im happy to see you smiling

So my roommate Melissa and I were talking about Joan Baez last night before I went to work. We are all music lovers in this house. It is because of music (and tea) that Melissa and I became friends in the first place.

Anyway, the conversation brought us to a story I related about one of Joan's visits to the Boulderado. I was taking her (Joan) upstairs in the 1906 Otis elevator and I noticed that she was out of breath (the altitude in Boulder sometimes gets to people who are not used to it). Well, I asked her if she was okay, to which she replied, "Oh, I'm fine, we dance on the bus after every show."

Got to love Joan Baez!

This conversation brought to mind a poem that I forgot I had written, published in Hammers (of Chicago) Issue number 1, 1990. Published by Double Star Press (my old friend Nat David), here it is...


I'm Happy to See You Smiling
for Joan Baez 

As a child
I was indifferent to your fame,
Who can blame me
I was indifferent to life.
The strife simply passed me by
Like a motorist avoiding
The hitch hiker's eye.

But looking back
I can't deny your treasure
Singing loud    ringing proud
Revered!
I think Dylan would have said that
Had he not been distracted
By your disarming    alarming charm

And looking ahead
With millions waylaid    underpaid
Stricken with AIDS
Afraid,
We are grateful for a smile.

1990

excerpt from ... Letter to a Young Poet by Rainier Maria Rilke

"You have had many sadnesses, large ones, which passed. And you say that even this passing was difficult and upsetting for you. But please, ask yourself whether these large sadnesses haven't rather gone right through you. Perhaps many things inside you have been transformed; perhaps somewhere, someplace deep inside your being, you have undergone important changes while you were sad. The only sadnesses that are dangerous and unhealthy are the ones that we carry around in public in order to drown them out with noise; like diseases that are treated superficially and foolishly, they just withdraw and after a short interval break out again all the more terribly; and gather inside us and are life, are life that is unlived, rejected, lost, life that we can die of. If only it were possible for us to see farther than our knowledge reaches, and even a little beyond the outworks of our presentiment, perhaps we would bear our sadness with greater trust than we have in our joys. For they are the moments when something new has entered us, something unknown; our feelings grow mute in shy embarrassment, everything in us withdraws, a silence arises, and the new experience, which no one knows, stands in the midst of at all and says nothing.

It seems to me that almost all our sadnesses are moments of tension, which we feel as paralysis because we no longer hear our astonished emotions living. Because we are alone with the unfamiliar presence that has entered us; because everything we trust and are used to is for a moment taken away from us; because we stand in the midst of a transition where we cannot remain standing. That is why sadness passes: the new presence that has been added, has entered our heart, has gone into its innermost chamber and is no longer even there,- is already in our bloodstream. And we don't know what it was. We could easily be made to believe that nothing happened, and yet we have changed, as a house that a guest has entered changes. We can't say who has come, perhaps we will never know, but many signs indicate that the future enters us in this way in order to be transformed in us, long before it happens. And that is why it is so important to be solitary and attentive when one is sad: because the seemingly uneventful and motionless moment when our future steps into us is so much closer to life than that other loud and accidental point of time when it happens to us from the outside. The quieter we are, the more patient and open we are in our sadness, the more deeply and serenely the new presence can enter us, and the more we can make it our own, the more it becomes our fate; and later on, when it 'happens' (that is, steps forth out of us to other people), we will feel related and close to it in our innermost being. And that is necessary."

...from Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke

the money pit

So for the past 4 years, while commuting 50 miles a day 5 days a weeks year round, my most daunting expenses have pretty much been auto related. 4 'no fault' accidents, Fuck the Jeep seriously vandalized twice (whether by human or rodent hand), Jeep repairs, tickets, fines, gas, and maintenance.

Literally thousands of dollars swept away.

The perfect solution, as I have seen for some time, is to move back to Boulder ... near where I work! In fact, until I do exactly that, this will continue to be a problem.

