You're So Vain You Probably Think This Blog Is About You

Nothing: A Portrait of Insomnia by Blake Butler

2012-02-10T13:43:00.000-08:00

I cant talk like I wish possible about this book because it is that swirl of goodness prose that is hard for me to talk about--so dense, so far reaching, so relatable yet POW, so unrelentingly dark. I love it but sorry sorry here is a bit of the booyeah.

from The Uncontrollable Reflection

A night ruined of its silence might begin in any way. In fighting its own exit, on the pillow, my brain at night will cling to anything it can corral--however dumb or old or overreaching. The idle thought initiates itself. The feeling of the thought sometimes seems to spin or worm inside my forehead, or I might roll mnemonically inside it, as in a terrifying drunk. Then the first thought begets the second, following its sound. Usually the thought is not of something massive--the bigger worries of the day already so embedded they are as if part of the air--but instead the mind often comes to take hold of the smallest bolt or jut of time.

A Ballad for Metka Krasovec by Tomaž Šalamun

2012-02-01T09:12:00.000-08:00

My first full book Šalamun experience and a good one full of soaring startles of language and an odd humor and images that sting. Beautiful balance of such things.

I don't like black cherries on the tree.
Who rubbed soot on the she bear?
A fetus, smashed jaw bone, part of the wind pipe missing.
I'd like to be rain, scrubbing the roof.
I'd like all my hair to burn, to be bare.
I died when I took my shoes off.
Ivy entwined me, like a castle.
Inside me there's still chalk,
outside a small yellow briefcase.
It dangles from my hand like a saint hanged
from a tree--the same cherry tree.

The Most of It by Mary Ruefle

2012-01-29T09:05:00.001-08:00

Mary Ruefle has this baffling ability to get into human experience and give it a heartbeat, sincerely, rejuvenatingly (that's not a word?). She proves to capture a moment is one thing, to make it pulse is another thing entirely, extraordinarily.

From "A Half-Sketched Head"

Childhood Memories

There was a long silence during which he seemed to be struggling. Suddenly he looked up at her. "I wish to tell you as quickly as possible that when I was a boy it was my sole responsibility to feed the baby goats from a bottle containing their mother's milk. On one such occasion I managed to spill the goat's milk down my shirtfront--over which I should have been wearing a smock in the first place. And though I can't tell you why, I was wearing my best shirt: perhaps for the like of that alone I deserved to be punished. I went immediately to the washroom and began to rinse out the milk spots, using a large bar of my mother's soap, which was always in plentiful supply since she made it herself. And as I stood there it struck me--my mother's soap was goat's milk soap, with goat's milk I was trying desperately to erase goat's milk. That something could be its own remedy--though I did not then think in those terms--struck me as a rather serious joke. It was my first occasion of panic.

The Fullness of Everything

2012-01-26T15:29:00.000-08:00

So stoked that my chapbook, Goodness is a Fine Thing to Chase, is being released by Tiny Hardcore Press in an anthology featuring a chap of rad stories by Christopher Newgent and a chap of awesome lyric essays by Brian Oliu. The book drops in April but you can preorder it now. Looking at that page over and over throughout today has me still shockedhonoredsmileecstatic. Big woots to those two dudes for letting my words hang beside theirs. Big thanks to Roxane Gay for believing in us.

MORE INFO HERE

DO THIS DO THIS

2012-01-19T14:58:00.000-08:00

After xTx’s He Is Talking To The Fat Lady and Frank Hinton’s I Don’t Respect Female Expression sold out in less than 48 hours, eager readers have begged for a repress.

But Atlanta-based Safety Third Enterprises only does one run of each release… until now.

To celebrate the second and final print of the two chapbooks, Vouched Books and Safety Third Enterprises are inviting you to submit your own Single Sentence Reviews of Frank Hinton or xTx’s work (the author’s work overall, not just the chapbooks) to contest (at) VouchedBooks.com. We just ask that with your Single Sentence Review you include your name and specify which of the author’s work you are encapsulating.

CLICK TO READ MORE BE A PART OF IT

Standing In Line For The Beast by Jason Bredle

2012-01-04T16:17:00.000-08:00

Standing in Line for the Beast by Jason Bredle

Bredle's a poet I genuinely look forward to reading, a talker, a good talker where sometimes he's moping around or jumping up and down or hiding behind personified images of Apocalypse but I keep on following him around, a sad sack and the lonely wind, who is who, I don't know. My admiration for Bredle, especially in this, his debut collection, is how I'm sometimes tired of his listing, his kaleidoscope of images and memories, his lengthiness, yet I can't seem to not care, to give up, to put the damn book down. There's something endearing about the voice that I can't quite explain (YET?). Having read a good deal of his later work first (Smiles of the Unstoppable is unstoppable), I can say while he's certainly matured in his talkative ways, the core guts of the poems still wanders. And thank the goodness for that!

from "While Anne Reads a Lengthy Poem About Her Grandmother's Funeral and Our Mortality"

I'm reminded of some details Bill told me
about his aunt's funeral in Memphis a few years
ago--a paraplegic whose casket somehow
got tipped on its side while being lowered
into the grave during a thunderstorm. The pallbearers,
Bill included, were forced into the mud
in an attempt to turn the casket right side
up, digging and clawing their way in and out
of the hole, slopping around for an audience
of bereft women in black dresses and red
hats. Finally they gave up and left her
on her side, creeping away in their Cadillacs and ruined
suits, the wives angry at the husbands.

