We’re currently preparing to flee Denver, Colorado. We sold books at the 16th Street Mall, the Mercury Cafe, and worked our way around the area exploring.
Nasty Little Wreck Stabs Books & Shovels
Smashing Up A Traveling Bookstore
photo by Captain Thornton
The original body of Books & Shovels was a frame pack I took hitchhiking. The bag was full of books from Nostrovia! Poetry, W.I.S.H. Publishing, and UndergroundBooks. With this, I’d hit street perform and sell books out of it.
Recently, Books & Shovels evolved. It obtained wheels. Sam & I split the costs of a 1995 Volvo 850 station…
This IS Poetry: The Literary Underground
The Literary Underground is grabbing the Tree that poetry has evolved into, and ripping and gnawing at the roots, arranging Poets, Publishers, Events, and Poems into beautiful patterns. A grassroots organization, The Literary Underground coordinated with some solid small presses managed by passionate folks breaking fingers over the keyboard organizing the opportunities for us to obtain…
Small Press Roulette
Karen Lillis with Small Press Pittsburgh
Karen Lillis’s pop-up bookstore, Small Press Pittsburgh, was a direct influence on the creation of Books & Shovels. I met her in Erie, P.A. at Poets’ Hall during her feature with Zarina Zabrisky and Simon Rogghe. Her project, Small Press Roulette, is a concept we’re truly digging, both in concept and by trying to shed light on the wonderful work she’s…
& here she is:
We wrapped up our time in Troy, N.Y. yesterday morning, following the 90 W through Buffalo N.Y., down through Erie, P.A., by Cleveland and Columbus O.H., past Indianapolis, I.N., to Springfield, I.L., where we burned in a Walmart parking lot, exhausted embers of consciousness.
Prepping for tonight’s show, theGallery art show: Traveling Journeys, at Joe Gallina’s Pizza. We’ll soon have videos posted of our debut at the 2014 NYC Poetry Festival, and our gigs in the Troy, N.Y. / Albany, N.Y., area.
I’ve been spending the bags under my eyes and hallucinations of elephants on the side of the road on poetry and writing. Here are some results of an old poem revisited after a year of dangling in the back of my throat.
Fuck Chandelier Metaphors
I developed a mental t-t-tick when a mad man tried to murder me on the road
I developed paranoia when I had begin strapping a knife to my thigh to walk the dog
Lock each door twice, windows creak, grab knife
sleep armed, arm sleep with bah bah black sheep
with red eyes
like stones from rain cloud to rain cloud, gnawing on eye lids like fields of grass
Flowers of blood marauded dreams pressed between pages of silence I can’t put to words
This house of leaves is green on the outside
and pastel inside. This house of leaves weeps inside out.
My tick is tock tock talking
Skull is cradle rock rock rocking,
words are bombs in Christmas stalkings!
The youngest wakes up early to go retrieve his gift.
An entire family is slaughtered for sake of a metaphor.
There’s a skeleton rewriting birth certificates in a labyrinth composed of every dead humans’ bones.
I’m poet to the dead bones
when talking to you.
“You are currently hearing an unconsciously formulated proxy
Jeremiah Walton killed himself for your entertainment
You can talk to him during the human experience once the stage is exited and all masks are sliced like light against a foggy windshield.”
Punching my skeleton to get the voice out of my skull
Roping quiet bones into a noose
Poems language cannot articulate turn red blood blue.
Being on the road is romanticized star gazing without knowing constellations
I’m not here to crush dreams, but fuck Kerouac ethics
I began hitch hiking cross country to broaden the poetic community, to build my name as a poet,
to fight the decay of culture.
Now ripping open flesh like an imprint of breath on a sand dune as I contemplate a knife and count reasons to live along sedated self righteousness
The decay of culture. Fuckin A,
a gray a statement in itself.
nothing more than change.
Ego, stroke it like its the last genital on Earth
and manage to remain self stagnant.
THEN you’re getting somewhere.
When hitting the road, I found adventure
Adventure does not imply showers
Adventure does not imply kindnes
Adventure implies bite
bite implies teeth
teeth marks you with wounds
wounds develop callous
and the child in you hangs himself
with a rope composed of your dreams.
