Thursday Poem

Also here.

"A (very) Loose Reflection on SB1070 by an Arizona Poet" or "Jan Brewer Doesn't Care About Your Faggy Poem"

Gonna write a story about a poet that mattered--

poems were more than performance pieces

playing for that pussy--

wrote real protests, rhyming prose

and politicians listened,

traded out Andrew Jacksons for poet-influenced decisions

Gonna write a story about a poem that made a difference--

line breaks broke police lines better than bottles could have

and a rhyme scheme at play with no ulterior motive

like “I just came to read my poem

with no rising inflections, no silly affectations,

just feeling”

Gonna write a story about getting lost in my stories--

wrapped up in pages,

curled up cover to cover

and sweet sugar plum dreams

that poems are more than catharsis

for under-rep’ed frustration,

fragments of community

or a voice for the voiceless.

Barroom Revelation

I'm going to put this out here: it is almost impossible to tell a stranger "I am writing a book" without sounding like a tremendous asshole.

TS and Maggie

Yet another blog

Love The Cold Shoulder but hate the idea of Snugglekitty? Aching for new poems? Then tune in every Thursday for new or workshopped work from me and other writers--most of whom are probably better than I am. Follow us!!

Anyone* Can Grow Up to be President

And there's those times when something that actually is racist happens and you're like, "Wow. Not cool" and whoever you're with is all, "oh, lighten up."

Snugglekitty update

Figuring out layout for the stories, trying to decide if it's worth including pictures, realizing I need to complete some stuff, realizing other stuff is crap.

If you believe this will actually get published some day, clap your hands!!

Fall asleep to cop dramas

Here's another unrevised NaPoWriMo poem about trying to get out of bed in the morning.

4/14 Every Other Tuesday

And on those dull days,

those sad days, those days that start too early

with the morning rush toward nothing,

highlighting time spent wasting

time

like playing at poems or soundbites

to reaffirm that now,

that now is the prime of my life

so I should get off my ass and

build something that outlives me.

But maybe, if I lay here long enough,

let myself dissolve, decompose,

just sink away,

maybe then I could just call

this patch of ground

my own.