STALE CHAMPAGNE for your New Year

2011-12-30T17:06:00.001-08:00

Artistically Declined Press released my chapbook, Stale Champagne, as part of their PDF series. I'd love it if you read it. Big thanks to Ryan W. Bradley for his work on the thing and to State Champion for their rad album of the same title, which was such a mega inspiration for these poems. THANKS EVERYONE WHO EVER CARES EVER

Some Thoughts About Ayiti by Roxane Gay

2011-12-24T13:01:00.000-08:00

Ayiti by Roxane Gay, Artistically Declined Press.

I'm not sure there is much for my prose-weak mind to add about this book. It's been pointed at with lovingness (like this awesome nod ) and talked about by Roxane wonderfully (like here) and been opened up nicely in reviews (like this one by J.A. Tyler ). Yet, I still feel bad for not giving myself some record of why I loved this book.

- My digging of creative writing started as a way to run from the teenage junk I didn't understand, both in myself and around me. But now, as I'm fighting my lazy scared guts in order to become more "in-the-know" and "stable," creative writing is the expansive catalyst for this growth. Yeah, news is informative and talking to people is fun, but books and stories and poems that engage with those issues are teaching me more (about myself especially) than I think I initially wanted.

- Ayiti contains those smacking stories that teach and engage and force me to pay attention, don't allow me to be a wuss and "not care." (Or at least say I don't, because I do, but in my selfishness, I say this.)

- These are stories about the struggles of Haitians and how America affects them and how America's lens is dusty and how Haiti is a dangerous place with a gorgeous HUMAN soul.

- My favorite stories in the collection--"Motherfuckers," "About My Father's Accent," and "The Harder They Come"--were the ones that refused to let me NOT see myself in the Americans, to NOT deny that my worldview sucks and needs improving. More importantly, I think the clear, descriptive, and sometimes (emotionally/physically) brutal show that Roxane puts on in these story show so much of the ugly that it becomes clearer than ever to know how to be good.

- I used to think that Roxane's writing tried to tug at my heart strings, which it still might, but after reading this collection, I realize that these stories tug at all of me, WAKE UP.

CHRISTMAS IF YOU WANT IT

2011-12-20T11:00:00.000-08:00

I was driving home from visiting my ex-wife, feeling kinda lonely, having this stupid headache, and I thought about offering the world the chance to have me call them and read them some of my favorite poems (or my own, I guess if they want or something).

So here's the deal: if you want (and it's cool if you don't), choose the poet below and email (gobble.tyler@gmail.com) or Facebook message me your phone number, poet, and availability between now and January 3. I'll call you and talk awkwardly and read you the poems and wish you happy holidays. YOU DESERVE IT.

Poets:
Dean Young
Mairead Byrne
Tony Hoagland
Kenneth Koch
Heather Christle
Daniel Bailey
Peter Davis
Matt Hart
Jennifer Knox
David Berman
Frank O'Hara
Dorianne Laux
John Ashbery
Kevin Young
Lynn Emanuel
Susan Mitchell
Thomas Patrick Levy
Bob Hicok
Edward Mullany
Mike Young
Jason Bredle
Mark Neely
Wallace Stevens
Charles Simic
David Shumate
Or basically anyone you want that I like.

ANOTHER NICE THING

2011-12-20T10:56:00.001-08:00

Hey hey.

A piece of flash fiction I wrote called "Would You Look At That" is up at Smalldoggies Magazine. Thanks to Matty Byloos for being a rad dude and loving my work. It's part of the same project as the piece that won the PANK contest. I didn't mean for it to happen that way, but it's moving so that's nice. Anyhow, I'm really happy to have this thing up at Smalldoggies. That magazine rules lotz.

TELL ME YOU'VE GOT GOOD NEWS

2011-12-20T10:48:00.001-08:00

I'm so stoked to say what's up to my chapbook, TELL ME YOU'VE GOT GOOD NEWS, out from H_NGM_N online and free right now. HERE GO LOOK. MEGA THANKS to Nate Pritts for the editorial goodness, Layne Ransom for the nice cover and support, and Todd McKinney for guiding me through this weird journey of poetry.

I HOPE YOU DON'T HATE IT BUT IT'S OKAY IF YOU DO

COVERS

2011-12-19T09:11:00.000-08:00

Here are five covers I'd like to see. If you can make that happen, that'd be nice:

"The Race Is On" by Sawyer Brown, performed by Rodeo Ruby Love
"Roxanne" by The Police, performed by Sleeping Bag
"Why Don't You Love Me" by Hank Williams, performed by State Champion
"I Got You (I Feel Good)" by James Brown, performed by Chiddy Bang
Any song by Feist, performed by John Vanderslice

The O Mission Repo: Time by Travis Macdonald

2011-12-15T15:08:00.000-08:00

Stoked Press's next release, The O Mission Repo: Time by Travis Macdonald, is available for preorder at the Stoked site. It's an incredible erasure and I personally assembled these things, classified document style. Pictures and such up on the blog. It'd be neat if you bought one.

It has arrived!

2011-12-07T16:34:00.000-08:00

Volume III is out now. Read it here. Add it on Goodreads here. Share it wherever you do such things.