A couple of weeks ago, a friend in Boulder asked me to move into a room being vacated by one of her roommates at the end of this month.

Well, this is exactly what I am trying so hard to accomplish so suddenly by next week.

Frankly, nothing in my life moves forward until I cross this hurdle!

Love you.

let it be

vast
mysterious
uncharted
energy and
possibility
whole and
vulnerable and
beautiful and
complete

Beware of Mr. Baker

So I scored some free tickets to the following film at the Boulder International Film Festival, and I have an extra one. Anyone want to go? 

Saturday (today), 5:00pm, Boulder Theater

Colorado Premiere (from the BIFF guide)

"The second-best rock documentary of the year..." Rolling Stone

Ginger Baker of Cream and Blind Faith is the greatest drummer of all time. Yes, improbably, he's still alive, even planning a comeback tour. With his dual bass drums, powerful thundering tom-toms and towering crashing solos of complex poly rhythmic African beats, Baker became the idol of every rock drummer since the 1960's. But wild genius can have its temperaments, and this film chronicles Baker's many bands, lawsuits, marriages, drug addictions and bankruptcies partly through the testimony of those who knew him- Eric Clapton, Jack Bruce, Steve Winwood and Carlos Santana, along with Stewart Copeland and Johnny Rotten. We catch up with the mercurial Mr. Baker at his ranch in South Africa where we meet his new wife and family, along with his 39 polo ponies. Baker had generously invited Jay Bulger, the filmmaker, to stay at his ranch for months for this film, but near the end, Baker angrily smashed Bulger across the nose with a cane. The sign above his ranch gate said it all: "Beware of Mr. Baker." 

i me mine

(for my sweet friend Melissa who treats me like im normal and who made my day today)


it all begins and ends in cobalt blue when
you smile at me from across the room
when everything suddenly rushes in all
sunshine and music and that fuzzy shock
of warmth and never any flowers for you

you tell me

i once read somewhere

to the effect of/

what you claim as your own by selfish
desire shall be snatched away instantly

so i wont claim you

everyones saying it

12/18/2012

mommy to the rescue

So while looking through my mother's belongings yesterday, I came across some old high school transcripts from South Africa.

When we returned from South Africa in 1976 (the middle of my junior year), there was a considerable amount of time taken by my principal and my counselor and my mother to make sure my credits transferred properly. 

One week before graduation in Tulsa, my principal called me to tell me that I didn't have enough credits to graduate. Mom was incensed! No one dicks my mother (or her own) around, if there was ever any dicking to be done by anyone, it would be by Mom herself. 

"I'm going to call them right now!" Said Mom.

"If you call them, I will never graduate!" Said me in a panic.

Well, she did, and I did!

Thank you Mom.

my mayan birthday reprise

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 subconscious 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.

13

truth and
shadow and
sunshine i
hug the groovy
centerline

12

so i have to wonder how i walk so totally disarmed into these hairy
predicaments i can say fate sort of tongue in cheek like i believe it
but really i know in my heart of collected bargaining how much the
gods love their little laughs at least thats what the neighbors think 

me and my big fat poetry mouth

So I haven't been taking very good care of myself as of late.

It's stupid. I am 25 pounds under my normal weight, which has hardly fluctuated since high school. This means ... well, let's face it, I don't know what this means, really!

All I know is I have lost my appetite for many of the very foods I used to love, and I am easily tizzied without my own kitchen. I also have the flu.

And I am also at war with sustenance of sorts! I am changing! Things are changing!

And I am going to take some time off to focus on healing and fattening myself up again.

Be well and be happy!

