Concerning Volume 8, Issue 5

So the thing with Poetry Victims current issue release, is that we are having a formatting crisis with Blogger. It is a problem that I have dealt with for a few years, but it never mattered that much when I was only using 2 poems and 2 pieces of art. With our large issues as of late, it is a major problem. After weeks of re-loading work, and changing formatting, and doing it all over again, and again, and again, I am totally and completely discouraged with our lack of resolution to the problem!

We have exhausted every possible option that Nicole has so faithfully flushed out with which to experiment and consider. It is a shame really, as we have always been fond of our distinct differences in presentaion, compared to other online publications. But life is change, and change is what we will honor.

As I see it, the only solution left, is to dump Blogger right now (which we planned to do 'after' this issue anyway) and just finish the new Poetry Victims website that I am working on.

My apologies to all of the very patient writers and artists who submitted work to us, but I refuse to publish this issue until we are satisfied the work is presented in the best possible light.

Please bear with us.

Luv ya,
ZZ and Nic

that right there

So my colleague and friend Rafal asked me tonight, "Why aren't you writing a book of hotel stories?" "You've been talking about it for years."

At this time of the morning, particularly on weekends, we are mostly preoccupied with getting drunk people out of our hotel lobby, into taxis, and home. The average wait for a cab on a weekend after the bars close in Boulder is about an hour, sometimes more.

Tonight, a man gave me a $1 tip when his cab arrived. He said to me, "This is a fuckin' hundred dollar bill right there."

"Goodnight!"

on counting blessings

So sometimes we rely on friends to remind us of what is really important in life.

As for me, my blessings go far and wide. But for the moment, I speak only of these blessings that I hold dear inside me.

I am blessed with a son who is thriving and brilliant and wise.

I am blessed with ex-step-children who want to stay relevant in my heart and my life.

I am blessed with a family and troop of sisters and tributaries who love me.

I am blessed with the attention and friendship of beautiful and interesting and talented people everywhere I go, and the world over.

I am blessed with good health and this demanding talent and imagination and fire all my own.

And I am blessed with you.

And if you (whoever you are reading this...) think I mean you, I do!

I love you.

stray bullets

So I have this nice, solid cardboard box where I store copies of almost everything I've ever published in print. Of all these things, I am only missing a couple of Hammers Magazines and a very important Chicago anthology that I have been missing for many years (thinking perhaps that I gave them to an old friend).

While looking for a specific book in a panic the other day, I resorted to my sister's book shelves, and to my unbridled delight I happened upon one of the above said Hammers Magazines and this...

Copyright 1991 by Tia Chucha Press

The value of this anthology to me is simple. It is an important part of my life, one of those charmed moments where old friends and acquaintances recognized the incredible energy that enveloped us all, and so the moment was preserved.

The poems in this anthology are for the most part the signature poems of the contributors in that moment (many of which were my personal favorites ... that I have been missing for so long).

What a moment indeed, it rocks my life still!

its all in the attitude and conveniently sometimes the crazy weather must be accounted for too

So today is a glorious Colorado Winter day of striking magnificence. We all know this happens here. Feel free to admit it.

And I am grateful for an odd acquaintance of things that I won't bore you to shreds with over details, not the least the weather.

But today, I am taking time to fly.

And I have been cooped up for way too long.

And a bird with clipped wings is no bird at all ... so I fly!

And while driving home from Boulder (with all the windows down for the first time in forever), I couldn't resist sliding into that Mick Jagger attitude to the music. You know, the lips and head bobbing thing.

And I like it when my hair stings my face and lashes out chaotically to the wind. When my hair is alive, I feel powerful.

And I find it strangely interesting what upsets people when they are driving.

so this is how we do it

(a partial cellphone conversation between our Editors while they drive in their perspective cities)


Nicole: "How long has that picture been there?"

Jeff: "Which one?" "On facebook?" "Do you mean Poetry Victims or Stela?"

Nicole: "Poetry Victims."

Jeff: "Uhm... 6 months, maybe a year!"


...silence...


Jeff: "But it is high time we changed it!"

Nicole: LOL!

Jeff: LOL!


(we laugh alot)


Jeff: "So what do we replace it with?"

Jeff: "Hey! How about this ... we could rotate the pictures of art from whatever current issue we have up?"

Nicole: "Yeah!" "That's a great idea, get to it!" LOL!

Jeff: LOL!

Poetry Victims Deadline Extended for Volume 8, Issue 5

We have extended the final Submission Deadline for Poetry Victims (Vol. 8, Issue 5) until tomorrow, December 15, 2011. Be a part of our final issue for 2011.

Please send your original Poetry and/or original Art/Photography to poetryvictimssubmissions@gmail.com.

Submission Guidelines are also good to know!

luv ya,
nic and zz

trap and trivialities

So as we prepare our final issue for 2011, I've been browsing through the membership statistics of Poetry Victims on facebook. I find the information interesting, albeit lacking somehow. Here is where we sit now...

Female 52%
Male 42%

Ages 13 through 55+
Prodominantly and evenly spaced ... ages 25 through 54 ... across the board

Top 10 Countries:
USA
India
U.K.
Canada
Philippines
Australia
South Africa
Spain
Pakistan
Thailand

Top 4 Cities (that's all they provide)
Denver
Chicago
London
Los Angeles

Of this gaggle of information, what surprises me most?