Featuring poems and prose from Ryan Bradley, Nick Sturm, Sean Lovelace, Brett Elizabeth Jenkins, Rob MacDonald, Matty Byloos, Scott Abels, Howie Good, Seth Oelbaum, and Gregory Sherl, as well as photography by Eleanor Leonne Bennett (including the cover photo).

What Are You Stoked About?

A review of Adam Robison and Other Poems by Adam Robinson (Reviewed by Ryan Rader)

An Interview with Nate Pritts (Interviewed by Joshua Helms)

THREE OF MY THINGS I'M SO STOKED ABOUT

2011-12-06T16:20:00.000-08:00

The rad dude Nick Sturm asked my buds Christopher Newgent and Layne Ransom to come read at the Big Big Mess Reading Series he does. WE SAID YES DUH.

This is the cover for my PDF chapbook from Artistically Declined Press, due out at the end of the month. It's this long poem thing that I wrote when I was going through my divorce and listening to State Champion's "Stale Champagne" album a lot.

This is the cover for my chapbook from H_NGM_N Books, due out mid-December. It's a bunch of poems that I did as an independent study with Todd McKinney my senior year at Ball State.

Rad Things of November

2011-12-04T07:36:00.000-08:00

Vacation Club 7"
I saw Vacation Club a couple years ago and thought they were jangly and raucous, but wasn't sure if they were the kind of band I could dig on recording. After seeing them again recently, I realized I was completely wrong and this 7" proves it, completely. These three songs are jangly and raucous, but they radiate in a way that you can tell they are honest. So impressed by how the songs engulf me, make me want to shake and shake, and holler.

Vouched Books tabling with Christopher Newgent
In the past 8 months, I've been helping Newgent with more than the blog, but also the table at readings and First Fridays in Indy. This has become a reliable and wonderful part of my life, always fun, meaningful, and boozy. Because of these events, I've been able to become great pals with Christopher, meet some awesome people interested in books, rave about my favorite books, and just be immersed in an environment I need.

This kid reciting Billy Collins

After seeing this, Sara looked at me and said, "IMPREGNATE ME RIGHT NOW." That's about right.

New Belgium's Winter Ale Snow Day
Darker and with a more bold chocolate/carmel flavor than I normally dig, I was pleasantly surprised by this beer. I'm thinking New Belgium is my favorite brewery. One of the first beers I remember slowing down and thinking about (and discussing with best pal and beer enthusiast Clark) the texture, flavor, and ingredients.

My new workouts
For awhile, I've been treating my lift sessions as a puzzle, each session choosing exercises/sets that would work specific muscle groups to get me to a feeling I was looking for. Problem is, though I like the spontaneous nature of this style, it often left me uncertain of the long-term effects and unable to recover in between workouts properly. So, I found this workout that challenges me in a similar way, but is focused. My new cardio punching bag workout (#2), combined with jumprope, jumping jacks, and stretching, gives me a workout between lifts that allows me to recover but still improve my agility and endurance.

War Elephant by Deer Tick
I know I know, Divine Providence is the new one and a good album and totally rockin', but I can't stop listening to War Elephant. These are perfect shaving songs. These are songs that fit perfectly with how I've been feeling this past year. These are songs I think my dad would like if he were 25 again. These are songs that know when to be loud and when to be beautiful and when to be both, a character trait that is lovely but rare.

Deepstep Come Shining by C.D. Wright
Finished this book today, so not total November, but whatever. I'm not sure why I haven't read C.D. Wright before. She has books on one of my favorite presses (Copper Canyon) and writes with language that is as beautiful as it is gut-punching. Here's a great excerpt to get an idea of what this book is all about.

Summer Teen
My friend Erik Fox, of Hoosiers Doing Something, along with a some other pals, has started this rad e-zine, hoping to explore an endless summer. It spawned from a blog from a few years ago and this incarnation promises to be funny and honest. Like Dave talking about Bruce Springsteen songs. Or Erik's sure-to-be-wonderful series of Bandcamp searches. CHECK IT OUT

My Friend Layne said this and I think it's a nice reminder (to all of us)

2011-11-23T16:18:00.001-08:00

Okay, here is a thing: if you are a Christian in the U.S., especially anything approximating evangelical or mainline Protestant, as far as religion is concerned you are not an oppressed minority. You are part of a powerful majority, and there is nothing wrong with the simple fact of belonging to a powerful majority. In fact, acknowledging that seems like a healthy, self-aware thing to do. But employing rhetoric that paints Christians in this country overall as a minority voice, or victims of a society that increasingly acknowledges and enforces the fairness of not respecting one religious establishment over another (or none at all), or victims of a society that increasingly examines and critiques religious ideas just as it does ideas from all other disciplines, is deceitful regarding your own privileged religious position. Better than looking for trivial ways to make martyrs of yourselves, use the influence you have to help the less privileged, religiously or otherwise -- a sentiment I'm grateful I did hear many times in sermons when I was still part of that privileged majority myself.

I won?!

2011-11-21T13:24:00.000-08:00

I kinda just wanna say, "Golly-gee." That seems accurate. Anyhow, I won this year's Pank 1001 Awesome Words contest. My story is called "To Toss Is To Life" and it has some direct inspiration from rad dudes like Ryan J. Rader and Nick Teaford. Anyhow anyhow, it'll be in Issue 6 out in January. NEAT

Matt Hart Is Rad

2011-11-20T16:45:00.000-08:00

With a couple of my coolest lit pals, Layne and Ben, I went up to Lafayette this afternoon to see Matt Hart read as part of Nate Slawson's Panic Attack USA tour. Awesome words like this, some deals at Von's Bookshop, a massive grilled chicken cheese melt and cool pals; it was a nice way to spend a Sunday.