Love.

tired

/of being tested
/of being punished
/of being avoided
/of being surveilled
/of being shoulder
to shoulder with the
clutch
of humanity
but without you

across the universe

spending my energy these days
taking stock calculating
the distance between us

being that the earth is only one
astronomical unit from the sun
149,597,870.700 kilometers i mean
to be exact and at the gaussian
gravitational constant value of
0.01720209895 it would take a life
time to reach the indifference of pluto

where does this leave us

Jeffrey Spahr-Summers

5

i cant help it
i still look
i look
i look
i look
i look/futile/everywhere
i go
i
 

trivialities

So last week, my ancient Jeep driver side electric window started acting up. You know, the stupid window suddenly wouldn’t go up, and I had to muscle it up manually to get it moving. But being careful not to lower the window completely, and being retentive, I made it through the rest of the week otherwise intact. Well, Sunday while screaming insanely (with my friend Brian) into a Del Taco Drive Thru Window Speaker, I unwittingly lowered the window all the way down in order to be heard.

So I haven’t been able to close the window since Sunday. Making sure there was nothing of value in Fuck (the Jeep’s name really is Fuck … it‘s an old story), I waited until Monday, armed with a bouquet of screwdrivers, to pull the door panel off and see what magic might be done.

A big fat zero!

Nothing!

All the wiring is pristine and intact. No amount of muscle or shoving my hands into the dark recesses of my door or clever combinations of yanking and trying the switch could budge the window. Frustrated, and already trillions of clams in debt from car repairs this year alone, and securing some advice from my local auto parts gurus, today I drove to Home Depot and bought some transparent plastic to cover the window temporarily. I arrived home to realize I bought the wrong plastic, not at all the one I intended. I drove back to Home Depot, turned Fuck off, and by habit hit both front window switches.

Both windows sprang to life and closed.

Now this is something.

five fingers

you tell me
you would sacrifice for my talent although i know
you wouldnt really its just the passion talking
you want me writing drawing blood easy
you want me exercising this power
you covet

11/ this dream

so big
so bulky
so heavy
so precious
so much/it
exhausts me
to wear it
alone

Claiming Breath

I am sharing this poem, Claiming Breath by Diane Glancy. The brilliance of this poem lies in it's matter of fact discourse on the writing of poetry. I believe firmly in everything she says here, and I believe that every living poet should take head. ZZ



Claiming Breath

How do you begin writing poetry? I would say after all
theses years I'm not sure. First of all, you read. You have to
be aware of what's being written. Poetry is a conversation.
Often while I am reading, I start a poem. An image will set
off another image, or I think of something I want to say.

It also helps to know the traditions of poetry, though often
there's something about it that gets in the way. You strain
for a rhyme without thought for the fire, the energy of the
poem, the originality of voice. Yet I've heard others say that
structures force them to work in ways they would have
missed on their own.

Begin by getting words down. What have you got to say?
Even if you want to remain obscure there has to be co-
herence on some level. I remembering hearing Gerald Stern
say, if you get your words in order on the first row, you
make room for a craziness later on, deeper in the poem, in a
more important place.

Work with what you've experienced. I think sometimes,
who cares about my ordinary life? But often, that's exactly
what matters.

What idea, impression, image, do you want to convey?
Why should I listen to you? Again, 1) read, 2) write what
you have to say, & 3) read it to someone. Listen to their
reaction, their criticism, & write again. So much of writing
is rewriting.

Contemporary poetry says what you have to say in what-
ever way you want to say. Make sure you have a style, a
voice, a certain way of expressing yourself. Where's your
uniqueness, your individuality? You have a thumbprint
different from other thumbprints. You have a way of seeing
& a way of expressing what you see that is also different.
Develop that difference. Take chances with unusual words
& combinations. Writing is a long process. Reveal what it's
like to be you.

Do you have something bothering you? Get into it. That
will save the trouble of writing boring poems.

Remember imagery, the mental pictures your writing
makes, usually through metaphor & simile. Make sure they
haven't been said before. They have to be new. Tell me
something in a way I haven't heard it before. Let an image
connect with a thought, sometimes a memory. Get rid of
weak verbs. Watch tenses, make them consistent. Use
DETAIL! A cotton dress printed with crocuses is usually
better than 'a dress'. Look for the right word. The inevita-
ble one. Ask what your poem means. What conclusion is
drawn from it? Even if not a logical thought, but an impres-
sion. Good poems are sometimes simple, on at least one
level.