Canada!?

WTF?

Sorry, I mean ... really?

That surprises me...

...Welcome Canada!

Poetry Victims Last Call for Art and Poetry

The final Submission Deadline for Poetry Victims (Vol. 8, Issue 5) is December 10, 2011: We are still accepting submissions for our final issue of 2011. Please send your original Poetry and/or original Art/Photography to poetryvictimssubmissions@gmail.com.

Only 3 days left to submit!

Submission Guidelines.


We are specifically looking for more Art Submissions.

We reserve one time publication rights.

We look forward to your participation!

Thank you, Nic & ZZ 

Every Writer's Resource (EWR)

So now that we are listed on Every Writer's Resource, we would like to ask you all to vote for us on our page. All votes work towards being included in the top rankings. Please share some love and click on the picture ... and vote! :)

Poetry Victims Calling For Submissions

Submission Deadline for Poetry Victims (Vol. 8, Issue 5) December 10, 2011: We are now accepting submissions for our final issue of 2011. Please send your original Poetry and/or original Art/Photography to poetryvictimssubmissions@gmail.com ...

Submission Guidelines

previously published work is acceptable.

We reserve one time publication rights.

We look forward to your participation!

Thank you, Nic & ZZ

whisper

if you could take back one mistake
in life/ just one/ only one/ any one
what would it be
what whisper would you wrestle
from the clutches of history
i take back that moment when
i threw the falling star in the ocean

truth

painful in its truth
and blues falling down like rain
painful subtle proof

life expectancy

passion

+ joy
+ love
+ trust
+ friendship
+ forgiveness
+ clarity
+ hope
+ faith
+ acceptance
+ enlightenment

and children

- fear
- foolishness
- rejection
- loss
- loneliness
- pain
- tragedy
- betrayal
- jealousy
- suspicion

= life is beautiful

to the power of death

ocean

because i have this mad desire to see
the lay of the land as a whole i will
always swim farther than anyone expects
and having swam so far from shore
there is nothing i can do now but float

this is what an ocean will teach you
in the end
how to float only...

minutes become hours/ then days
and weeks/ months/ years/ a
litany of furtive longing

giving oneself up to the seduction
of water equates to an act of love

an act of love equates to life

love is a two way street

So I figure that one day someone will be serious about love and me.

Until then (and beyond), I have a magazine or two to publish with my partner and collaborator and dear friend Nicole (who I will not kick to the curb by no fault of our friendship, who takes the time to call me on the phone, who takes my calls, who writes to me pretty much daily, who worries about me, who challenges me with spirited debate and conversation, who shares my vision, who helps, who asks for my help, who believes in me and my talents and my words and my art and my book, who trusts me, who understands, and who accepts what we are to each other and why). 

And then there is all that writing inside me.   

I am, after all, a writer.

i dont like to be a hater but sometimes i just hate plastic

So i rolled into Boulder last night steaming like a banshee. That's right ... steaming! Fuck the Jeep (remember now folks, the Jeep's name is Fuck ... I'm not just randomly cussing), I mean, it was steaming so badly someone called the Fire Department (apparently thinking it might be on fire). I love it when this sort of thing happens, always making for an interesting night to follow. The brave Fire Deities and I assessed the actual problem to be a broken into 3 stupid tiny assed little freaking plastic pieces flush valve in the coolant system, and now I am waiting for the auto supply store to open. 

This is what life really boils down too, let's not kid ourselves ... always waiting for something!

The barista she tells me I am mysterious and I figure maybe this is the problem and everything smells like coolant.

I think this is as good a time as any to start blogging again regularly. Don't you?

Volume 8, Issue 4

So please (formally) welcome my good friend and new publishing partner Nicole E. Turiano as my Co-Editor of Poetry Victims. For eight years now, I have been hoofing it alone with Poetry Victims. Frankly, I am incredibly grateful for her help and invaluable insight and her love of literature and art. 

Nicole is also Editor-In-Chief of Stela (which I am publishing). Stela is our new online magazine of literature and arts. We are currently building our website in preparation to begin calling for submissions. In the meantime, please follow us on our blog, or on facebook, or on twitter. 

I specifically asked Nicole to make all the selections for this issue of Poetry Victims. She has eagerly produced the largest issue in the history of Poetry Victims. 

Volume 8, Issue 4

I am grateful indeed, for her, and for it all.

Thank you Nic!

Luv ya,
ZZ

 

comfort zones

From an early age I have always identified with myself as a poet, a writer, never as an artist. But the reality is … I have always been both. As a teenager, I was much more involved in large scale art projects than any writing activities. My Grandmother was an artist (and poet), and three of my sisters are artists. But coming from a family of artists, why do I always identify with myself as the poet? I think it is because art is my passion, but poetry is my comfort zone. The poetry is my identity among my siblings. We are artists. I am the poet.