Stevens And Ruefle Together

2011-11-12T08:03:00.001-08:00

I read Selected Poems by Mary Ruefle and the essay "The Relations Between Poetry And Painting" by Wallace Stevens from his essay collection The Necessary Angel recently. I thought I'd place together some of my favorite quotes and see how they collide.

Speaking of Wordsworth's Michael and the line "And never lifted up a single stone" on pages 162/163, Stevens said: "One might say of a lazy workman, 'He's been out there, just loafing, for an hour and never lifted up a single stone,' and no one would htink this greaty poetry...These lines would have no existential value; they would simply call attention to the lazy workman. But the compositional use by Wordsworth of his line makes it something entirely different. These simple words become weighted with the tragedy of the old shepherd, and are saturated with poetry. Their referential importance is slight, for the importance of the action to which they refer is not in the action itself, but in the meaning; and that meaning is borne by the words. Therefore this is a line of great poetry."

From Ruefle's poem "Patient Without an Acre" on page 6:
I can't work, much less love.
Love, there's no mistaking the word
for it: once you've driven the
wild breath in, you'll have
a little glass hammer,
perfectly useless. This,
the flint of all things!

Speaking of the mind's retention of experience on pages 164/165, Stevens' says: "If it merely reconstructed the experience or repeated for us our sensations in the face of it, it would be the memory. What it really does is to use it as material with which it does whatever it wills. This is the typical function of the imagination which always makes use of the familiar to produce the unfamiliar."

From the beginning of Ruefle's "Perfect Reader" on page 63:
I spend all day in my office, reading a poem
by Stevens, pretending I wrote it myself,
which is what happens when someone is lonely
and decides to go shopping and meets another customer
and they buy the same thing. But I come to my senses,
and decide when Stevens wrote the poem he was thinking
of me, the way all my old lovers think of me
whenever they lift their kids or carry the trash,
and standing outside the store I think of them:

Discussing Simone Weil's thoughts on "decreation" on pages 174/175, Stevens says: "She says that decreation is making pass from the created to the uncreated, but that destruction is making pass from the created to nothingness. Modern reality is a reality of decreation, in which our revelations are not the revelations of belief, but the precious portents of our own powers. The greatest truth we could hope to discover, in whichever field we discovered it, is that man's truth is the final resolution of everything."

Ruefle's poem "The Tragic Drama of Joy" on page 95:
Late that night it rained so hard the world
seemed flattened for good.
But the grocer knew the earth had a big gut
and could hold more than enough.
When he went out to receive a shipment of cat food
the stays of his umbrella were bent.
It took some time to fix them and when he got to his shop
the truck had already left.
On a whim he went inside and brought home
a bottle of wine for his wife.
Have you gone crazy? she said. They didn’t uncork it,
but he felt something nonetheless.
That wonderful click his umbrella had made
when it finally opened for good!

RAD THINGS OF OCTOBER

2011-11-08T15:55:00.000-08:00

I've been meaning to do a monthly series of things I dug over and over or bought or was given or dig or laughed about or etcetera in the previous month, mainly as a reminder to myself, but I haven't done it (OBVIOUSLY). I'm a week late on the first one, which seems appropriate.

Deep Shit by Stale Champagne
No sucky sad face here. Sure, not as good as Stale Champagne, but daammmmnnnn this album wins the raucous award, dark dark in its clang. I'm sure "The Basement" slithered itself onto my favorite song list so so fast. "I've been livin' in the basement of the world. Sleepin' under a table and worshippin' Satan 'cause of a girl."

Sleeping Bag LP by Sleeping Bag
Took way long to buy this album why? Oh well, wore it out on Bandcamp, HERE LISTEN. Friend said, he mumbles a lot, and yes he does, but it's lovely. They play songs at their own pace and THAT IS SO PERFECT. I like to listen to this in the shower.

Hank by Abraham Smith
I'm stlll figuring out how to talk about this album (something I hope to do in a long essay DO IT soon) but for now, I'll post this video of Abe getting his Hank on (I know I know done that before or twice):

Cowboy Maloney's Electric City by Michael Bible
Here's my Single-Sentence Review. If I ever get my own Vouched Books table, this is one of the first fiction books I'm ordering.

Editing Stoked
We had a busy past month: finishing Volume III (see you in December sucka!), already got a few pieces for Volume IV, assembling our next chapbook (Travis Macdonald's erasure of the Wartime chapter of The 9/11 Commission Report, called "The O Mission Repo: Time"), and accepting our first full-length book for publication (more on this soonsoonsoon). DUH I'M STOKED.

Dating Sara Again
After almost 6 months of being broken up and a few months after our divorce, we decided to try dating again. People say weirdos; we say hey. It's slow and paced and cautious and loving and somehowsafe and FUN. I'm done being an idiot (I hope).

Half Moon Brewery in Kokomo, Indiana
One of our first dates this time around, Sara and I dug this place bunches. MORE THAN OUR WALLETS; too be fair, it's actually priced aightly, four bucks for a pint of beer, 10-15 bucks for an entree. We just drink a lot. Sursly yummy Jack Daniels Steak Marinade and Honey Rye Beerz.

