Cali

Cali

It's been a bit since I was able to sit at this virtual vocal platform and update the wide world on my little happenings. In fact, one of the reasons I've been so long away at this little endeavor is because I've been out seeing the wide world. This summer, I've been to Iceland, Seattle, Maine, Nova Scotia, and soon to be SF&LA, for a tiny book tour.

But, for now, I am home. I published a poem this summer in a literary magazine called Certain Circuits. I'm sorry I didn't announce the publication here, but the magazine is sold out. But on a related, fantastic note: the magazine is sold out. As an act of contrition, I'll repost the poem presently (rights have, after all, reverted to me):


The Ends of Friends Knotting

The Monicas slope to ocean and
blot out the sun like a napkined coffee spill of
orange-yellow,
and every other contradiction.

I am so wetly licked salty
hit and hit and laughing it all,
the ocean motion womb-like wonderful.

Marigold birds stutter the old songs,
keeping the world at wing's length,
and dodge boldly the heads and hats and hearts of men
for gourmet bread crumbs
and catcalls of favor from their flock.

I'm whisked away on my back to old friends admiring
from shore, our lives now countryland between two oceans,
but our memories are roads,
and I am gallons and gallons and gallons of gas
and yellow lines of hello, un-byes, clinked
glass—blood warm blue molasses.

Breast stroke breast exposed,
I swim to us penitent, brickyard brittle,
my eyes at the misty mountains
glowing orange-yellow,
Lot's salt wife curious,
a hundred dead cats—and ask
to hold hands.
Fingers ribbons dancing.

So green, the gleam of recognition,
until we realize that every sour song now gone
are all the moments of our cherished Champagne toasts,
childhoods, and comfort company.
Green mind-reading translucent oceans on a beach towel, waiting for
the timely turned tide.

We approach, with the Monicas chasing the sun,
touch lips, and lumber all the years with
our old unearthed hatchets;
the fools we'll always be gladly.

And I feel like the scoundrel who doesn't want to be one.

AUG10

In a related note, I've dabbled in Creative Non-Fiction recently. One of my pieces, "Too Tough for Tetherball" was accepted by SmashCake Magazine. Another "Two Gents on A Church Lawn" was recently accepted by Specter Magazine. I suppose people like my real life more than my fake life. Both are awaiting publication; I'll try to be better at posting when they can be got.

Seems like 2011 was a good publishing year. I've also begun working for TouJours magazine, writing articles that will eventually transfer into travel narratives. I'm thinking of calling the column: Songs of the Open Road, after my fav Whitman poem about travel.

At any rate, I promise to try and see you soon.