The one tinged with violence

May 25, 2011

I’ve been known (from time to time) to actually get my shit together long enough to submit to places. The act of putting my stuff out there at one point was one of my strengths. Sometimes now it feels like a real chore. I’ve been on a real submission kick lately and well I’ve received some weirder rejection letters as of late.

So join me in a shot (my ritual of taking a shot and then moving on) and enjoy this one:

Dear James

Many thanks for the opportunity to consider your submission. Regretfully we must pass on the poems at this time. At ******** we try our best to return submissions with as much feedback as possible. Our editors were impressed with the raw beauty of your images. The energy throughout your poetry is evident; unfortunately we felt they were not right for us at this time. The poems which you submitted while beautiful at times were simply too tinged with violence. Nevertheless, again we thank you for considering us and send best wishes for you and your writing.

Yours sincerely,

******* **********

Now I won’t post the poems here (because too many these days count that as “publishing” them and won’t except em) but if you’d like to read them you can ask me.

Just be warned they’re crazy violent.

(and if you don’t like em I’ll KILL you.)
(Just playing.)
(Maybe.)

Thank you for reading and I send my best wishes for you and your other reading. For your benefit I leave you with this awesome and hilarious video about dealing with rejection:

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The one where I battle emotions

April 18, 2011

You thought you were so clever.
(Yeah you.)

Oh so clever, but I caught you. I caught you red handed there intwerbz.
(No don’t even try to pretend. You just sound sad with your excuses!)

I caught you. All of youse trying to bring me down, trying to harsh my buzz if you will. Yeah you bastards. Be ashamed. Things were going okay—fun almost and then you all conspire to darken my skies. The last week or so have been rather trying.

Confession: Trying in mostly a vague not related to me way.

You see first it was the 17 year anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s death. It is a date that always leads me to pause and reflect. Kurt his writing and creativity pushed me, my ideas and writing. He was an influence to say the least. It was one that at first was personal. It was one that was more of an inside. Yes people knew

I dug Nirvana and etc, but for the most part I let the influence be deep inside my actions and writing.
Until of course what happened. When it happened I (read my always there for me Sister Lisa) dyed my hair all blonde. All of it—and there was a lot of it. The nails were painted more often. It was a time where I embraced my weirdness even more.

AnyNailPolish it hits home. So it rolls around and is a rather sad moment. I’m letting this thought roll around in my head and then bam out of nowhere one of my favorite wrestlers (especially character wise) Edge has to retire. It really sort of came from left field. I mean sure he had some serious injuries but he was on top of his chosen profession—his passion when it happened. He had followed his dreams and poured his creativity into it.

Then it was cut short. He came out to announce that he was forced to retire. It was sad. The wifebot even sat and listened to him talk. He almost broke down a few times and of course the wifey tried to get me to. I’m happy he found out when he did and can get out safely and healthy. The fact that he had to exit from something he was passionate about early is sad. When the creative are taken away too soon it hits me and when people lose their vehicle it does too.

(I know I didn’t really describe that the best way.)

So add to those things that happened later in that week: Joe Tait did the Cavs play by play for the last time. He is one of (if not the) greatest radio voices ever. He’d been doing it for seemingly forever. He’s getting up there and had some health problems so I should be happy for him.

And I am. It’s still a sad (or emotional) moment. Listening to him talk about it and his memories was fun and hard at the same time. This is something I’ll probably write about tomorrow or this week. When I first moved to Cleveland I was essentially alone here. I mean I wasn’t. The wifebot’s mom was amazing and nice—I don’t mean it like that. She was great and there for me, but the wifey was off in Athens going to OU. What would I do? Well I’d turn on the Cavs game and get lost in the words of Joe.

More on that later.

Then you come to a big event: The nuptials of my best friend the Rizza. It was a beautiful moment where two people I love came together as one. This of course led to many a moment of reflecting on my wedding day and my lovely wife and etc. I tried to write a poem for my bestie but simply could not catch perfectly what I wanted.

#PoetFail
(Yes I did use a hash tag there.)

I went back and read the poem I wrote as my vows. It was a grand ole time. The wedding (Rizza’s) was fun and she looked beautiful. It meant a lot to be able to share in such a big moment in their lives.

So yeah all of youse on the twitter and interwebz and the world I caught on to you. No I did not break down at any point. So suck on that! But I did show emotion. Go figure.

Best part of the wedding day: The several drive by kisses on my cheek by the bride as she rushed her or there. That and that as we left I hugged her she says to me:

“You’re not looking me in the eyes because you cannnnnn’t. If you did you’d get all emotional.”

Maybe. And yes she did use all those n’s.

Damn this post really sucked. Oh well I blame you all for this too.

#PostFail

Well yeah watch this.


the one with a job search monster

January 31, 2011

So it seems as always the job monster attacks. It ruins any and everything in sight. It makes cups of coffee go cold and writing not get done. After applying to job after job I really don’t feel like writing. The cheap seats here seems to suffer the most, but my poetry and plays do too. I’ve taken the liberty of making a horrible paint shop drawing of how it happens.

