Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Black Warrior Review took a poem of mine. Been a little while since that happened.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Oh wait, there is:
Emily Dickinson Prize
Thursday, April 14, 2005
You're The Sound and the Fury!
by William Faulkner
Strong-willed but deeply confused, you are trying to come to grips
with a major crisis in your life. You can see many different perspectives on the issue,
but you're mostly overwhelmed with despair at what you've lost. People often have a hard
time understanding you, but they have some vague sense that you must be brilliant
anyway. Ultimately, you signify nothing.
Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Where you been Sam? You never update your blog.
Oh I guess I just been busy writing NaPoWriMo poems with Schiavo over @ The Connecticut School Of Poets.
Well why haven't you updated the Hartfordian of the Week in a while?
Running out of people.
You mean there aren't that many people who are from Hartford?
Nope. I know it's surprising but most people aren't from Hartford and a lot of people who are from Hartford, are also hard to photograph.
Shucks.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Friday, April 08, 2005
Being an asshole is always better than being righteous.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
To anyone who read my prior NaPoWriMo poem for today, titled "The Best Writer's Workshop In the World", I would like to apologize. I know it was a horror of a poem which I wrote with one eye open at 3:AM of this day. I have written something far better now & I urge you to forget the prior poem.
DARWIN WINNER – March 2005
The following mind-boggling attempt at a crime spree in Washington, USA, appeared to be the robber’s first (and last), due to his lack of a previous record of violence, and his terminally stupid choices:
1. His target was H&J Leather & Firearms, A gun shop specializing in handguns.
2. The shop was full of customers — firearms customers.
3. To enter the shop, the robber had to step around a marked police patrol car parked at the front door.
4. A uniformed officer was standing at the counter, having coffee before work. Upon seeing the officer, the would-be robber announced a hold-up, and fired a few wild shots from a .22 target pistol.
5. The officer and a clerk promptly returned fire, the police officer with a 9mm Glock 17, the clerk with a .50 Desert Eagle, assisted by several customers who also drew their guns, several of whom also fired, The robber was pronounced dead at the scene by Paramedics.
6. Crime scene investigators located 47 expended cartridge cases in the shop.
7. The subsequent autopsy revealed 23 gunshot wounds. Ballistics identified rounds from 7 different weapons. No one else was hurt in the exchange of fire.
8. Here we are at the beginning of March and we already may have the 2005 winner of the Darwin Award. This guy is going to be hard to beat.
Monday, April 04, 2005
So Kooser got the Pulitzer, huh. Boy, that sure is exciting. Boy do i love Kooser. I mean look at these lines from his poem "Selecting a Reader"
.........................................she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
"For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned." And she will.
Woohoo kooser. you one wild sunabitch.
And who'd they pick this sucker over,
just: Bridgit Pegeen Kelly and William Matthews (both of whose books are literally under my pillow and I'll tell you i'm pretty sure the orchard may have bit into my face while i was sleeping)
Dumbasses.
At least when they gave the damn thing to franz there was a chance he might light himself on fire at the award ceremony.
Picked up Poetry, Lyric and Chicago Review. Haven't made it through the Zukofsky. Poetry (despite the new cover) was (excluding dean young's poems and essay) again a massive disappointment. Lyric pretty great.
Saturday, April 02, 2005
For reasons passing understanding Schiavo & I will be posting our NaPoWriMo Poems on a group blog called The Connecticut School of Poets.
So instead of double posting I'm just going to put them there from now on.
"The Letters of Imaginary Amadons Are Fine Stuff"
I found free passage to Quebec by way of a cat-truck, or better, by way of the back of a cat-truck, where I was to ride in a cage with the cats and the cattery men, who made it clear by grimace and knuckle that I had no grasp on those special pleasures of claw and tail varied before me, and so was to keep quiet and hands to myself. Also, I did not speak French or the Quebecois variety of French that spat from their claw-marked faces. They stunk of grape juice and sneered when I brought forth the sack of Albany wine I stowed into this neutered land with wire-bands across my chest. Canadian temperance is noted on too few pages of the newsprint that passes south of Northeastern Maine, but as I thought to inquire with the right travel bureaus before leaving Baltimore, I was aware and made arrangement. The wine took freely from my senses and so I drank heavily for a respite from the piss, fur and French that overwhelmed the cage. As I drank, a slow vertigo wound itself inside me, growing closer to my skin as it tightened and I became confused whether a motor’s hum moved us or the step of a horse. The road deteriorated freely before whichever of those beasts we were hitched to and with our jostling become most severe, I knew the manner of hitching was a cause for fear. With any throw of the road we might have broken free and flowed swiftly into one of the many pits. Descending (my fear realized) there in a whirl of mud-rushes and tail furry, my journey might have ended, but for (Samuel) your hand bursting upon my neck to pull me (despite the consequential laws of time and your being unborn in Hartford) from the muck. For this I am grateful and so say to you that when I cross again the long Canadian rough, I pledge to choose more safe (if costly) a hold for both of us.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Stefany's made herself a blog for NaPoWriMo.
I think I'm saying NaPoWriMo a bit too much.
A Stefany's singing it. Madness. Isn't it.
"Quit Calling Me Navigator"
For tenthly he goes in quest of food.
After that gory time you dragged me cross, state
by state refusing my questions, I swore it done.
Can
Does
Every question more reasonable than the last, but
for 500 miles of
gone, you think wrong & ring & ring in the wires.
Hard sell, I am. I hang up & hang up but you keep
in on it, intent to make me rethink the way it went.
Justice you say is just enough for us. But that
kind of talk makes no more sense than your scent:
lasts forever when you leave on your billy-goat
missions & mindless trips of supermarket shopping
nonsense. We had to eat you say we needed sleep.
Over & over & I hear it & believe you think you’re
perfectly right & probably somewhere someone
queerly concurs with you on this flim-flam. See,
rigor is what you never knew. The way things
stay is proof that will is what the world obeys.
Trust me, we don’t know enough about
Violet was the map. Crimson & copper as well.
Wildly, I read & came to understand that under
X state marked with X lines in X color was always
you, your lap, & that was where I wanted to go.
Zeroed in: you say a road is a road is a road.