What is life like for you? That's what you should begin
writing about.

Remember also the richness of language. Make sure there's
a lot in your writing. Read your words to yourself. Listen to
them on a tape recorder.

The form a poem takes on the page is also integral. Experi-
ment with line breaks, stanzas, the square or prose poem,
she words wiggling over the page.

Then workshop a poem. Critiques are usually common
sense. Does the poem work? Do you like it? Does it begin
at the first stanza or do you really get into the poem several
lines later? Do all the parts form a whole? What central
thought holds the poem together? What emotion or im-
pression is shared? What stays in your mind after you've
heard it? Is it in the form it should be in? Is the poem clear?
Have you said the same thing too many times? Is the reader
rewarded for reading it?

Be interested in a lot of things. Be an interesting person,
live a respectable life. Start keeping notes.

I think it's important to know why you write. When I
go into a bookstore & see shelves full of books, I think why
do I do this? Hasn't it been done better than I can do it?
That's when I have to be able to look in myself & decide, I
have something to say too- These other books can move
over & make room for mine.

Diane Glancy

10

the truth falls down as rain
whether we like it or not
whether we believe or no
its the truth all the same

9/ today

it is enough
that all i see are trees
sitting in an aspen grove
columbines at my feet
heady hazy peaks
hanging out of reach
like paper roll backdrops
the rumblings of thunder
on the sly but ominous
swarms of brash
mountain musclers
screaming/hell/bent
on getting somewhere
and then comes silence
and then the aspens begin
to shimmy in the wind
and sing

life is short especially for gods (i mean dogs)

So it is obvious to me that Simon knows he is dying.

I slept at the house in Denver today, and spent some time with him. I haven't been around much lately, because I've been trying to spend as much time as possible in nature and writing and working and saying goodbye to friends who are leaving. Anyway, when I left to come to the hotel, Simon waited for me at the door. He never waits at the door when I leave at night, normally I have to go to him where he sleeps to say goodnight. It was very sweet and it touched me. I will miss my buddy when he is gone. He has been with us through many tragedies in our family, including the exhausting period when Mom and I were caregivers for Dad and Grandma.

I petted and scratched him for a minute, careful not to aggravate the nasty cancer sores that are starting to spread across his ravaged body which cannot contain them inside anymore.

I kissed him on his forehead where I often stroke him with my thumb, just between his eyes (a special spot of enjoyment for most dogs), and told him that I love him.

Life is short, so short, and love is neccessary.

camping 101

So I just peed in a real toilet for the first time in 3 days.

Yeah!

And, I look like I've been digging for oil with my bare hands.

This is a final camping blowout for me and two of my close Denver friends. Kit Muldoon is buying a Woolly Wagon (Gypsy Wagon) and leaving to travel the western slopes of the Colorado Rockies with her Great Dane, Ernest and her cat Maxibillion. Brian, who took a year off the road to play with us in Denver, is preparing to leave town again also.

From now on, I will camp alone.

Love.

The view from my bedroom (inside Fuck the Jeep) while camping

Yup!

Looking up from my pillow

Oh, yeah! I can stretch out on my mattress ... comphy stuff!

Our campfire

8/ yesterday

i prayed for a sign

7

today there are tubers
i mean there are almost tubers
they stand in the water
in a circle very stonehengish
but they look damn silly
if you ask me holding
their inner tubes looking
at each other like children
i wonder who will finally
light this candle
and they stand there
and they stand
around
just stand
they stand
standing

how lonely it would be on this amazing rock hurtling through space without dogs

So I have twisted my right ankle yet again. It is an old high school injury come back to haunt me.

