer in the morning, drinking coffee and rustling leaves and - since today's trash day and there's a heap outside our's and our neighbor's door, two weeks worth - a homeless man starts going through it. I can see him clearly through my window in the brightening sunshine. He's humming a loud tune, alternately singing it, from his throat, shouting it, at times, telling the world, the brick, the botched sky, "hey, I'm here, I exist, baby, whether you like it or not," but this pride may be the last thing on his mind - or perhaps not.
Anyways, so he's rustling through the trash, as I'm going through my computer, looking for a way to make progress in my life. I need a new job; I need to be published more; I need an in. Blah blah. . . I had Norah Jones' new album, The Fall, playing through the morning to help me with my search.
The homeless man rips the plastic, still humming, and - what! - pulls out, of all things, the tome, my portfolio, my pre-graduate school portfolio. When I came to Baltimore I knew I'd be bombarded and corrupted - which I was ready for, dying for - so I carefully placed my last five years' work, my heart, into a leather bound notebook full of laminated slips. Just last week, I printed out a thinner version of what it all had become, and tossed the old big fucking thing. He put the black thing aside and kept searching.
Now for a moment, I felt myself get protective over it, as if I would go out there and tell him to return it to its rightful place: the trash. Ha! I felt myself relax. I mean really relax. I watched him shuffle through the shit a second or two more, and, finding nothing, he put my fight, my solitary light, that space I'd created for myself all that time when I felt my parents leaning down on me with worry I had no use for; under his arm, he put it under his arm, and walked off with it.
Anyways, so he's rustling through the trash, as I'm going through my computer, looking for a way to make progress in my life. I need a new job; I need to be published more; I need an in. Blah blah. . . I had Norah Jones' new album, The Fall, playing through the morning to help me with my search.
The homeless man rips the plastic, still humming, and - what! - pulls out, of all things, the tome, my portfolio, my pre-graduate school portfolio. When I came to Baltimore I knew I'd be bombarded and corrupted - which I was ready for, dying for - so I carefully placed my last five years' work, my heart, into a leather bound notebook full of laminated slips. Just last week, I printed out a thinner version of what it all had become, and tossed the old big fucking thing. He put the black thing aside and kept searching.
Now for a moment, I felt myself get protective over it, as if I would go out there and tell him to return it to its rightful place: the trash. Ha! I felt myself relax. I mean really relax. I watched him shuffle through the shit a second or two more, and, finding nothing, he put my fight, my solitary light, that space I'd created for myself all that time when I felt my parents leaning down on me with worry I had no use for; under his arm, he put it under his arm, and walked off with it.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Go Like Crazy (Valentine's Day Diddy)
I'm not a sentimental person, but life has its pleasures. This may very well end up becoming a poem - yeah, I said - this may very well end up becoming a poem. I figure I can use this to TYPE, to walk, for excersie, try 'n meet sanity halfway before I flee from exhaustion and disillusion and a penchant for just the right amount of excess. . . Frankly, I can't sign on - would rather risk my mind, even my body, than euthanize it through predictability. What a wonderful surprise, tonight, catching your eyes falling from grace. And my stomach points toward inevitability; maybe I have to pee, tic of embarrassment harrassing me my constant companion. Had a beautiful day today! my writing is going well. Writing's going well. Snow like vomit across these city streets: sick or out of heaven.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Eels, End Times
My stepdad had this album by a group called "Eels" over christmas - I'd never heard of them but I dug it totally. When I got back to Baltimore I bought it, then I bought the album of theirs preceding it, and then the one before that. To my delight, they just released a new one on Jan. 16th which is their next release after the first one I bought. This one's called, End Times. It's a break-up album, a divorce album, an end of the world album. My tendencies don't tend toward such drama these days, but if you checked with me a year ago my answer would have been different (or just not there). But actually, the album is not over dramatic either; it retains a very palpable sense of whimsy amidst the weariness and never really, come to think of it, gets too angry. Just enough to say "You've come unhinged, baby. . ." But I think the beauty of this album is how the lead singer - who's ship this clearly is - takes it inside, and drives "straight into the night." It's a very adult album in that sense, but also keeps a boyish "God damn, I miss that girl" sensibility. There's some upbeat bluesy numbers, too, in the mix; which are really refreshing. Songs are sparsely lit, overcome by a hush: damn good! for all the snowy weather.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Let's give it a shot
3 free posts this week. alright. Of course I have the inclination to throw a few of my poems up. However - supposedly, doing so could preclude them being published. This is a big question for a writer. Do I hold tight to my work and wait for it to be officially recognized in some small, likely unread, perhaps haughty magazine (not that there aren't really good ones out there), or do I, like an acoustic guitarist strumming to his friends through the snowy 2:30am windows/pupils of my embossed night, release it into the air; by all means, trying it out? My answer: the act of writing is already solitary enough, fuck the publishers if they don't want to use it now. If you'll indulge me, here's a new poem of mine, thanks for listening. It takes two people to sing this one. . .
