Or more accurately, from the Summer Enrichment Program itself:
Are you a college student looking for a fun and rewarding summer job? The Summer Enrichment Program (SEP) at the University of Virginia is looking for motivated, creative students who love working with kids. SEP is a world-renowned summer camp for academically gifted 5th-11th graders.
Some of the perks of the job include:
being adored by hundreds of campers
working with really cool people
having a tremendous amount of fun
getting paid to have a tremendous amount of fun
So come join us!
For more information and an application go to our website: curry.edschool.virginia.edu/sep Application deadline: Jan 25, 2010
These past couple of months you may have noticed that I have been posting poems on the website Freestyle Vision. Nothing big but I've decided to link to my page on the website here in case any of you want to view all I've put up on there. The story behind the picture? I was hot and sweaty from sitting in front of a grill at a BBQ in Koreatown, Manhattan. They laughed at me for accidentally eating a condiment by itself. The important thing was that it was for free. Ah, the good ole' food floor at Broome Street residence hall.
Don't name your child after someone who is famous but still living, case in point. At least think of their future Wikipedia page! Do you want them to be buried under disambiguation?
Hello all, I have two poems in the latest issue of MungBeing. The theme of this issue is "expectations," namely how our dreams of the future have played out so far, as seen in this piece from Tim Hatch. My poems are called "A Problem with Mechanisms" and "The Hour Badly Spent." Read them and enjoy!
In the winter issue (#3) of the journal SparkBright I have a poem entitled "Wine Girl." It is based on the good old days of visiting the Trader Joe's Wine Store at Union Square in New York. If you download the issue and go to page 17, you will see it at the bottom, I guess they saved the best for last!
I have a poem appearing in this book, entitled "Ink in My Blood." It is on page 169, which is the old number of my gym locker at Swanson Middle School. Go Anchors! Or Admirals! Or Rudders! I can't remember what we were called.
No, I'm not talking about our former commander-in-chimp, but about Dostoevsky's novel instead. It was my reading for the past few months: August, September, October, and halfway through November. Before that I finished the complete works of Shakespeare, and let me tell you, that was a much easier read. Yes, as you can imagine, The Idiot is a dense book, even for a Russian novel. My version clocked in at 565 pages in a hardcover version put out by Barnes and Noble.
I am a fan of Russian literature, so I knew what to expect. Heady discussions, plenty of characters, occasional smatterings of French, intense religious scenes, and aristocratic foibles. But I found The Idiot to be hindered by these usual tropes, rather than helped. Compared to Crime and Punishment or Notes from Underground, the work lacks the philosophical depth and near-surreal quality that make Dostoevsky worth the read. The story is told in too conventional a manner for point that Dostoevsky is trying to make: to show life of a Christ-like figure living in (his) contemporary times.
It is an interesting idea, of course, and there are several interesting scenes and characters in the novel. The problem is they tend to appear every fifty or so pages. If the Gospels had been written to read like The Idiot, they would have vast stretches of irrelevant conversation, details about the lives of the priestly class, and the bureaucratic work faced by Pontius Pilate. The miracles and parables would show up, eventually, but only as part of dinner conversations where instead of French, Greek phrases might perhaps be dropped in between to dazzle by those other guests incapable of turning water into wine.
The problem is that Prince Myshkin, the hero and protagonist of the novel, is not really like Christ at all. It casts doubts on whether Dostoevsky had any real idea who Jesus was and how he behaved according to the Bible. Myshkin is naive and innocent and this simply sets him up to be a victim of the high society around him. It was probably the author's intent to make him a martyr instead, but this would have required giving Myshkin an actual awareness of his situation and what was going on around him, which he sorely lacks. I did not feel all that sorry for him by the end of the novel. If he were more generous and charismatic, I would have felt his downfall to be a tragedy, the loss of a genuinely interesting and inspiring person.
The novel also has many problems stylistically. The author's voice changes and there are bracketed asides to the reader which are distracting. Dostoevsky seems unable to decide if he is writing a parable, a satire, a romance, a realistic novel, or a philosophical one. He could have pulled off any of these, but he should have made the choice earlier on and stuck with it. Conversely, combining the elements might have worked, but such an ambitious project needed to be thought through more on his part. Another stylistic problem is that by the end of the novel, claims of ignorance on behalf of the writer begin to appear. A scene will be followed by a statement along the lines of "We do not know what happened next." In a standard first-person narrative this is more than permissible. A narrator who has so far been omnipotent, however, cannot do it without looking foolish or sloppy. Why don't we know what happened? And why is it WE and not the I of the narrator?