Prior to the advent of Photoshop and other digital photography platforms, I constantly sought ways to integrate poetry and photography. I busied myself with learning the limits of standard photography. I worked and breathed as a commercial photographer on the front lines of photography in Chicago. I freelanced for over 20 years across the country. I used every camera format available, and I ushered in the digital photography age while running the print department of a photo plant at night in Oklahoma. I learned all aspects of photography, lighting, building sets, shooting on location, shooting in the studio, printing, darkroom techniques, developing, color correction and filtering, print and negative touch up, graphics, airbrushing … all the while hoping to discover that elusive secret to the delicate balance between image and word and thought.

I am still trapped in this inequity.

And I have Photoshop now. And I am so very, very close.

But I am about to get so incredibly busy (the likes of which I have never known), I‘ve been putting it off really. Watch me step out of my comfort zone. I have this very magazine to create and publish with my good friend Nicole Turiano (Editor-In-Chief), and I also have a book begging me to keep writing, I don‘t talk about it much anymore. But rest assured, the book is still here. And it will be so.

So I pass this challenge on to the world at large. Step out of your comfort zones with me. Create something new, something different, something special, something the likes of which makes the world gasp in disbelief and wonder. Collaborate with a friend. Collaborate with a stranger. Collaborate with a crew. Create the impossible, and then … send it to us. Stela. Remember Stela. Remember us. We are Stela and we want the impossible.

Send us the impossible.

Jeffrey Spahr-Summers (Publisher)

from Stela!

yucca mountain

So I celebrate the need to no longer protest the the use of Yucca Mountain as nuclear waste storage with an old poem written for just that purpose.

Victories large or small, are victories none-the-less!


yucca mountain

lets bury our dirty little secrets

in gods backyard
under yucca mountain
in the heat of the desert

lets challenge the devil

lets dig a hole

2003

famous 1908 elevator rap

1/ "I'm sorry I ran over your foot." - Etta James

2/ "I love your ponytail!" - Goldie Hawn

3/ "We had a great show tonight. James Taylor sat in with us ... it was fantastic!" - Graham Nash

4/ "Oh, I'm fine! Thank you. We dance on the bus after every show." - Joan Baez

5/ "They were really patient with you tonight." - Graham Nash

... "Yes, they were!" - David Crosby

6/ "I enjoyed our talk." - Arlo Guthrie

7/ "Can I buy you breakfast?" - Ted Kooser

8/ ***silence*** - K.D. Lang

9/ "I love your hotel." - Patrick Stewart

10/ "Is it still snowing this morning?" - Ritchie Havens

my mayan birthday

So I am Night 1.
My Color is Blue.
My direction is West.
I am Energy of Water/Endings.
Akbal is my glyph.


Night

Night persons are bringers of the dawn. Dreamers, who bring the new sun to clarify and illuminate the road of life. Thus the insecurities and doubts born of darkness or the subconcious mind are dispelled. These people travel the void, a place where nothing else exists, but all potential dwells, the womb of creation. From this void, Night persons bring forth new solutions and artistic inspiration. Nights' voyages of dreams build confidence, happiness and a sense of well being. If Night does not bravely journey into the void, he may find himself wandering the darkness of self-doubt and insecurity.

1 (Unity)

The beginning of all things. The first. The whole. The all of One. Assertive and self-guided, these persons give a good push to whatever project they are associated. One persons work best when meeting a challenge. Do not expect One persons to be attentive to details or put the finishing touches on things.

patience

So this morning while under the brash influence of a magical 5,430 feet above sea level sunrise (actually the said sunrise itself just plain sucked ... yet somehow, in my heart, it was glorious just the same), pterodactyls came. 

unexpected things

So one of my co-workers told me this morning that he was happy to see me pensive ... "You are usually so focused. It's a nice change." He said. I think he nailed it right on the head. I need to think!

Unexpected things happen. Unexpected emotions call doubts and insecurities and trust into play. 

recent memory

So there was a time in fairly recent memory, when i used to blather on and on every day ... on this very blog no less! Perhaps you remember. I've had this particularly bitter and bloody internal nuclear war going on with writing for some time, but I think I finally have the upper hand now. The point is ... I need to get back to writing every day.

Volume 8, Issue 3

The Current Issue (Volume 8, Issue 3) of Poetry Victims is now online! 

Please welcome our guest poet and guest artist Nicole Turiano. Nicole is an Administrator with The New Writers and the Editor of Paragon Dream (The New Writers Journal). Frankly, I don't remember where or when Nicole and I first met online (it seems like she has always been there), but we have spent the better part of the last year defining our relationship.


We have laughed, cried, smiled, argued, raged, toyed, teased, flirted, challenged, supported, encouraged and loved. We have spent hours on end, online, deep in conversation and practical silences, debating all of the subjects under the sun. We share our art with each other, offering feedback and advice. We collaborate. We share our lives in bits and pieces and offer ourselves to each other 24 hours a day as needed.


Defining this ... I call it friendship and satisfaction and love and gratitude and happiness. In the end, it is all the same!

Enjoy!

