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Showing posts from February, 2017

Sheri Grutz's proclamation that should have been done 15 years ago

Locally, I know you're scared I'll retaliate. Nationally, I know you might feel compelled emotionally. Internationally, I know you want dirt on the American Girl. But please.  Please.  You don't have to tune in.  You don't have to be here. Unless you want to view my blog. Even my very favorite news programs have condemned me. Please go away.

Phil, oh yeah, imagine what those redneck farmer's kids said when Beth started getting Rolling Stone magazine in their mailbox

This took me awhile to find this blog, might be gone after awhile, not sure. You take your meds and you're worse. Oh yeah, Phil, what exactly is the point of NASCAR going round and round in circles? Can't they go on off trails with length and bend, much more interesting and challenging. they do it all the time in the Olympics.

The book (new prose)

The book The woman keeps each season pressed into books flowers leaves rock salt always putting the outside inside always putting the very ground she's walked on up high on a shelf then forgetting about it the pages change and wear away as any white skyed day would a bird is pressed in the sky a feather is pressed in the snow winter berries on bottoms of tennis shoes the book took every color she had forgotten until now and when she opens it again its words a child would write on her drawing of a rainbow s.m.g.

The other thing about self publishing

is you spend your own money publishing it I think I spent a little over a thousand dollars then another 200 or 250 on a marketing campaign that did nothing I don't believe these so called legitimate presses and contests or awards are asking the writer for money in fact, they're giving them money

prose piece (The Calling)

The Calling The poet held the moment like a lover reading every line every word every phrase and even knowing it by heart on a small stage you become bare you stretch the vowels and curl the consonants rising with emotion ringing in their ears something happened when the poet had no voice losing the sun from the sky the poems could not fly streams of words could not flow if the voice could be found it would be inside the heart of the park speaking and thinking with feet and hands well then the poet went a long ways on trails that unwind like ribbon and he made a new voice pouring through the air from the cup of his hands a louder hollar and though being a poet might have been something this was an actual calling s.m.g.

Well, that's a nice way to make friends

I don't want to be friends with rednecks. Kick me out if you must. Forget it, I'll just leave. They even said, the patrons of the bar don't want music til 6 p.m. The bartender said, he's the owner, he can do what he wants. then don't play 10 fucking country songs and expect us sitting here to accept. Goodbye forever.