This could all be the fault of Constance Garnett, the translator, since she had a tendency to make the works of Russian Literature that she worked on sound the same. She was one of the first to translate Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and others into English and did a good service, but since I have not read the Idiot in any other version, my judgment is, I confess, limited. Still, although words choices might be different in different translations, the general plot and characters would remain the same. So I recommend the book only to die hard Dostoevsky fans. There is nothing in The Idiot that could not be gleaned from his other well-known works.
Issue #2 of Eclectomatic Ezine is out and a poem of mine, We Were Like Rats, is in it. The verse was inspired by my days on the New York Subways and as a tutor. Anyways, this literary opus appears in an actual ezine, pretty nifty, eh? Scroll through to page 18 to read my work and enjoy what appears in between and after.
Happy November to all of you, and no, I'm not participating in No-Shave November. Every month for me now is Movember anyways. Today's announcement is that I have a poem up in the journal Type AB Positive. Anybody who comes to me with autobiographical questions will get punched in the nose!
Okay, well I have a poem up at Pirene's Fountain entitled (you guessed it) Crossfire! However, unlike the game depicted above, hopefully it will not disappoint. Ignore the biographical information. I guess it was accepted a while ago.
A poem of mine is out in the Blue Fifth Review. Interesting to see myself identified as a poet from Arlington, Virginia. Of course I always put that in my contributor information, but it is a sight I am not used to, to have myself identified with one place. The last time I had Arlington next to my name, I was in the Virginia State Geography Bee. Anyways, here is the direct link to the poem they posted. It is titled, "Sill, Lintel, and Jambs."
Today' blog post is in honor of the King of the Beats, Jack Kerouac. Forty years ago, yesterday, he drank some whiskey for breakfast and then ate a can of tuna fish. A few minutes later he was rushed to hospital for coughing up blood. He died shortly thereafter. It was an inglorious end to a life filled with wandering and writing in search of an ever elusive beatific vision.
Here is Kerouac at his height, riding the sensation that was On the Road:
And shortly before he died, on Firing Line with William F. Buckley, jr.
If you've been around Craigslist recently looking for writing gigs (I swear that's all I use Craigslit for) then you've probably seen an ad or two from Caper Journal. In case if you were wondering if they are for real, I can assure you, they most definitely are. The evidence? Two poems featured in their first issue. Read them here, and here.
Well the folks at Scalped Magazine have published a poem of mine. I can't say why there is artwork of police brutality above it, but if that's the feeling the editors got when reading it, then it works for them. The poem is titled "Know the Fear." It is actually part of a longer poem that I wrote nearly two years ago called "The Lowest Dust." It was part of my more experimental days when I had access to an online cut-up engine and I used it to slice and splice anything I could get my hands on. Eventually I mixed several works with apocalyptic themes such as The Waste Land, with lyrics from The Kinks and David Bowie, among others. I then took the fragments I had composed and put them together, diving no particular order until I had perhaps a third of the pieces slid in. I laid the piece down in a hallway and assembled in there. Recently I had been to the Jack Kerouac exhibit, and that probably inspired me to achieve a grand construction out of words and paper. Anyone who wants to read the whole thing, let me know!
Thanks to the The Dan Brown Sequel Generator from the folks at Slate, I can, much like the proverbial monkey working at a typewriter, help him along by putting together the outline of his next book, this time set in New York City, and involving (CENSORED):
A mysterious puzzle at the heart of New York City. A murderous cult determined to protect it. A frantic race to uncover (CENSORED)'s darkest secret.
The Divine Mark
When world-famous Harvard symbologist Robert Langdon is summoned to the Apollo Theater to analyze a mysterious geometric form—etched into the floor next to the mangled body of the head docent—he discovers evidence of the unthinkable: the resurgence of the ancient cult of the Baalinistas, a secret branch of (CENSORED) that has surfaced from the shadows to carry out its legendary vendetta against its mortal enemy, the Vatican.
Langdon's worst fears are confirmed when a messenger from the Baalinistas appears at the Empire State Building to deliver a macabre ultimatum: Deposit $1 billion in (CENSORED)'s off-shore bank accounts or the exclusive clothier of the Swiss Guards will be bankrupted. Racing against the clock, Langdon joins forces with the Amazonian and quick-witted daughter of the murdered docent in a desperate bid to crack the code that will reveal the cult's secret plan.