Luv ya, zz

things i found while cleaning out my jeep

ts eliot the waste land and other poems
two cameras
another ee cummings
amoskeog journal
anne mcmillen mind static vol 1
the sandhill review
sojourn journal
rio grande review
an unopened and stale
chocolate chip medical marijuana cookie
ghost ranch 2010 course catalog
tadeusz nalepa polish blues
takas quartet beethoven string quartets
kenneth rexroth lawrence ferlinghetti poetry
readings in the cellar with the cellar jazz quintet

an indignant sock

white v neck t shirt and jeans

you asked me once what i wanted you to wear
when i photographed you/ not saying/ perhaps
something more obvious/ what exactly/
white v neck t shirt and jeans/ i know this to
be true because this is what i still find inside me
this river raging this river searching asking for
passage to the universe i know to be inside you

attrition

thoroughly wise rivers dont question

their own intentions

like wars of attrition they/just

go where they please they/simply

absorb what they/will/

what they/can

Monther

Writing takes the world behind the curtain of the brain \

does a number on it \ & WHAMMO out comes another

dimension \ a sea within a sea in which the Titanic of our

expectations disappears & we are left with \ What is it?

In writing, life sinks \ rises like the moon with new vis-

ibility \ another dimension \ seeing what we've not seen in

a different way than if we'd seen it.

Only poetry or a form of new writing captures the thoughts

that entomb the mind \ the disorder of memory, the un-

chronological order.

I think it's one of the purposes of art \ to hold disaster in

artistic control.

Diane Glancy

i have looked you in the eyes

i have done everything i can
think of/not to/feel this way
i have lied and offered myself
up for sacrifice to the world if
only/i might/not/feel this way
i have flirted with all the women
of the earth let-it-be understood
if only/i would/not/feel this way

goodbyes

may i please buy you tea or coffee
or breakfast in the morning/he
said

absolutely not./she
said

Volume 8, Issue 2

Welcome to Volume 8, Issue 2 of Poetry Victims.

In this issue we have Photography by Sarah Herrington, Poetry by Lyn Lifshin and J.A. Spahr-Summers.

In this issue we have new collaborative Photography by Nicole Turiano and ZZ Baggins.

In this issue we have great music by The Black Keys (as always the music choice is what I listened to over and over and over and over while I created this very issue).

Enjoy!

Poetry Victims

Luv ya, ZZ

Paragon Dream

So the trouble with starting a new journal, whether online or in print, is building the support base. The pool of talent drawn to the vision. It is from this very pool of talent that submissions begin in support of the vision.


The vision of The New Writers is to provide encouragement and avenues for aspiring writers of all levels.


Many of you reading this post, are undoubtedly accomplished writers, intent on pursuing carefully selected homes for your hard won efforts. Personally, I receive more satisfaction being published in fledgling journals and oddities than the more established icons of the publishing world. But that's just me. I'm hoping that I might pursued you to submit anyway. Many of you (I suspect), are new to publishing. I understand that it takes an extraordinary amount of courage and confidence to submit something one has written for the first time. I have learned that once you put your mind to it ... it is done! Once you decide to jump ... it is easy! Just do it!


Paragon Dream, the new online journal of The New Writers is accepting submissions for roughly another month (see the submission guidelines on the link above). My friend Nicole Turiano is the Editor of Paragon Dream and she is working very hard on producing this new journal. I trust in Nicole's talent and her determination to create something beautiful and good. I trust her instincts and I trust her heart. I think Nicole will prove to be an exceptional Editor. 

Any good Editor desperately needs good submissions!  

Send her something. I'm just saying. 

breakfast with ted

So Ted Kooser bought me breakfast this morning.

I am the only person on the planet, who can say this today!

Ted Kooser (of his own volition) climbed into my filthy stinking poetry sodden jeep and we drove to my favorite breakfast haunt.

What on earth would Ted Kooser and I have in common? I wondered myself. For starters, we both wear Zuni Indian Rings.

Well, we talked about the reading where we met in Tulsa in 2004 (when I went gunning for him in order to publish him). It was a spontaneous slice of life ... then and now! We talked about our writing habits ... when we tend to write, where, by what inspiration or by laptop or by ink. "I am happy if I write 6 poems a year that I want to keep." Ted Kooser confessed to me over sausage and eggs. I was amazed.

We talked about art and women and books and drinking and travelling.

We spoke of our sons and his grand-children, his farm in Nebraska ("If you could even call it that." Ted said), retirement, current and future projects.

We talked about life and hope and time.

 October 23, 2004

(Jeffrey Spahr-Summers and Ted Kooser 03/05/11)

the letter

So I just wrote the most difficult letter I've ever written in my life!

sometimes dreams dont come true

my dream was never really fame/or fortune/or
notoriety for what i had the balls/vanity/to write/or
say/or do/or create/or imagine
my dream was never to be on my knees
my dream was easy
but naïve

it was a dance to the step of a stay home dad/a
constant presence is what i hungered to be/a
light house/a domesticated god of fire and truth
and love and life
my dream was no secret
my dream was no surprise
my dream was to never allow/this/this
wall/to be built between my son and myself/
between myself and the world/
between my father/s) and me
i/i/i/sold my dream to the highest bidder
for the sake of some peace and quiet and hope
and some purpose since passed me by
my dream was never to punish myself
and those i love relentlessly

ocean

because i have this mad desire to see
the lay of the land as a whole i will
always swim farther than anyone expects
and having swam so far from shore
there is nothing i can do now but float

this is what an ocean will teach you
in the end
how to float only...

minutes become hours/ then days
and weeks/ months/ years/ a
litany of furtive longing

giving oneself up to the seduction
of water equates to an act of love

an act of love equates to life 

by proxy

What is important, is that now ... I truly am free!