Savage's Ale House
I can't go to Muncie nowadays without checking up on my favorite bar. Fine by me.

A Real Rad Bloomington Trip With My Parents
A two-day trip with my parents and beloved relatives at Oliver Winery, an apple orchard, a drive through the park, Apples To Apples (I WON FOOL), free beer, rad time with my dear cousinpal Darrin, MOTHER BEAR'S, Upland Brewhouse. 'NOUGH SAID:)

The World's Most Dangerous Drug
I can't stop thinking about meth and this documentary didn't help. THANKS NETFLIX.

Season 3 of Parks And Recreation
I don't know when Netflix put this up, but AGAIN THANKS NETFLIX. Burned through it in like a week and I DON'T REGRET IT. I might put my "favorite funny tv shows that I've seen all the seasons of" list as 1) Arrested Development 2) Parks and Rec 3) Seinfeld and 4) The Office. DISCUSS?!

My Job As A First Grade Teacher's Aide
Two and a half months in and I'm like okay okay I could do this another year or two. It's like being the fun goofy uncle; I get to do fun things like PE and field trips and see the neat stuff like learning to read but when the major wacky happens, I just hand them back.

NOUNS OF ASSEMBLAGE

2011-11-02T16:02:00.000-07:00

HOW COOL IS THIS?

WAY COOL

THANKS HAZEL CUMMINGS

TWO THANGS

2011-10-31T16:25:00.000-07:00

1. I had two erasures up at this cool new mag called SCUD recently. They're from an erasure project where I take my favorite posts from the Chicklitz blog and do my thang to them. One from Layne, one from Elysia. I HOPE YOU LIKE THEM.

2. A lot of people are saying some awesome things about Edward Mullany's first book called If I Falter At The Gallows. I tried to do my brain thang and talk about it. Hope it does those incredible poems justice.

SHREDCAT PT. III

2011-10-31T09:00:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the lesser quality photos. My scanner was being wacky and chopping stuff in half, so I had to take them with my phone.

Where in the world is Shredcat?
is a good question

when something as essential to life
as the dear skateboarding cat

goes missing from view, when
this stupid earth is a rotting pumpkin.

No wonder the trees grow the weirder
limbs the further up you go.

No wonder the helicopters fly so high.
No wonder the basketball star jumps

and jumps. Go ahead and ask again:
Where is he? Probably in my heart<3

*

He wore an expensive costume
a doctor with an oversized stethoscope
and everyone said HEY YOU'RE SHREDCAT
YOU ALREADY SAVED US

He changed into an oversized sheet
brand new high thread count white
and everyone said HEY SHREDCAT
NICE SPOOKY TRY

He put on an eye patch and hook
trapped kids in nets and stole their candy
and everyone said HEY SHREDCAT
YOU CAN'T HIDE THE GOODNESS

He put on a tutu and did a pirouette
kickflip and the treating families went past
and everyone said HEY SHREDCAT
YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL THE WAY YOU ARE

*

That little yellow light
like a bat with the warmest heart
flies around the kids' heads
those little ghosts and ghouls
like bats with cold wings
SHREDCAT invites them in
for warm apple cider and brownies
shaped like bats with gooey centers
and cold edges.

They steal his skateboard
and eat clumps of his fur.

How terribly we treat our heroes!

*

Them: OMG SHREDCAT YOU GOT FAT
Him: Those brats took my skateboard and left me with all that candy. GIVE ME A BREAK.

SHREDCAT PT. II

2011-10-29T09:02:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the lesser quality photos. My scanner was being wacky and chopping stuff in half, so I had to take them with my phone.

A bunch of kids
started a band
called it SHREDCAT
wrote five songs all called SHREDCAT
the lyrics went SHREDCAT SHREDCAT HEY HEY
and
SHREDCAT SHREDCAT STAY STAY STAY
They played them for THE CAT himself
last night
the set so loud so rad so moving
the whole town floated
a few inches towards the sky
except SHREDCAT
who took the ground with him.

*

Now I've had the time of my life
SHREDCAT
No I never felt like this before
SHREDCAT
Yes I swear it's the truth
SHREDCAT
And I owe it all to you
SHREDCAT
'Cause I've had the time of my life
SHREDCAT
And I owe it all to you
SHREDCAT

I've been waiting for so long
SHREDCAT
Now I've finally found someone to stand by me
SHREDCAT
We saw the writing on the wall
SHREDCAT
As we felt this magical fantasy.

*

He doesn't speak the truth
He lives the truth:
Sometimes it's rad to shred
upside down.

SHREDCAT

2011-10-26T17:30:00.000-07:00

I've been working on a mini-series of shitty drawings and poems of my hero SHREDCAT, in anticipation of Halloween. I'll post some now and on Friday and on Halloween night. I'm sure you're stoked. Eat some candy.

A million reasons to get into a plane
and fly up high and jump back out.

Being a skydiving skateboarding
cat is one.

We might go
broke soon
but not before
we get our bite
sized Snickers.
YEAH SHREDCAT.

If Shredcat does not exist
the goodness is dead man.

The weight on those paws
atop a skateboard is too much

to bear but he makes it lovely
like a sidewalk littered with candy

wrappers. Here he comes and
maybe the feline kickflips real

good. Or perhaps he disappears
into the bushes. Either way the purr

floating through tonight is an outline
of a wicked ghost we all wanna be

for Halloween. The best things have
names. We call this costume Joy.