Embarking on a frantic hunt, Langdon and his companion follow a 1100-year-old trail through New York City's most venerable buildings and historic monuments, pursued by a Norwegian assassin the cult has sent to thwart them. What they discover threatens to expose a conspiracy that goes all the way back to Allen Ginsberg and the very founding of (CENSORED).
Hello there everybody! September is here and that means fall is slowly creeping up the corner to rattle the green out of every leaf. it also means that the Foghorn has put up my short story Remorseless With Victory.
Well the good old folks at MungBeing have decided in their infinite poetical wisdom to publish not just one, not just two, and not just three of my poems, but four instead. Ever since I was featured in Record a couple of months ago, it is the most in any one spot, I believe. Anyways, they are up and ready to be enjoyed. The titles to look out for are “Up in the Morning,” “The Dry Season,” “Browsing Necropolis,” and “On Current Distractions.” They are all free verse, and all the more so, since you can read them without a penny to lose.
One of the interesting things is the MungBeing is affiliated with the Stuckist movement. I found out about them a few months back but did not know that MungBeing was involved in the movement until I submitted to them, which is a pleasant surprise. What is Stuckism? Basically, it is a reaction against the attitude of the British (and to a certain extent, American) art scene. It rejects the emphasis on conceptual art for an experience more grounded in emotion. I can’t say I blame them. There is plenty on the internet about them and examples of their work.
I do not declare myself a Stuckist, although I sympathize with their goals and aims. The main reasons are that 1) I am not British and 2) I am not an artist working in the world and mediums which their wrath is focused on. While I certainly would like to see the art world rescued from posturing and the elitist attitudes that deride anything more than three people might enjoy, it is a battle separate from any of the ones which I need to wage. I have enough on my plate to go up against. Since I have little to gain personally from a restructuring of the art world (as of yet), I can only offer my moral support to them and hope that they succeed fully.
Because many similar attitudes have crept into poetry, and similar energies must be dedicated to expunging them, I have found in the Stuckists a useful model. We share much in spirit even if the battles we wage are on different terrains. To that end I have developed Adventism, call myself an Adventist, and have given MungBeing the historical notoriety of being the first place that Adventism will be mentioned in connection not with a Protestant sect, but with a movement in poetry that so far consists of myself and the nods given off by a few acquaintances.
In future essays I will clarify what Adventism is and what the Adventist poet must aspire to be. However, in case anyone is looking (perhaps directed from MungBeing) for a definition, I can supply one for now in the negative.
Adventist Poetry is NOT:
Baggy, loose, rambling, and/or based on the total disregard of the reader’s attention span.
Inhuman, antihuman, anti-emotion, rationalistic, and/or a stranger to the human experience in any of its forms
There might be some Adventist poems that deviate slightly from these principles. They cannot be dealt with by appeal to the No True Scotsman fallacy, robbed of their Adventist status. Instead, I must remind that Adventism is a movement dedicated to the inner vision of the poet as it is connected with the reader in crafting a shared experience. Craft is the important word here. It is the attempt at upholding Adventist principles, and doing a close enough job that makes a poem a member of the school.
Adventist poetry can be rhymed, structured, metered, or consist of free verse. There is no subject matter of great concern to the Adventist, only the desire for craft in the poem. All subjects deserve equal consideration when being honed into their poetic form, anything can be written about as long as it is respected as being worthy of the poet’s attention to craft.
If any of this sounds vague, I apologize. The formal manifesto must be issued later. I promise a simple way to propagate Adventism, or at least explain it, complete with an entire story of the term’s appropriation by me. Nevertheless, I do not consider Adventism simply to be a stand in for me, or to be synonymous with my works. It is not an approach to poetry that is completely new, I believe it had practitioners who were unaware of it in past times. Adventism is simply derived from the whole of poetic tradition and distilled to what guiding principles seem to work best in creating lasting work that leaves an impression on readers.
However it is adapted for this day and age and strives to adapt by making previously non-poetical material part of poetry’s domain for comment. My poems at MungBeing have attempted this. The first two are “Up in the Morning” and “On Current Distractions,” which are attempts to create a literary language to express feelings and interactions (as well as thoughts) that relate to the whole technological world. Much like Modernists a hundred years ago, we must remake art so that it can expand boundaries over what developments have taken place over the past few years. Otherwise we prevent a true dialogue with the present and its concerns. The sprawling, almost pastoral poetry of rage and accruements, of recent has got to go and be replaced by something tighter.