By proxy (having purged), I can now go anywhere, anytime, talk with anyone, do anything, whenever I want, with whomever I choose, for no good reason at all. Just because.

The world is mine!

rage

i rage against a society that says i cannot love a woman half my age
or younger
i rage against judgment
i rage against the small minds of the universe
i rage against presumption to stupidity
i rage against hate
i rage against silence
i rage against loneliness
i rage against the arrogance of my self/righteousness
i rage against truth
i rage against my rage
i rage against the wounded wild animal let loose in this room

i rage against ridicule
i rage against my endless fucking ego
i rage against this talent
i rage against this trick of just/being
i rage against my jealousy
i rage against those who would have me be/
someone/
else
i rage against the absence of you

Volume 8, Issue 1

So I have lived a lifetime (it seems) since last I published an issue of Poetry Victims. The irony in all of this living (depending on which stool you occupy), is that nothing has changed really!

Whether by chance or by design (by golly), this last year has been a doozy. But today is about sharing and encouraging and inspiring each other as artists (I use the term artists loosley [as I am inclined to do]). We are what we are. I am what I am. What we (as artists) do is ... we create illusions. We throw caution to the wind cavalierly and encourage our imaginations to soar. My imagination flies incredibly high!

And I have made some new friends along the way. Here are a few of them...

Nicole E. Turiano, Sarah Stuart and Stevie Ray Robison, who collectively, have welcomed me into their fold (as it were), published my poems, published my art/photography and also welcome others to do the same. Nicole is also the Editor of Paragon Dream (the online journal of The New Writers), which is currently accepting submissions for the inaugural issue. There is also a contest in the making ... here are the guidelines. Many of you know the trials and tribulations of starting new journals (whether in print or online). I know this because, I know how many of you on my list are in fact editors and publishers. There is a wealth of talent on my mailing list, and I want all of you to please submit something to these beautiful and wonderful people. Do it!

Here is also a link to the new issue of...

Here is also a link to a new poetry bookstore in Boulder ...

Innisfree Poetry Bookstore & Cafe

Speaking of beautiful and wonderful people, our guest artist today is my old friend Elizabeth Ketrick of Tulsa, and our guest poet is Ian R. Dougherty of Denver (Ian is one of the co-founders of the Mercury Cafe Poetry Slam).  

Poetry Victims Current Issue

Enjoy!

Love ya, ZZ

i knew that one day it would come to this

So once I was caught gawking at a book of photographs of nude women by one of my sisters. I was at my favorite bookstore in downtown Pretoria, entranced and nervy, waiting for the ever elusive and timid city buses that took me from the lap of civilization back out to hell.

I was so completely absorbed by the delicious images, I didn't notice Pam sneaking up on me.

I knew that one day it would come to this.

I dreaded going home for dinner, for good reason ... I knew my family! The dinner table was often the liveliest place in the house. No one held back at our dinner table. Anything was plum. They teased me mercilessly. They lunged for my exposed throat of embarrassment like Hyenas, as only family (who are compelled to love you) can do.

I pointed out that they were clearly tasteful images of art, great photography, categorically not pornographic! What is more beautiful? As the words leaped excitedly off my tongue, I realized ... once again ... I should have just kept my big fat trap shut.

This was a valuable lesson in life that I still faithfully fucking fail to grasp.

Well, here is precisely where the conversation shipwrecked at my feet ... "How do you know the difference between tasteful photography and pornography?"

This is a very long row to hoe.

sylvias mother

listens outside sylvias door
what is that girl doing why
wont she come out
for dinner why
wont she talk to anyone she
doesnt understand

mean mr. mustard

really he isnt mean at all
hes just a writer
an artist
insufferably shy
perpetually preoccupied
hiding behind cameras and glasses
and pens
taking it all to heart

reprise

It's basically about a keen desire to write something of substance, unlike this, where I shuffle vaguely into view (for just a moment), scratch my ass, then disappear into another dimension.

never taken for granted

It takes a special kind of stamina of heart and faith to be a friend of mine. Keeping up with my emotions and paranoia and misunderstandings and mistakes and karma and enthusiasm alone boggles the mind, and is exhausting in it's implications. 

I don't take this lightly!

While I enjoy and am grateful for the many people I communicate with (directly or indirectly) around the world, I am humbled deeply and incredibly touched by the love and support of my friends. 