Welcome to the human zoo.This morning’s Indiana sunrise was absolutely gorgeous & here she is: Destination Detour We wrapped up our time in Troy, N.Y. yesterday morning, following the 90 W through Buffalo N.Y., down through Erie, P.A., by Cleveland and Columbus O.H., past Indianapolis, I.N., to Springfield, I.L., where we burned in a Walmart parking lot, exhausted embers of consciousness.
This Is Poetry
photo by Captain Thornton
Hello from the Books & Shovels frontier (or potential cliff, pending on the road’s plan pulverizing habits). We’re currently in Albany, N.Y., preparing for our 4 gig at the Nitty Gritty Slam tonight.
Tomorrow morning, Sam, Captain, and I depart for Springfield, I.L. for a feature Books & Shovels has at Joe Gallina’s Pizza on the 7th, hosted by Amanda Byron. Job Conger…
If you have funds and believe in their project, consider donating to their Indie GoGo Campaign.
I like this guy. Also, he is publishing a poem of mine in “Fuck Art, Let’s Dance” on July 1st entitled ‘Starfish.’ Stay tuned!
Traveling book store spreads rabies throughout the NYC Poetry Festival
“Poetry is real. The books we love did not grow wings and magically land on our bookshelf. It is thanks to the effort of authors, publishers, editors and friends that some of the great works of literature we take for granted today have found their way into history.” – Simon Rogghe
Originally posted on Books & Shovels:
We’ll spark this issue by sharing Books & Shovels debut at the
Books & Shovels
Jeremiah Walton is getting ready to start a cross-country travelling bookstore and publisher called ‘Books & Shovels’
check out their indiegogo campaign to learn more, and to help out
I think things like this can be really important for making new friends, building community, and getting more people writing and talking about books
if you’re interested, say hello to Jeremiah on facebook
We’ll spark this issue by sharing Books & Shovels debut at the 2014 NYC Poetry Festival, where we raised over $400 for the traveling bookstore, and furthered the IndieGoGo campaign to secure our wheels. Nostrovia! Poetry hosted a rogue open mic, spent sleepless days and nights printing books and organizing events, slamming our skulls against computer screens and empty energy drink cans as we busted ourselves to ensure Books & Shovels debut is a fully loaded gun thrown into a massive game of Russian Roulette.
It was worth it. We’re currently going through the extensive footage we’ve obtained, but we’re including some photographs to provide a better idea and visual concept of what we are doing.
From the festival, we hit Ding Dong bar in West Village for an open mic, filmed, and foamed rabid metaphors from the mouth.
We’ve begun preparing for our upcoming gig in Springfield, I.L., This Is Poetry, hosted by The Literary Underground. We’re still fundraising through IndieGoGo to secure the project, as gas is not cheap, and there are many challenges still stagnant in our mouths as we try to chew them over, and swallow. Your financial support is greatly appreciated. Your faith encourages and secures the mission.
Cheers!Traveling book store spreads rabies throughout the NYC Poetry Festival We’ll spark this issue by sharing Books & Shovels debut at the 2014 NYC Poetry Festival…
Writing on the Road
Holding into 3 poems while driving
cursing this fucking road
8 Self-publishing Platforms
“You listen to me book… you’re supposed to self publish! Get out there!”
Self-publishing is a crash course in how to smash your face against the internet without knowing if you’ll make it out alive. I prefer the D.I.Y. route when it comes to publishing, or at least being involved with the press publishing my book.
I’m not saying if City Lights Book Store came knocking, I’d send them away.…
Self-aware Poems & Poems About Poetry
“THERE’S A POEM IN THE MIRROR! I SEE IT!”
Poems that know that they’re poems, or critique poetry, seem to have harnessed a bad reputation, a ball-gag that tastes like filth.
I dig them though. Poems that are passionate and provoke emotion are good poems, at least in my little corner of subjectivity. I dig writing that employs strong images, and leaves a taste of itself (whether sour, sweet,…