My Three Favorite Poems From Three Books I've Read Recently

2011-10-23T17:56:00.000-07:00

From Repair by C.K. Williams, "Archetypes," for it's lovely (as Williams does so well in this book) use of the image as the track, the path, the road to navigate around human relationships and a sense of understanding our experience

From Jab by Mark Halliday, "Head Wound," for proving a poem about poetry doesn't have to be stuffy or boring, but can talk its way to the core of a life and shine from within (first and last stanza below):

On the day that my life span matched my mother's life span,
on the day when I had come to live as long as my mother lived--
she died in 1975, of cancer, three days after her fifty-second birthday--
on the day when I had lived as many days as she got to live
(though for her there were hundreds and hundreds of days of
miserable pain, which has not at all been my fate)--
on that day
I went to the gym to play basketball with some friends
.....................
Driving to the Emergency Rom I had seven thoughts:
1. It's a reminder.
2. It's a warning.
3. Let's not get carried away.
4. No wonder it is necessary and has always been necessary
to read poems and write the, to read novels and write them,
because the world is this enormous haunted cavern or enchanted gymnasium
filled, too filled with symbolic meanings ready at any moment
to spring forth like goblins and make anything significant.
5. I'm lucky, she wasn't lucky;
she wasn't lucky, I'm lucky, it doesn't mean
ANYTHING--
6. But even if it doesn't, I can still say
her bad luck was bad;
7. And if that's true, doesn't it follow
that my good luck is good?

From The New Year of Yellow by Matthew Lippman, "And Everywhere It's Florida," where Lippmann makes you listen, an odd charm he has, and you're not concerned with truth/falsity, but with the poem, that moment where you're finally listening:

What I did, I lied.
I lied about the Cremora Food Truck hijacked,
brought to Boston, blown up,
just to get all that white powder up in the air,
just to get all the kids to listen;

I lied about the money and the hungry zookeeper
who killed two giraffes with a bullhorn then wheeled out the Hibachi.

I lied about living rooms on fire
and dead cowboys on my lawn
who rode clean out of thin air
before I shot 'em with my six shooter,
cried Geronimo,
broke down in hives
and got lost in the Hollywood tumbleweed.
All my life it's been helicopter blades in my spine;
all my life I've lied.

DEEP SHIT

2011-10-22T08:55:00.000-07:00

state chimp from sophomorelounge on Vimeo.

I'm not sure I've ever been this excited for a new album: Deep Shit by State Champion.

BOOOKS

2011-10-08T13:19:00.000-07:00

I haven't been happy with my reading lately, nor with my blogging, nor with my interacting with books. To fix that quickly, I'm gonna talk about a few books I've read in recent weeks:

Work's Tiring (from his Complete Poems 1930-1950 Disaffections) by Cesare Pavese

I'm not sure if I've ever read a book of poems like this before. So calm, so freshly narrative. Pavese knows what stories to tell, what images to show. Like in the following poem, "Ballet," where Pavese molds together the image of the giant and his various women, around them places the fight, the chaos of life. When the BOOYEAH image comes, in the final stanza below, I'm shaking my head as the poem ends, like I did with most of these poems, astounded not that I didn't see it coming (oh how warm I am, nuzzled along by Pavese's charm), but baffled by his vision, his shaping of the things I need to see.

Ballet (Read Whole Poem)

If the woman and the giant take off their clothes—
and later they will—the giant will resemble
the serenity of cliffs grown hot in the sun,
the girl-child pressing against them for warmth.

Thank You and Other Poems (from the Collected Poems) by Kenneth Koch

How did I make it this long without Koch? A huge influence of some of my favorite poets, like Dean Young, I'd only read some Koch in anthologies. I saw this collected poems at a Half Price Books and boy it must be fate or destiny or killer timing. Besides having a wonderful coverface to look at, the poems inside are majorly energetic. There's a sort of sense of enjoyment in life that I'm constantly looking for (both in living and in my poems) and Koch has painted a nice how-to guide. "To You" has shot straight up my FAVORITE POEMS OF ALL TIME list because it does that: finds the joy and splatters it on every wall. OH KOCH I'LL NEVER LET YOU GO.

To You (Read Whole Poem)

I love you as a sheriff searches for a walnut
That will solve a murder case unsolved for years
Because the murderer left it in the snow beside a window
Through which he saw her head, connecting with
Her shoulders by a neck, and laid a red
Roof in her heart.

Simple Machines by Michael Bible (Awesome Machine Press)

This might sound silly, but this book is a fabulous reminder of how letters (and sounds) combine to make words, words to make sentences. The sentence: a simple machine that can be so loud, can create so much. The sentences here don't have to add up to say something grand, though they might. For me, this reminder was enough: DON'T FORGET WHAT A SENTENCE CAN DO.

Praying Is boring.

The doctors think
everything is interesting.

The Voice Of The Poet (audiocassette and book) by W.H. Auden

Todd gave me this thing and I listened/read along to each side on its own night. After school, I'd come home, hop in some gym shorts, and plop on my bed and listen to Auden say his goodness. I'm glad I didn't tackle a lot of Auden a few years ago, because my silliness would have got caught up in his rhyming, his "oldness." Now, I see that he's as fresh as the day he wrote those poems. Go read from "In Time Of War"and tell me I'm wrong.