In Tulsa, I was playing basketball once. I did a lay-up and landed on the side of my foot. My athletic brain at that time, told me to suck-it-up-pussy-and-walk-the-pain-out ... so I then played a game of baseball. By the time I was done my ankle was the size of my thigh, and I was on crutches for about six weeks. I figure this is roughly the tenth time over the years that I have re-injured this wound.

I have iced it, bandaged it, elevated it, and slept for a time.

My sweet buddy Simon (who is dying from cancer), follows me around when I limp outside to smoke. If I stand too long, he nudges my hand gently with his cold nose and steers me downstairs to my couch. Once I lay down again, he relaxes.

How lonely it would be on this amazing rock hurtling through space without dogs.

And for this solid moment anyway, I am blessed.

priorities

So lately, I have been experimenting with new scheduling possibilities in my life.

Here is my favorite so far...

I focus more on reading now during slow times at the hotel at night, as opposed to working on art, or social media, or playing. I have difficulty focusing on serious writing when in the hotel work environment, as a rule, there is too much going on. My current (and new) reading list is specifically chosen to encourage and inspire me to work on my own book.

My publishing partner, Nicole, has graciously offered and suggested that we put her magazine Stela (of which I am the publisher) temporarily on hold while I shift priority to my book manuscript.

Cherry Publications is also on hold.

Poetry Victims does, and will continue irregularly as always.

In the mornings after work (when not tied down with family responsibilities), I am enjoying my favorite tea shop or sometimes boulder creek, where I either read, or write, or work on publishing, or just strategize to myself around short-discreet-sitting-up-occasionally-really-tired-after-being-up-all-night naps. It's a crap shoot!

I go home about mid-day, and do or don't sleep depending (more crap shooting I admit), after which I get up in the early evening and retire to the great and wonderful outdoors to read more ... or write. I find myself getting the most writing done during this particularly productive period.

Weekends are just plain wild cards at this point, but I tend to find myself focusing on reading and working on character sketches or notes.

And it is what it is.

And I like it.

Love.

jeffs law strikes again

Jeff's Law: Anything that can go wrong ... will!

So since tax day in April, I've been waiting patiently for my tax refund. It is a significant amount of money (just last year the IRS started giving me my refunds again after keeping them for 15 years while paying principle child support), and I need it desperately to throw into the gaping black hole of my finances.

So I spoke to the IRS finally. It appears that someone in Texas also filed taxes under my name. They have my tax filing on hold as a possible 'Stolen Identity'. I am inclined to believe that this might also stem from when my debit card was compromised earlier this year ... when some fool tried to buy airline tickets on Saudi Airways.

So I am told to re-file pronto, along with an affidavit (downloaded from the internet) and ID as indeed proof of my very fucking existence.

needing a breather

So I have received some very sweet notes of concern and phone calls as to why I shut down my facebook account. Please understand, it is not a reflection of any one of any of you or anything that has happened, therefore (I suppose), it can only really be a reflection of myself.

Anyway, just know that I am working on taking better care of myself and getting my house in order, as it were. You know, stupid things like getting more sleep, eating better, putting lost weight back on, forgiving myself my transgressions, forgiving, relaxing, reading, writing, getting out, getting gritty ... nature.

Yours in love and friendship.

poems i read tonight

So here are the poems I read tonight at our poetry session before i came to work...

in this order...



because

i am a man of the world
i am hip to buying the essentials on occasion
i glide up and down the spacious aisles
i pause before a trillion trillion rolls of toilet paper
i must figure the cost now you see
i know this because
i am thrice divorced and
i can cough up a thrifty budget if
i have to

so i crunch the numbers

469 one ply sheets on each roll for 3.59
these ones are obviously the septic safe mega rolls
and then there are these...1100 sheets for 3.49

this is whats called a no brainer



something

what once grew wild
amoung jacaranda aloe and baobab
has no desire to be civilized
no will to be caged
no chains
dont domesticate me



come together

come share the dream everybody
turn on
turns out
peace and brotherhood
bring us goo goo eyed to the trap
we are dazed sheep
standing at the jukebox
we dont know
we are at war with somebody
we dont know
we are at war with ourselves
sticking it to the little people
sticking it to the man
sort of like falling
within love
without love all over again



oh! darling

make no mistake
i am here to sway you
i am persistent
best prepare yourself
for a long and drawn out
impassioned siege