In Up in the Morning, there is an attempt to create a personal relationship with the machine, in this case the computer. The speaker tries to relate their experience to the computer and in doing so collapsed both of their worlds together, if just briefly. While the poem contains a human element and an attempt at expanding the boundaries of expressing human experience, it probably cannot be seen as tight as it should be, but I absolve myself. This was before I ever considered taking up Adventism.
On Current Distractions was written about how we let technology and information keep us from our desired goals. It is tighter even though it is longer, and it deal with the human at its core, however I cannot say that it is filled with the most sparkling of language, although I do like the first line as a reference to the composition of the poem Kublai Khan.
Browsing Necropolis is indirectly about technology. I do not consider it to be an example of Adventist poetry, except that it does express a compression of a very abstract and all commanding idea into a tight space of a few lines, two short of a free verse sonnet. I desired the effect of having lines tumble over each other, but in an secretly ordered way that finally reveals itself in the end, much like the way a dance routine by a synchronized team in the swimming pool or sports field might end in order and closure out of chaos.
The Dry Season, the fourth poem, is part of the Adventures of Byron Jones. This is one of several dramatic monologues I have written using various characters. Jones goes through the seasons and at the same time the various stages of being a citizen of the frightening and fantastic Avant-garde Kingdom of Bohemia. This series was the first poem I wrote with an Adventist frame of mind, hoping to capture the beautiful and yet claustrophobic world of New York City, the way that high and low, mundane and glittering, mix together freely. One image ones against another in the stanzas, which are like little holding pens for them to go at it.
So there are four poems and my first explicit demonstrations (albeit early ones from last year) of the Adventist aesthetic. Go ahead and read them and think about what I have said here. Judge me for what I have dug up.
I have a short story up at Writer's Ink. Check it out here. It is one that I wrote for an advanced fiction class at NYU taught by the esteemed Darin Strauss. I'm not sure if any of the suggested edits from him and the other students found their way into the piece. It's been a while (and how are you guys doing?). Nevertheless the story is up and available for viewing.
First post for August of 2009. How the years slides away from us. SEP is already finished and I am back in Arlington once more. Anyways the occasion for today's (or tonight's) announcement is that two poems of mine are featured in Callused Hands. Their titles are "Under Certain Conditions" and "A Spring Enclosed." Scroll down and enjoy!
Apparently SEP isn't notable enough for Wikipedia. I guess it's up to all of us to change that by saving the world from falling pieces of Skylab. Until we can, here is the preliminary Wikipedia page. Credit goes to the kids for their work. You guys rock!
Well, SEP is almost finished, except for one more session. I thought I would post the lyrics to our counselor rap so that they might be preserved for eternity, and that 5-8 can see just how its done. I am also posting the original inspiration for our words, the genius of Brad Neely
Dunnington, Dunnington Made out of bricks weighs a bunch of tons Opponents beware, opponents beware. We're coming, We're coming, We're coming.
Let me lay it on the line, we’re the fruit of the vine. With fourteen counselors, so divine. With sandals made of crystal, Dustin patrols the land, With an Iphone and a latte in his perfect hands.
Here comes Dustin, in control. Campers dig his stuff and his gallant stroll. Eats opponent's brains, and can stop the rains. He's coming, he's coming, he's coming.
Dunnington, Dunnington. Eleven fine suites, summer enriching for fun. Spread, spread, the C’ville air. We're coming, we’re coming, we’re coming.
Sue me if I go too fast, But the all the 5-8 campers wish we were their dads. Got a collar for a collar, got a fanny pack for a heart. We'll kick you apart, We'll kick you apart!
Ooh!
We'll save children, but not the 5-8 children. We'll save children, but not the 5-8 children. We'll save children, but not the 5-8 children. We'll save children, but not the 5-8 children.
Lee has a pocket full of horses, Michael kills wild bears. John threw a knife into Heaven, and Kelly kills with a stare. Leiloma dances like an eagle Ben’s a rainbow in the sky. Danny killed his sensei in a duel and never said why.
Dunnington, Dunnington. Three stories high, made of radiation. The present session beware, the future session beware, We’re coming, we’re coming, we’re coming.