The Gauntlet
I’m not one to draw circles
around the truth,
For half of you,
I’m better than you think – the other half
and as lonely as I get,
I could always
I’m just as good. There’re valleys
where grass grows orange red, swords
get lonelier. . .
What better way
with no sharp ends. These gears miss
their allotted
than to lose myself in you?
But – tell me! – anyone
appointments. But music plays from the sun!
and the rain
actually believe
honesty’s never a stain? I do.
sings songs, love and pain. People
right outside
Even when it
perforates. And isn’t
have nowhere to go, coughing up blood
in a napkin. Bare arms beating, soul chimes
desperation
charms sounds, letters waiting to be received;
trees trembling tears under a hot sun, buses rolling by –
desperate enough? A cold river
which, if pressed into, will
trains taking; ditches dark dusty and smoky centers, unidentified
flying objects. Half-truths
freeze our souls right
upon the oblivion of old age. I’ve
and whole ones – dignity
that need not be validated.
been there, in my own
unique time. Not even for you.
The Gauntlet
I’m not one to draw circles
around the truth,
For half of you,
I’m better than you think – the other half
and as lonely as I get,
I could always
I’m just as good. There’re valleys
where grass grows orange red, swords
get lonelier. . .
What better way
with no sharp ends. These gears miss
their allotted
than to lose myself in you?
But – tell me! – anyone
appointments. But music plays from the sun!
and the rain
actually believe
honesty’s never a stain? I do.
sings songs, love and pain. People
right outside
Even when it
perforates. And isn’t
have nowhere to go, coughing up blood
in a napkin. Bare arms beating, soul chimes
desperation
charms sounds, letters waiting to be received;
trees trembling tears under a hot sun, buses rolling by –
desperate enough? A cold river
which, if pressed into, will
trains taking; ditches dark dusty and smoky centers, unidentified
flying objects. Half-truths
freeze our souls right
upon the oblivion of old age. I’ve
and whole ones – dignity
that need not be validated.
been there, in my own
unique time. Not even for you.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
www.brucespringsteen.net
The Boss' website does a great job of keeping a creative narrative as well as just representing the artist. While He doesn't need much representation, the site posts current clips of performances, tour dates and such. Springsteen has also been known to periodically describe experiences and talk about his feelings on the site - as he did recently for the gay marriage debate. But I think the most unique and which truly conspires to form a narrative is the column to the right of the webpage, in which fans and/or writers of Backstreet - a magazine wholly dedicated to the E Street Band - keep an on going log of their experiences at his concerts. Sometimes one says they were disappointed with a song played and they give the band shit, others say they couldn't feel their left pinky toe during the performance of "The River." It's pretty much all love, but taken together, these accounts could form the ultimate book and testimony to Springsteen's sanctimonious concerts.
Failbetter.com
One of the best online lit mags I've seen is Failbetter.com, at www.failbetter.com. The functional name of the magazine signifies its virture. I get frustrated with a lot of them because they throw all these links at you. Failbetter.com does better with this and keeps it simple and gives you stuff to read, as well as interviews and some writing news. The "theme" of the magazine, based off the title, is to fail better. I suppose this is the creative narrative which runs throughout, or its more like an aura. They need more poetry on the site, but what they do have is good and easy to get to.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Valeria's Last Stand
Author Marc Fitten has an effective and colorful site for his recently published book, "Valeria's Last Stand." The link is http://www.marcfitten.com/ - his book was recently sold all over the world, and in the U.S. to Bloomsbury, the same company who publishes Harry Potter, based in Great Britian and the U.S. So anyway, his budget was probably pretty high - but that said, the site keeps it simple and representitive of the book itself. The pages of a digital version of "Valeria's Last Stand" turn at the peruser's disposal. There is an excerpt, reading dates, press quotes, author biography, contant info, and a reader's guide - all within the pages of a virtual book, which flips to display the respective info. Everything works here, and most of all the excerpt portion, which is clear and easy to read and really gives the potential reader a good feel for things. This site makes you jealous as a writer because you want one for yourself just like it.
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