Ravenwood Arabian Ranch

So here is the 840 acre ranch in Conifer, Colorado, where I lived all Summer, every Summer and Holidays from the time I was 5 years old until I turned 11. The ranch was owned and operated by my Step-Mother Jane and her parents. Jane and my sister Cary now both own ranches in Montana.

We spent the month of April, 1971 here, and then moved directly to South Africa.

These pictures were taken from a Safeway parking lot last weekend (which now occupies a large tract of land that used to just be woods). Although eventually sold and sub-divided, the ranch proper is still intact after all these years. I built forts under the ever watchful eyes of our horses and dogs, and had many childhood adventures in those woods and mountains and meadows.

Ravenwood Arabian Ranch

(Wolverton Mountain top right)

Jane's parent's house on the left, our house on the right in the trees

Jane's parent's house

I helped Jane's Dad build this black hayloft barn

Barns

Our old house, now remodeled beyond recognition

Our own Wolverton Mountain

the core

it hungers like a kiln
it is the heat of darkness so total
it shines bright like the sun
it is the wisdom of ages
beauty possessed
by the recklessness of youth
it fears and celebrates itself
i hunger to return

6

here by the creek
a man wallows knee deep
under the bridge
he tosses a line abruptly
hes a husky one this one
you know a mans man
watching those bicyclists
and beautiful woman warily
he ignores the butterflies
the mallards/those
gutsy little black birds with
fluorescent green/blue necks
and the men sleeping
on their backpacks
on the grass

so where is buddha the dog
when you need him?

here by the creek
my trusty pen in hand
a snipe ripening beside me

i can make you believe it

4/ 3am sunday denver

so i listen to the wind
strike the leaves on the trees
violin bows bowing
as they sing in harmony
in desperation
rising rising and rising
a great chorus of uncertainty building
a moment of utter hopelessness
giving way to hope

3

i like to write outside
preferably alone in the shade
with a slight breeze and bird song
away from commercials kitschy confrontation
and fox news
i am settled and relaxed on the back patio
you need to vacate
vern is going to cook salmon on the grill
i move to the front yard
i plant myself and my dirty plastic chair
on the very edge of the sidewalk
the only shade this side of the house
the thin shadow of a thin tree
but this will do because i am tired
and i am sore from sleeping on a couch
and my jeep is dying a slow death
and i am stone cold broke
and finally i am alone
except for my neighbor urpu
watching from her porch
(we wave)
always watching from her porch

2

it does no good to wait for the words to come like little children one must chase them down grab them by the arm as they swoop past and catch them before they run wild into oncoming traffic all hopped up and playful bohemian brands just begging you to pull them aside spit on your hand wipe the dizzy and the dirty off their abruptly panicked contorted faces fingers swiftly taming their hair to make them talk

1

the man sits on the wheelchair
like only he knows it is really a throne
BCH IMAGING
it screams from the back
two bronze doe eyed girls sit
cackling like cockatoos/giggling
they cater to him
they speak of flavored coffees
and twirling straws
twirling their hair impulsively
and the complexities of summer
and frivolous things
they laugh easy and complete
but he doesnt laugh at all
he sits stony and quiet
though i think he must be happy
perhaps i am just happy for him
having a bit of insight into myself
perhaps he is their father
perhaps he is just an old poet
a thief of contradictions
some others some
where considered forgotten
or not

call me crazy but i find these stats fascinating

Poetry Victims Facebook Statistics (5/7/2012)