Today, some of you saved my life (again) and I love you forever.

tree

for nicole

we could also say
a tree is just a tree
or
a poem is like a tree
never equating them to life
or what allows us to dream
or to the breath they bring us
or the flesh of themselves offered
in slivers to our want of rhythm

cut the fucker down/some
people actually say things like this/then
they do it/lets not
lets dig deep for water
or draw it from the delta
lets encourage the thing to grow
lets hand it over to life

love

"Love is something you and I must have. We must have it because our spirit feeds upon it. We must have it because without it we become weak and faint. Without love our self esteem weakens. Without it our courage fails. Without love we can no longer look confidently at the world. We turn inward and begin to feed upon our own personalities, and little by little we destroy ourselves. With it we are creative. With it we march tirelessly. With it, and with it alone, we are able to sacrifice for others." - Chief Dan George

life

for nicole

kissing is life and
life is in the art of kissing
a collaboration between artists
hungry for the succinct creation of color
something of meaning
something of value
something we righteously covet
deep down in the dungeon
shades of yellow and
blue and purple and black and
the ever present and uppity
totalitarian red

day six

for nicole

i picture you
devouring books
one after another like chocolates
hesitant hunger
licking your fingers
delicately between pages

day five

for nicole

today i pondered the trick of trees
silent in recognition resignation
acknowledgement and confession
they speak volumes and volumes
about reality and intent and truth

day four

for nicole

i smoked six cigarettes today which
i admit is six more than none
i prefer to focus on why this is good news
i only smoked a fifth of what really tempted me
i think the odds are in my favor

day three

for nicole

i havent slept in two days this/simple
question/of bach/of driving to you
becomes my opus
my silent operetta
my litany concerto in
A major for harpsichord
and strings

day two

for nicole

i have to do something to drag myself down 
otherwise i will be scooped up by ferocious
winds like a lost red balloon my string implor
ing hands to take me take this from me keep
me grounded but no maybe i might drift into
the sphere of influence of some ego ridden
little smart ass boy with a slingshot marbles
in his hand okay so i am dating myself so to
speak what would it be now anyway? some
prissy girl of spiked blue hair and laser nails

day one

for nicole

i am electric

willis pyle

And so last night I met Willis Pyle. He is 94 years old and one helluva nice guy. I wheeled him to his room via old faithful the 1908 Otis elevator. He was excited to tell me that he graduated from C.U. in 1937, and spent 5 years with Disney (thus Mr. Magoo and Pinocchio etc. etc. etc.), and for the last 60 years has lived in New York City. As is to be expected (due perhaps to Mr. Magoo and Pinocchio etc. etc. etc), he was just quite adorable, I wanted to hug him!

what matters

for nicole

is that she is with you always

tucked neatly in your breast

a nebula of love blazing forth

warmth against the chill of absence

light in the depths of darkness

the truth

for nicole

is where i want to be and
this is where i hope to be
strap me down if neccessary
make me look in the mirror
make me take a good look
i think that we are worth it

hunter

So Wednesday night there was this mystery guest (I say mystery guest because I have already forgotten his name ... blame it on the night and perhaps even on the quick conversation I had immediately after I spoke with him) and a friend looking to get her car out of valet parking. He (the guest) was kind of freaked out.

It never ceases to amaze me what people will say to me simply because my prescription bi-foculs are shaded dark blue. I thought I had heard it all: "Are you with the secret service?", "The men in black!", "He wears his sunglasses at night... (singing)", "Are you a cop?", "Why are you wearing sunglasses after dark?", "You DO realize it is night time, right?", "Are you a jazz musician?", "I think you just don't want people to know how stoned you really are (crazy talk)!", "I like your glasses.", Why do you hide behind those?", blah, blah, blah. You look like ... (insert any number of rock stars or actors names here).

He (the guest) was still very stand-offish and let his friend do most of the jawing. He backed away from me ever so suspiciously and whispered to his friend while a co-worker went to retrieve the car. As they went outside my co-worker came back and asked me to get the car for him (because I can drive a stick shift). I pulled the car around and gave her the keys. He (again the guest) continued to shy away from me. His friend said as an aside ... "You are freaking him out!" No shit (I thought)! But why? Finally, he spoke up. "You remind me of Hunter S. Thompson!" He looked at me warily. "He was a friend of mine."

Ah!

Okay, so we talked about Hunter and his books while I smoked a cigarette. It was fun. It was good. It was just what my 1980's big hair band ego needed.

last night

say i had my way and
i had the green in my pocket
i would have left the highway
last night i would have
stopped at the diner
ordered a dreamy three egg
and cheese omelet ah
and a cup of sugar
some lipton orange pekoe
and hash-browns yeah
actually served by somebody
biscuits but no gravy
real butter melting
i would even have chanced
an onion or two
just to see you smile

a workshop poem

the playground inside us wants only

to shout and scream and imagine

that tomorrow doesnt matter

it doesnt exist in our fantastical

folding of ourselves into dreams

there are more horses asses than there are horses

its the waiting thats killing me
day by day
feeding my imagination
brick by brick
surreal expectations and horse
shit

on the wall

Inside the wall are all the things I am in fear of losing, outside is what I know I never will.

ripvan winkle

white hair down to his knees
white whiskers of time asleep in her arms

tomatoes

So two weeks ago Saturday, I dove into the throng at the Farmers Market in Boulder. I was on a tomato hunt for hire and Moma Toni is one discerning customer (let me tell you). She wouldn't be caught dead with a hot house tomato in her mouth, or allow one within 20 feet of her gasping body (I'm guessing). I walked the length of the market twice in search of tomato deities.

