-Jack Kerouac #ThisIsPoetry Results
I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.”
This Is Poetry was the drunk on the weird side of poetry. Hosted by The Literary Underground, poets brought their protest and obscene natures to…
I Received 6 Rejections Today. So What?
“We all need to understand one simple thing. We, as writers, have different literary styles and paradigms, which may be different from that of others. Hence, we just can’t force them to like what they don’t and then feel grumpy about the fact that they haven’t.”
Originally posted on Morphemic Morphology:
As I woke up this morning, the first thing I did, as I always do, was to…
Douglas Adams on Democracy
“It comes from a very ancient democracy, you see….”
“You mean, it comes from a world of lizards?”
“No,” said Ford, who by this time was a little more rational and coherent than he had been, having finally had the coffee forced down him, “nothing so simple. Nothing anything like so straightforward. On its world, the people are people. The leaders are lizards. The people hate the lizards and the…
With fellow runt raccoons, Meko is organizing. He will not stand for the mistreatment of his fellow runts.
In Defence of Small Online Literary Journals
“Many old school writers and publishers have constantly disparaged the presence of these online journals by describing them as literary dregs. The idea here is that if you are not a Glimmer Train or Tin House or The Paris Review, or any other journal established in the incipient stages of the literary journal era, or associated with an MFA offering University, you have no business…
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