　
　
Countries

United States of America 1283

United Kingdom 85

India 55

Canada 44

France 34

Australia 33

Portugal 26

Philippines 22

Brazil 15

Germany 12

South Africa 11

Italy 10

Greece 10

Spain 9

Ireland 8

Mexico 7

Croatia 7

Thailand 7

Algeria 7

Puerto Rico 6

　



　
Cities

New York, NY 72

Chicago, IL 66

Denver, CO 60

Boulder, CO 37

Austin, TX 34

Los Angeles, CA 30

London, England, United Kingdom 22

Brooklyn, NY 15

San Francisco, CA 14

Louisville, CO 13

Portland, OR 13

Seattle, WA 10

Oakland, CA 9

Lisbon, Lisboa, Portugal 9

Melbourne, VIC, Australia 9

New Delhi, Delhi, India 8

Atlanta, GA 8

Sacramento, CA 7

Phoenix, AZ 7

Washington, DC 7

　



　
Languages

English (US) 1,470

English (UK) 197

French (France) 40

Portuguese (Portugal) 26

Portuguese (Brazil) 10

Greek 9

Italian 9

　

　

sitting on top of the world

So I once sat on a hotel in Florida, not literally (of course), that was just the cutting edge lingo of the day. In 1986, I worked as a Travelling Controller for a hotel management company. I was filling in for a Controller who was on vacation. As far as I was concerned, I was also on vacation, there was after all, an ocean, and a beach, and I had been on the road for an eternity.

What could happen?

I was befriended by a woman who worked in the hotel. Although we worked during the day, my vacation, became a potent whirlwind of parties with my new friend around town, on the beach, playing bars like dominoes, and intimacy on her friend's private cabin cruiser, docked on a canal. It was beautiful!

As was customary, I spent the night before I left town alone. It was a gorgeous night. A full moon split the ocean like a beam from a lighthouse, and I walked the beach, breathing in the beauty, the waves, and the solitude. I could contain myself no more. I stripped down, and went swimming in the ocean. While swimming, I was flooded by memories of other adventures in oceans; Cape Town, Arniston, Durban, Mozambique, Hong Kong, Rio, Guam, Truk, Hilo, and Rehoboth Beach.

My reverie was suddenly interrupted by a very powerful flashlight shining out on me from the beach. Well, I wasn't about to swim ashore and get out of the water naked for just any flashlight. I floated for a moment and considered my options. I swam down the beach. The flashlight followed me. Then the flashlight began yelling as it bobbed along with me. I couldn't tell what the flashlight was saying, but it didn't matter, I got the point! It was pointless ... where could I possibly go?  So i finally swam ashore.

The flashlight promptly arrested, hand cuffed, and stuffed me in a police cruiser ... without allowing me to collect my clothing (which by this time, was hundreds of yards up the beach). On the way to the police station, I worried about the outcome of this particular misadventure. I had been arrested enough before, but never naked! The ramifications of this stark fact were not lost on me. I was on company assignment, in a strange city with limited funds, and no friends or family to bail me out. Frankly, I expected to be fired once word reached our corporate headquarters in Dallas.

To my chagrin, we pulled up in front of the police station in full view of other early morning revelers. I was made to get out, stand cuffed, and naked, next to the cruiser, while the flashlight dicked around with paperwork inside the car. I was thus, satisfactorily humiliated. Upon entering the station, however, I was immediately relieved by the look of horror on the Desk Sargent's face as he shook his head from side to side, and by his words... "God-damned rookie!"

My relief was complete, when the Desk Sargent dropped all charges, and berated the flashlight in front of me, "You find him some clothes to put on NOW, take him back to where you picked him up, help him find his clothes." "And (as if an after-thought)... if his clothes are NOT to be found, you WILL take him to buy replacement clothing. Is that understood?"

It was!

Previous Guests of Poetry Victims

So while we finish our re-vamping (so to speak) of Poetry Victims, I thought it might be fun to browse our list of Previous Guests over the last almost 9 years!