I found two. One was kind of creepy. He had this kitschy (and somehow also creepy) sign above some very sad cherry tomatoes. "Sweet Cherry Tomatoes!" He spouted above the din of the crowd, "Sweet Cherry Tomatoes ... they're lovely, get 'em while they're 'ot!" He didn't actually say ... "get 'em while they're 'ot" or "they're lovely." But I was beginning to feel like I was at a carnival. I asked him if I could taste his scrawny and obviously not yet ripe cherry tomatoes. I didn't actually say ... "scrawny and obviously not yet ripe tomatoes." It would have just been rude to talk to a tomato god like that. "Can I taste one?" I asked.

Hesitantly, I put one in my mouth while he smiled on maniacally. Bad god! Bad god! It could have been a sour ball for all I knew. I almost spit it out.

(interlude)...
A kid on a pogo stick just pogo ed by, never once falling, I am mildly impressed.

Like I said, it was a veritable circus. I expected to see smoked kilgore, grilled corn on the cob, or even Ignatius J. Reilly any minute.

I looked around for huskies.

I found the other tomato messiah (I mean god). He was friendly and not nearly as creepy as the first one. "Will you finance the tomato?" I said. "What?" He said. "With a down payment?" I said. "What?" He said. His tomatoes looked inviting (as inviting as tomatoes can look when they're the only tomatoes in sight). "Are these hot house grown?" I asked. "Yes!" He spit (thrilled with some seed of comprehension), "Our outdoor crop was destroyed by hail this year." He said. I explained to mister tomato god exactly how discerning a customer my mother really was. He grudgingly gave me a small tomato, "Have her try this one for next time." So with efforts in vain, I left. But I took the tomato.

Driving home it occurred to me that I had to ditch the fucking tomato. Call me crazy, but I was certain of it. On the corner of Canyon and Broadway I caught a homeless man's eye. "Do you want a tomato?" I asked. "What?" He said. "Hot house grown." I said. "What?" He said.

I handed him the tomato and drove away.

For the record, the kid with the pogo stick came back. He took one big ass nasty spill right in front of me. The poor tomato.

through the eyes of artists

So as some of you already know, I work the night shift in an historic hotel in downtown Boulder, Colorado. The hotel opened 101 years ago. It has tons more character than any other hotel in Boulder.

Having seen some of my art on the hotel, our Director of Sales Beverly Silva decided to add a page to the official hotel website ... Through The Eyes of Artists. Here is a link...

Hotel Boulderado

hotel happenstance

eating pterodactyle

tastes like beef jerky
a stretch of barbed wire
a whiff of gasoline/honey
suckle/rain
all because of this

poets prayer

1) in lieu of hell

lock me in a darkened cellar
alone
with one lamp
a supply of bulbs
all the poetry the world has known
and no means to write my own

or

tell me that all ive written
is of no interest to anyone
but rod mckuen


 2) in lieu of heaven

send me love

and

send rod mckuen to hell

speaking of rock stars

So I have been posting a slew of Leon Russell videos on U Tube lately. Perhaps you've noticed. It is difficult to explain how certain music moves me, or why. Sometimes the lyrics convey something that I feel the scorching need to express. Sometimes the song is just for the sake of itself (nothing more). Sometimes I'm just dying to dance. Music permeates all levels of my life. I can't imagine life without music. Well, I can! But I would rather not. Being that Leon is from Oklahoma, and being that he is the first rock star I ever met, he stands out in my mind still.

In 1978 I began working in the hotel industry. At that time, our hotel restaurant was one of the few in Tulsa that was actually open 24 hours. I worked as a Night Auditor. Leon sometimes came to the hotel to hang out in the middle of the night (really, I think it was just the munchies). He drove a psychedelic Rolls Royce like the one owned by John Lennon. He liked to park directly under the awning of the main entrance. Without fail, every time he pulled up at the hotel, he gave me $20 to watch his car (which I did with zeal ... I found it fascinating). He was always very nice to me, just a country rocker from the Bible Belt, very down to earth and yet incredibly strange.

In my impressionable mind of the time, Leon embodied that elusive balance between wildness and restraint. I could relate in ways that I would not recognize until years later. In High School, Leon's mansion became our pilgrimage. We would drink and drive and hang around and watch the gigantic solid steel gates outside his house, hoping that (as if by magic) they might suddenly swing open ... thus allowing us a glimpse of the wizard himself.

razzing dalis cat

"Looks like a porcupine."

"Looks like a pine cone."

"Pine needles sticking out."

retiring

So sometimes tires are just begging to be retired (so to speak). Anticipating just this sort of thing (because I am a smart ass that way), I have been bird-dogging my tires. Yesterday morning I saw exposed steel belted radial guts on my right front tire. It's like when your underwear shows above your pants, or worse even ... ass crack!

It's just wrong, and dangerous!

the wall must come down

So this wall that I have built around me is the sum of my strengths and my weaknesses. It amounts to my imagination. Brilliance and ignorance. Hope and despair. Love and loss. Stupidity. In the search of the heart of my story and a little courage inside me, I understand ... it must come down!

this is what happens when its a tuesday

So I am sitting at a table on the sidewalk outside Trident. It is a beautiful and slightly overcast morning in Boulder, laced with a cool breeze. It looks and probably is forecasted to only get hotter (who needs weather forecasts when all you have to do is walk outside, sniff, take it all in). 

