Daylight Savings

Hello all, a poem of mine, entitled Daylight Savings, has been put online at "The," a blogzine. Read and enjoy. It is a viator, and if you are from Canada you might recognize the form.

Poetry is Democracy!

Whitman and a friend discussing manly things, probably about hunting and building cabins, but mostly women and spooning liberally with them

Poetry how Whitman would have it! By the masses! With elections! Ballots! Babies kissed on the lips! And like real elections, the worst will be taken out and paraded in front of your eyes.

My rhyming, sing-song poem, "A Failed Vacation" (my "Plan Nine," if you will), is up for a vote on the blog 80s Adolescent Angst. The text of the poem is on the site, and the voting is in the upper left-hand corner. Show it some clicking love!

I Guess it Is a Common Enuf Name

From the New York Times:

"Mrs. Obama and her staff also visited Miriam’s Kitchen, a soup kitchen, where the first lady bumped into Bill Richardson, a 46-year-old homeless man. Mr. Richardson was so stunned that he could barely stammer thank you as Mrs. Obama scooped a helping of mushroom risotto onto his plate this month."

Come In and Be Captivated!

The Write Place at the Write Time has three of my poems up on their site, scroll down and check them out. Or, press CTRL+F to look for name if you can remember to spell it. I am going to hope you can. Or at least the first part. Here's a hint, look for Nar-, that should be enough. Then again, why am I making this hard for you? Just type in Benjamin. No wait, just Ben. I am under the pseudo nom de plume of a nickname.

Hit a Cup of Noodles and Run

I have the outline of something I wrote a long time ago, right here, at Hit and Run. It is a pretty good concept, publishing the raw fragments from which great (or not so great) stories are spawned. Anyone who wants to read what it was I made from the mess of scribblings featured on the web site, is more than welcome to hit me up for it.

The Headhunter!

I know I have told at least one of you all about this story. Another one of my prose endeavors. Well, my barnacle, here it is, published on the Left Coast in a city by the bay, perhaps being read right now in a streetcar. It is another grotesque, another Kafkaesque work, you might say. A moral tale for the age? Perhaps. It could be a Marxist fable as well (if all Marxism wasn't a fable). You can read what you want into it. But in order to do that, you must READ IT!