Did I mention Joe’s new baby? Or Nancy’s golden shades? And Courtney has cool shoes and Mag n’ Cheese’s mom is cool. I heard... that Margles... has like... thirty swords in her room. I heard Dustin once held a camper’s hand...in a jar of acid...at the dance.
First off, happy birthday America. You lookin' fine for a 233 year old country. Minus Gary and East St. Louis.
Currently I'm working at a summer camp. The Summer Enrichment Program, to be exact. We're in UVA during the summer. If anyone wants to get to the essence of what we do, my 11th grade campers composed a Haiku:
Okay, a lot of new things are out there and luckily, my name is attached to them all.
The first poetry news, several poems up at The Write Place at the Write Time. They invited me to submit again, so I did. It might be hard to find my work, but if you have patience and scroll (or just search for my fame), then you shall be rewarded.
You will have to do the same at Lit Up, for my poem "Congo Untitled" perhaps the first ekphrastic poem for an animal's art.
However for the new issue of From East to West (a magazine of found poetry), things are a little bit different. My poem is on page 23 of their latest issue. You can read the issue and flip through the pages just like it's a real magazine!
Hello all. I have two poems of mine appearing in the Good Time Emporium. They have an awesome font consisting entirely of facial hair (hence the picture).
Finally more work up on the Internets. Three poems of mine are now up at the Neglected Ratio. A fine set of triplets. You can read them here, here, and here.
Well it's been a while since I posted. I've moved, written, submitted, gotten drunk a few times (not enough), worked, packed, unpacked, and braved the Chinatown Bus. Of course whether or not I am smothered to death by Arlington remains to be seen. I recently passed 2000 pages of poetry and I thought it would be good to reflect on how much I've written since I started versifying. Now there are some caveats to this approach. Namely much of the early work is an educated guess. Also there can be many poems to a page or many pages to a poem. They do not equal one another, though they might if I ever wanted to count it up, but David didn't fare too well with his census, so why would I? It seems to resemble a population curve, slow growth, then rapid increase, and slowing down. Why this trend? In short, post-graduation life was a bitch. Though now perhaps I have hit my carrying capacity. or maybe it is because I spend all my time now having to write about the life and death of minor English Physicists and the dates of incorporation for towns in Massachusetts in order to join question to answer for Encyclopedia.com.
Hey, got a short story up a BULL, a journal centered on literature for the thinking man, you can read it here. It is about my myriad of trips on the Chinatown Bus, which is how I will be leaving New York for Arlington on Tuesday, May 5th.
Read a bundle o'poems of mine at Jump In Magazine. Notice the designation under my name, "Arlington, VA," that's right, because for the time being I am considering myself the young, raw, yet ornate, voice of the Northern Virginia area. Time for us to be heard! In verse. Or at least the young peoples. Anyways, read the poems here.
Ah, they don't make them like they used to. I have managed to get into the The Litchfield Literary Review despite not being from Connecticut. However, my poem is about the man above, the man who made us and then remade us, Eli Whitney. For some reason they decided to center the piece, although I prefer my original line breaks and spacing. If you want to see the original and compare the two, you can let me know. But read on about my take about this most influential of American inventors.
I have a poem up at South Jersey Underground, it is in their second issue, just look for "After Mythology" or my name, and you will find it. Or you could be brave and scroll down. Either way, the choice is yours.
Golly what a diptych! Goethe and Madoff together at last! If they ever were apart. Thank you to my dear friend Rembrandt Q. Einstein for this find! Faustian indeed!
Hello all. I have a poem up at Fogged Clarity, entitled "Ferris Wheel." Read it and enjoy. BUT, that's not all. I am also recorded speaking the poem. It is the first time I have ever had my voice alongside my lines. So you can read AND listen, something you can't do for Sappho. They also have some other good stuff. Browse around.
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.
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!
"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."
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.
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.
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!
I have a short story published at sunken lines, another legacy of my years living at Broome Street. Not that it's based on anyone I know. 100 points and a beard ride to anyone who can guess where the title of the story comes from!
I went and googled "imagism" to see what I would find. Intrigued, I went to "images" to see the results for "imagism." Get the joke? but it gets better. the first picture that comes up is this:
This picture you see, is the complete antithesis of imagism. In a certain way, it does make use of solid shapes and distinct lines, which the group tended to approve of in its aesthetic. However this is where the similarities end. The lush, overpowering, and somewhat bruising color and the fantastical images would not be seen at a station on the metro. The family of flowers and the wild horses belong more to symbolism, as well as the river being a snake. I won't go into the birds. Frankly this picture (which is titled: "imagism 1.0") is representative of every other trend in poetry before and after imagism: Romanticism, symbolism, and the Beat movement come to mind.