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New Poem: Blueberry Ale

November 2, 2010

Here is another poem. It is part of the book titled: Love is a Donkey. Now for some interaction (should you choose to accept your mission.) from you all. The poem is titled Blueberry Ale (right now) but the wifey thinks it should be titled “The Art of Giving Blow Jobs”. What say you dear reader? As always any comments appreciated.


After the third bottle the topic turned to sex.
This was usually the case but never with so many people
mulled and munched veggies. The party should’ve been over.
Rick finished off the hummus by himself. It was thick and homemade.
We found him on the toilet a joint in one hand and the other knuckle deep in the bowl.
“At least he’s not jacking off again” Johnny offered. He was right.


Two years from now he’d jump off a highway over pass.
His body smashed through the windshield of a brown Taurus.
He always had to take someone down with him. A pocket full of peach schnapps’
I got drunk at his funeral. “I always hated smooth tongued Johnny Ray.” I quipped
to the pretty girl at the bar. I undressed her with my eyes.
It turned out to be his sister.


At one point I must have met her. She may have even been at the party.
Pieces of poetry and scraps of art were thrown about.
It was the last of its kind. The only one where we were all friends and artists
If we had known that it may have changed things.
Of course in the end we’d still be high and debating the art of blow jobs.


the one with a proposal

October 26, 2010

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This Week’s Topic:
Proposals. (Have you been proposed to, thought of how it should be done, shot yourself in the foot? )

Wait does that say Words of a Wanton Woman? Do I have something to tell you? Yes.

But it isn’t that I’m really a woman.

Then why are you posting for a thing with the words Wanton and Woman in it? Well I am saucy but that is beside the point. Actually it is because the love Mei over at Diary of a Fair Weather Diver. She bullied me into it I mean complained asked me to. Why I’m not sure. I mean don’t I get called miss enough as it is? Anyway she took my bait about the whole thing being sexist and kept turning it around on me saying to submit. I’m just going to go with my writing is SO awesome that she could not pass on having me take part.

Shut up.

Anynotactuallyawoman on to the post no? Proposals. Interesting. I can dispel a myth here. Just because you are a poet does not mean every single thing you do will be exceedingly romantic.

No comments out there!

This is something I get often:

“Can you please stop doing that?” and/or “I’m trying to sleep.”

Oh uh uhm wrong topic. Crap. Ignore what you just read. Actually this is usually how a conversation goes.*

One or several ladies gather around. They move in with their champagne glasses and notepads.

Chick(s): Oh jimi oh jimi! Your wife must be so lucky to have a poet for a husband. It must be awesome. I can imagine how sweet life is with you! Oh Oh Oh tell us the story of how you proposed.

Jimi steps up and a heavenly glow falls upon me as I speak.

*Events may have been slightly exaggerated.

Sit back kiddies for the entire paragraph recap of how I asked the love of my life to marry me. It was an evening like any other evening. We had just returned home from the grocery store and as we walked up the court yard a bluebird chirped. I called out to it and miraculously it landed on my hand. I pulled an engagement ring out of pocket put it in its mouth and sent it over to her.

Okay actually I saw she was struggling with all 7 of the grocery bags so I put my phone away and took one from her hand. I then said “bitch ya want a ring on that finger don’t ya.”

Hahaha sorry.

Okay truthfully as we walked up the court yard we talked about marriage (we’d been together 10 years when we got married) in the sense of people keep asking us about it. As we reached the door I said

“we probably should just get married already right?

“Probably.”

“So you want to get married then?”

“Really?”

I then read a long sonnet of Shakespeare to her and she knew I was serious. Okay the sonnet part didn’t happen. I did get very happy inside though. Not because we were getting married per se. I mean we were together forever already. I loved her. I knew she loved me. There was no doubt in my mind we were in it till the end. The marriage was a way to shut everyone up celebrate our love with everyone else. I got happy (and excited) at the prospect of writing a poem for her as my vows, and I did.

It (the poem) rocked but that is another story. So I hope you enjoyed this. Sorry to disappoint. Go clicky and read the others.


Sundays with Ginsberg

October 22, 2010

I know. I know another cheapy post with a poem. Those of you who hate poetry I’m sorry. I’m working on some new posts and hope to have one up this weeked–or at least something. Until then have a great Friday and again any thoughts (good or bad) welcomed.

Sundays with Ginsberg

 
Pockets and pockets filled with pills.

We dined on tables, made of trash cans turned upside down;

to see the truth in everything. Poems and cognac covered the ground.

We ate our weight in chicken wings and

left finger shaped BBQ stains on the couch

oozed with bodies as the sun rose and slept crept in the window

witches were drawn in ashes. I named mine Piqué.

It started a chorus of boos and murmurs. She was the bell of the ball

-ed up condoms became art. And when my wife called I almost always took it.



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