A Coney Island Of The Mind by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

This one got read in a treestand, opening day of bowhunting 2011. Weird right? Five deer probably walked by me and I didn't look up. I didn't care. My goal was rereading this powerful book in its entirety. Speaking of lists earlier, I'd probably put this as top 10 poetry books of all-time for me. I'm amazed by how Ferlinghetti can holler without seeming whiny, can philosophize without being preachy, can slam it out without being attacking.

1 (Click Here For Whole Poem)
In Goya’s greatest scenes we seem to see
the people of the world
exactly at the moment when
they first attained the title of
‘suffering humanity’
They writhe upon the page
in a veritable rage
of adversity
Heaped up
groaning with babies and bayonets
under cement skies
in an abstract landscape of blasted trees
bent statues bats wings and beaks
slippery gibbets
cadavers and carnivorous cocks
and all the final hollering monsters
of the
‘imagination of disaster’
they are so bloody real
it is as if they really still existed

I'm a poet?

2011-09-22T14:41:00.000-07:00

I'm super stoked that Erik Fox decided to feature me today on Hoosiers Doing Something. He asked me some awesome questions that I've never got to answer/think about before. CHECK IT OUT PALS.

TULIP IS NICE

2011-09-17T12:35:00.000-07:00

I recorded my weirdo voice reading some of my On poems for Tulip's audio zine. It's up now. Some other writerly people like Mike Young and Elysia Smith have some voices on there too.

Some Things Going On

2011-09-12T15:50:00.000-07:00

I asked some alright questions and Riley Michael Parker of HOUSEFIRE Publishing completely ruled the answers over at Smalldoggies for the Vouched Satellite column. People have seemed to enjoy it and that makes me happy.

*****

Layne and I were featured on Six Questions For... today about Stoked. Also, bonus material for Volume II of Stoked Journal have started and I must say, they're quite fabulous.

*****

The WCWPCCS put out two chapbooks recently and were nice enough to send me some copies. I'd bought their awesome release, The Feeling Is Mutual, awhile back. That book was pure fantastic, collaborative goodness. Though not quite that polished and hard-hitting, the two new ones are quite entertaining and most importantly a cool testament to the power of collaboration.

Exquisite Craps was my favorite of the two. The WCWPCCS gals are so into this writing poems together thing that they've admittedly forgotten who wrote what. That's just great! I'm a big time advocate, fan of, and yearner for collaborations and from my experiences, I know how difficult it can be to get people involved and stick with it, not to mention to produce something that is a solid representation of all involved's skill levels and the strength of the relationship. Whether or not these poems are skyrocket gut punches, it's quite clear these poems are results of meaningful relationships and a fun experience. AND FOR THAT I'M LIKE HELLYEAH.

This from "When The Horse Fell Into The Canal:"

Really, what's more repetitive than a fence?
Marsh birds stating blankly ahead, standing on one foot.
The eyes of animals we had never seen
Flashed above the brown water.

******

MY NEXT THREE WEEKENDS AND YOU SHOULD JOIN ME

2011-09-06T16:36:00.000-07:00

I've Got A Few Things For You

2011-08-29T15:46:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned in my most recent post, I have a flash fiction piece in the first Housefire Publishing release, Nouns of Assemblage. In my inexperience with print publications, I think I was underwhelming in my enthusiasm for this collection. I'm so thrilled to have my piece, "A Murder of Crow," be included in the anthology, which honestly features some of my favorite lit people, like J.A. Tyler, Mel Bosworth, Matty Byloos, xTx, Janey Smith, Frank Hinton, Riley Michael Parker, and Andrew Borgstrom, among a lot of other people. For $12.95, I'm not sure you'll find a better deal on such a cool collection of small press writers right now.

As for the personal stake in it, this is my first legit print publication beyond a few small university literary journal publication, so in my heart, this thing means a ton. Also, I really believe in what Housefire is setting out to do. Not only do they have a super legit website/online journal, but they have some incredible plans for the future, such Housefire anthologies. Also, I know they are planning to release a novel by Matty Byloos, again based on prompts, that is sure to rock for real. As they go deeper into print publishing, I can't think of a better place to have my work.

Now, here's my little plea. I know books are not high on many peoples' to-buy list, and if they are, that list is probably swamped. However, from a slightly-selfish stance, I'd love to see this publication of mine on your bookshelf. And from a more community-oriented perspective, I'd be thrilled if you supported this vast collection of awesome writers and a growing press. So if you think that sounds nice, you can buy it here.

STILL NOT CONVINCED? I really like the idea of showing my support for other people (whether it's your writing, your music, your visual art, your cooking, your parenting), and if you're so kind to support this venture of mine, I've got some reciprocity in my pocket for you. On a beautiful day here in Indiana, I was able to play some refreshing disc golf, and I came up with some options for you, if you buy the collection between now and my birthday (September 25th) based on my recommendation. If you've bought this collection already, but promise that it was in large part because of my blog post/Facebook post or because of my inclusion, I'll probably still let you pick one of these.

(THIS ONE WILL BE GOOD IF YOU WANT SOME FEEDBACK ON YOUR OWN WORK) (LIMIT FIVE)
1. I'll write you a poem or flash fiction piece, with the title, epigraph, and/or dedication of your choosing. Also, I'll give you honest written feedback on a draft of your work, whether it's writing (five poems or 2 flash fiction pieces), music (a demo or two or something), or some other art.