Up at Record, Godfrey Logan has been kind enough to make me today's featured writer. I have a handful of poems up and a few short stories. Go and check them out!
Well, the other day I stumbled upon a first for me, a poem of mine quoted on the website Emdashes. It was an observation on Joan Didion that I made while waiting and reading at the gastroenterologist, which I guess was pithy enough to sum up another person's feelings.
Fount blog is up again, and with a little helping from me. If you scroll to the bottom of the most recent issue (but slowly, slowly so you can read everyone else's work), you will find a piece by yours sincerely. It is a tanka, a new experiment in form for me. Enjoy.
Check out a poem I wrote about the San Gennaro Festival in Little Italy. You'll have to scroll down the page since what's present is not the text but a page from the upcoming edition of the Bibliofiles. Enjoy and travel back to a time two Septembers ago, before Obama, before Palin, when all there was, was sausage and peppers...
Scroll yourself down the River Poets Journal, listen to some nice guitar music, and read my poem. If you don't want to do all that, just search for "Under Every Foolish Word."
As you can see, "urban perspective" differs from place to place:
Poems up at Penman Lounge. Four on the front page, to be exact. They are good people. You probably see them advertised on Craigslist if you troll the "writing gigs" part of the site. I know that I do. You find a lot of good opportunities there. I once got in contact with a guy who needed lyrics for a song. Gave him a poem, and BAM, turned it into a mish-mash of psychedelic and nursery rhyme. All kinds of stuff. The poems in question are from my "early" period. Written around Freshman/early Sophomore year. Just starting out. I had no vision, just a few scattered showers and outpourings. reading them is like stepping back in time to 2005, ah those crazy days when we didn't know what ole' W would think up next!
(One might think of this picture as representing a slower type of fountain, one sprouting up from the earth and possibly shedding needles and leaves instead of water droplets. It you squint your eyes, it probably looks like some kind of geyser. Why it grows by itself and in the middle of a clearing is a mystery. Well not really, the answer is here. But I prefer the mystery and half of the majesty of that lonely little tree/shrub/overgrown pine cone).
The caption above is in need of H.D. dry supple hands.
No wonder they called her Dryad ! I'd like to image her! Yow!
Anyway, the fabulous Font Blog is up, and this time there is nudity. The theme is travel, and I have two poems in the mix on my own journeys across this fair country. There are some pretty gorgeous picture up on it, and these are worth looking at. Plus, I think I have one of the best poems on Kansas City on there that anyone is going to read in 2-Aught-9. But judge for yourselves, and like I said, there is still the nudity.
I should know the answer to that question in many languages since I'm sitting in one now. But not reading a single book! Anyways, here is a short story I wrote about being in a library, it is flash fiction, so let it flash you to your heart's content. Applaudite la Battered Suitcase, Amici!
Of course I'm not talking about pitch, but rather The Adirondack Review, and why? Because, friends, I have a book review for Ghosts, Goblins, Gods, Geodes by Pamela Laskin tucked away inside it. But do not despair, you do not have to go searching for it, I have a handy-dandy link that gets you in nice and easy. So read away, here.
First things first, I have a poem up at Disappearing City. It is called "Build-Up" go ahead and read it for FREE!
Finally, 2008 is done. Can't say it was the best of times for me, at least from a personal standpoint. creatively, it was pretty good. Improved my prose and poetry skills, and most importantly published more stories and poems than ever before. 2009 will hopefully bring success on more fronts. For whatever reason I always have a dislike of years ending in "9" exceptions being made for 1789, or course. That 9 is such a stub, the end of a decade. Yes it is an effect that comes after the decade is already over and historians look back and christen those ten years some sort of an era. 2009 will be the end of the "aughts," a time of chaotic malaise, as far as I am concerned.
Still looking for work, still looking for a place that I can really call home, just looking to belong somewhere. Perhaps I should hone my wanderlust to an art in 2009. I could get a start on the next decade and change myself before the world requires us all to do things differently, with that nagging excuse, "this isn't the aughts anymore!" or "it's 2010, 2011, 2012, etc... fer Christ's sake."
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This picture you see, is the complete antithesis of 