I could have forecasted that the crazy guy would also sit outside. Have you ever noticed how people always act like the other person is the crazy one?  He mumbles angrily to himself. Out of the blue, he erupts in awesome fury, tears the newspaper into little bits, talks a blue streak to himself and then relaxes. I watch him maul a muffin as he cackles insanely.

Yeah ... and apparently he is a ventriloquist to boot!

He shakes his fist at a Harley as it thunders past.

I, for one, am impressed.

pterodactyls

So the joy of walking around the outside of the hotel at sunrise every morning is eclipsed only by the rising of the sun itself.

It comes like redemption.

Another day in search of something lacking.

bakers

So yesterday morning I am walking down Pearl Street intent on a cigarette. As I light up, a van careens up to the curb beside me. Oh, I know how these things go. I've watched my share of television. Sure! They say that they're bakers and paint it on their stupid van, or use magnetic signs for purposes of sleight of hand.

In Sea Point, in Cape Town, in South Africa once this crazy van screeched up next to me. Two guys with sub-machine guns slung over their shoulders jumped out of the back of the van before it even stopped (just like my mom does). They grabbed a guy off the street right in front of me, tossed him into the back of the van, jumped back in and peeled out down the street.

I brace myself. I take a deep puff off my cigarette. I think I am ready...

... fucking bakers!

two sticks

marching

as a cadet in a beret

in the transvaal

in step

in the kiln of summer

in the front row

with a drum and two

sticks

this is worth it

ive got the snare now

baby ive got it

frank talk

In memory of Stephen Biko
(murdered while in police custody
in a South African prison in 1977)


Does it matter
that I was excited by the country,
that I was enticed
by the beauty, the danger,
the mountains, the valleys,
vineyards, beaches,
the vast array of insects, aloes,
leechies and peaches,
the leopards, the lions,
crocodiles, spiders and snakes,
the cries that hyenas make?

Does it matter
that I was astonished
by the way elephants’ ears flap
when they’re mad
and how they chase cars away,
how they flatten trees
just to scratch their backs,
the way anything will grow
if you just stick it in the ground,
the sound of a peacock’s anger,
the lemonade?

Does it matter
that I was a foreigner,
that I was eleven years old,
foretold and blindfolded
but not bold enough to understand why
I was suddenly ashamed to be white?

Does it matter
that I learned to listen
and to watch
to stop and consider the cost
of respect lost along the way,
to silently go away
sometimes afraid,
sometimes prepared to forget?

Does it matter
that I was taught to play rugby
cricket, soccer, the guitar,
gymnastics and the fool
that I was schooled hard
in fantastic stories
and useless attitudes
of what is right for a white boy?

Does it matter
that I was a prefect by nature
not a cadet,
that I let human nature
lure me in and out of love
and hate,
that I learned to see the line between the two?

Does it matter
that I believe in freedom
and happiness
that I was sixteen years old
when told we must go,
that I grieved
and that by then
I didn’t want to leave?

Does it matter
that I found poetry
in the oceans surrounding me,
that I needed the pounding surf
to convince me of safety
in African nights,
to silence the unfairness of life?

Is it important
that somehow I always knew
all along
the lies weren’t true,
that something was wrong,
that all was not well
in the land of sunshine and milk?

1991

frank talk blog

vultures

i see them circling above me
gliding around
butt ugly birds
i would know them anywhere

bad penny

So they say (whoever the hell they are) that finding a penny heads up on the ground is good luck ... as long as you pick it up. But what if the penny is heads down? Is that bad luck? Is it only bad luck if you actually pick it up? Who knows? Maybe they do, but I don't know who the hell they are, so I don't know who to ask.

Anyway, I didn't pick the damn penny up, so chances are ... I'm screwed! 

duh!

So a week ago Friday I fell asleep in the backyard, in the middle of the afternoon, wearing only a thong. Well, not a thong really ... shorts! Well, not shorts really ... rolled up pajama pants! Anyone who has ever spent a splinter of time in Colorado half naked knows better than to do this, particularly when not wearing sunscreen or some crude oil derivative.

What makes me so special?

I'm not!

That's just it. I'm a fucking idiot.

i can simply describe the cherries or i can flaunt the emotions that the cherries evoke

So my book The Cherry Poems (2006) has just been chosen for a Goodread's group and discussion forum. Like any writer, I will eat veritable dirt for some unexpected exposure.

They tell me it is a beautiful book. I happen to agree!

Considering this, I now resurrect a book review and interview about The Cherry Poems written by Kristin Johnson at the time of it's publication. It is a good interview (taking the hapless through a tour of my mind).

The Cherry Poems is also currently available as a free download.

a grocery store revelation

So I am overwhelmed in the herbal and dietery supplements section of my local grocery store. 

St. John's wort, vitamins A, D, C, E, B, B12, biotin, fish oil, niacin, roboflavin, folic acid, needy things with rose hips, all natural colonix herbal blend cleanse, calcium, bilberry, thunder dog vine, flaxseed oil, ginger, corotenoids, ginseng, chromium, selenium, noni, magnesium, the token licorice root, milk thistle, grape seed extract, black cohosh and zinc.

"Fuck you!" I say to the colon cleanser, "I will never buy you again."