Heather Lenz, Anthony Glumac, Cindy Stell, Sandhya Tiwari, Sarah Martin, Marcie Riel, Sarah Herrington, Lyn Lifshin, Nicole E. Turiano, Ian R. Dougherty, Elizabeth Ketrick, Amy Kohut, Christian Drake, Sheng Wen Lo, Edward Wells II, Linda Kent, Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, Dorien Grey, Michael A. Crowley, Cindy Stell, Ed Baker, Rob Geisen, Robert King, Pierre Francillon, Jan Oscar Hansen, Karen Douglass, Candice Byington, Michael Lira, Jared Smith, Junanne Peck, Buddy Wakefield, Janet Snell, Jonathan Penton, Debra Bretton Robinson, Donna Pecore, Melanie Simms, Dafne Ann Wills, Anna Maly, Michael Pacholski, Stephen Mead, Ramdas Pawar, Bob Craig, Peter Schwartz, Carol Radsprecher, Taylor Graham, Donna Kuhn, Megan Murphy, Christopher Barnes, Birgitta Jonsdottir, Chaim Rosenblum, Candy Tothill, Eila Mahima Jaipaul, Sonja Broderick, Michael Virga, Alan Lee Birkelbach, Elinor Melvin, Justin Spahr-Summers, Linda Benninghoff, Umesh Ghoshdastider, Daniel A. Olivas, Bridgit-Rose Lee, Ulrike Gerbig, Carolyn Mahdi, Michael Estebrook, Andrew Kirkwood Peterson, Ted Kooser, Patsy Anne Bickerstaff, Bonnie Florea, Gerald Stern, Samuel Hazo, Daniel Elijah, Pamela Lindley, Jake, Laura Stamps, Stephen Roxborough, James M. Brown, Roger Humes, T. Ashok Chadkravarthy, Maria C. James, Simon Perchik, Timothy Smith, Arif Khudairi, Bam Dev Sharma, Corey Habbas, Glenn Smith, Wes Ward, James Carraway, Kristi Swadley, John Simon, Maurice Taylor, Jackie Goldstein, Jim D. Babwe, Norm Wygant Jr., Patricia Gomes, Joseph Veronneau, Joel L. Young, Alex Stolis, Gerald Bosaker, Helen Bar-Lev, Anthony Liccoine, Josie Lawson, Andie King-Vaughn, John Browning, Kenny Klein, Merilene Murphy, T.L. Stokes, Michael Levy, David Fraser, Bert Glick, Tom Berman, Todd Heldt, Jim Bennett, Kristin Johnson, Ward Kelley, Ryfkah, Tony Bush, Jason Robert Hall, Tiffany Franzoni, Royce Franzoni Jr., Christopher Soden, Karen E. Harrison, Bobbi Jo Coffee.

Poetry Victims Update

Thank you for all your patience everyone, our new website is almost ready.

Blogger (the vehicle behind our current issues for many years now) has been 86'd for good, as far as, Poetry Victims is concerned.

Our domain transfer from the previous website host is currently in limbo practically speaking. But ownership of the domain is not in question, its just complicated, stemming back to the day my debit card was compromised by someone trying to buy tickets on Saudi Airlines ... as I tried to re-new the domain online.

Stick around, it only gets better!

And our new retro Poetry Victims design and pages are intact. The vision of the issue is complete, and as Nicole begins loading content on the website, I will continue experimenting, tinkering with structure, form, and design.

Rest assured, we are all over it!

Thank you.

Yours,
Nic and ZZ

consider this

So life is never only one battle waging war, it is a series of skirmishes, public and private, some known, some never fathomed, and victories and losses and mistakes and blood and sweat and guts and despair and fear and pain and healing and hope and love and joy and freedom. Sometimes it is ... all of them/all at once/all together/a grand fuck-all of karmic happenstance ... and you cant see anything until the dust clears.

This is when you rely on the love of good friends to speak to you of truth for the sake of truth itself, not mystery or riddle or lesson!

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