(THIS ONE WILL BE GREAT IF YOU WANT ANOTHER AUDIENCE MEMBER FOR YOUR WORK) (LIMIT FIVE)
2. I'll write you a poem or flash fiction piece, with the title, epigraph, and/or dedication of your choosing. Also, I'll give you honest written feedback on published/finished pieces of your work, whether it's writing, music, or something else, as long as I can have access to it. (Possible bonus: if it fits, I'll post about it on this blog)

(THIS ONE MIGHT BE GOOD IF YOU'RE NOT A WRITER) (LIMIT FIVE)
3. I'll write you a poem or flash fiction piece, with the title, epigraph, and/or dedication of your choosing. Also, I'll write you a personal letter to you, about whatever seems appropriate.

(THIS ONE WILL BE GOOD IF YOU LIKE WHEN I'M ANNOYING) (LIMIT FIVE)
4. I'll write you a poem or flash fiction piece, with the title, epigraph, and/or dedication of your choosing. Also, I'll tweet messages about you three times a day for a week in ALL CAPS.

(THIS ONE IS GOOD IF YOU HATE WORDS BUT LIKE CRAPPY DRAWINGS.) (LIMIT FIVE)
5. I'll write you a poem or flash fiction piece, with the title, epigraph, and/or dedication of your choosing. Also, I'll draw you a picture, either in PAINT or by hand. It'll probably suck.

(THIS ONE WILL BE GOOD IF YOU LIKE WHEN I LOOK LIKE AN IDIOT) (LIMIT TWO)
6. I'll write you a poem or flash fiction piece, with the title, epigraph, and/or dedication of your choosing. Also, I'll send you a video me singing "You're Body Is A Wonderland" by John Mayer.

(THIS ONE IS GOOD IF YOU'RE A CONTROL FREAK OR REGULAR FREAK OR FREAK ON A LEASH) (LIMIT TWO)
7. I'll write you a poem or flash fiction piece, with the title, epigraph, and/or dedication of your choosing. Also, you can ask for a second incentive (subject to approval; preferably before you buy)

BONUS: If you buy it on my birthday (September 25th), you'll not only get your choice of the above options, but I'll send you a video of me reading my piece of NOA on my birthday, likely boozeful, likely shirt-less, likely SUPER STOKED.

Alright. THERE YOU HAVE IT. Email me at gobble(dot)tyler(at)gmail(dot)com or Facebook me if you have questions or need to redeem your incentives. I will hope you'll take advantage of this. If not for you, then for me.

THANKS A LOT LIKE FOR REAL

UNLEASHED

2011-08-24T16:38:00.000-07:00

Today is the national release for Nouns of Assemblage, the first book from Housefire Publishing. I have a story in here, yes yes a story. This is probably the most legit thing I've ever been a part of. Thank you to Riley Michael Parker and the other Housefire editors for doing such an excellent job on this thing and for letting me be amongst such great company. I'd be thrilledstokedhonoredhappygrateful if you bought a copy. I swear it's worth it.

HERE IS MORE ABOUT THE BOOK:

Featuring a worship of writers, NOUNS OF ASSEMBLAGE is a high-concept collection of fiction and poetry, featuring some of the strongest voices from the small press world. Every piece in the collection was inspired by a noun of assemblage, from A SKULK OF FOXES to AN UNKINDNESS OF RAVENS, or from AN ECLIPSE OF MOTH to A PARLIAMENT OF OWLS, and each of our authors has found a unique way to take their title and create an amazing one-of-a-kind story that would not exist without this project. With over sixty-five stories between the covers, this collection runs the gamut from heartfelt to ironic, beautiful to grotesque, uplifting to world-ending, and everywhere in between.

Hey Look Buy It Here

HERE IS THE LIST OF EVERYONE IN THE BOOK

Andrew Borgstrom
Ashley-Elizabeth Best
Ben Tanzer
Bradley Sands
Brian Carr
Caitlin Laura Galway
Cameron C. Pierce
Carrie Seitzinger
Chelsea Laine Wells
Christy Crutchfield
Colleen Elizabeth Rowley
Crispin Best
David Doc Luben
David Drury
David Tomaloff
DJ Berndt
Frances E. Dinger
Frank Hinton
Gabriel Blackwell
Hazel Cummings
J. A. Tyler
J. Bradley
Jamie Iredell
Janey Smith
Jarrid Deaton
Jess Dutschmann
Jess Rowan
Jessica Knauss
Jim Ruland
Joseph Riippi
Kevin Sampsell
Kirsten Alene Pierce
Lauren Tamraz
Len Kuntz
Lindsay Allison Ruoff
Matt Ferner
Matt Hill
Matthew Simmons
Matty Byloos
Maurice Burford
Megan Lent
Mel Bosworth
Michael Kimball
Mike Topp
Morris Hawthorne
Nate Quiroga
Nicky Tiso
Peter Schwartz
Poncho Peligroso
Riley Michael Parker
Robert Duncan Gray
Robert Vaughan
Robyn Bateman
Ryan Boyd
Ryan W. Bradley
Stephen Tully Dierks
Suzanne Burns
Ted Powers
Tom De Beauchamp
Tyler Gobble
Willie Fitzgerald
yt sumner
xTx

HERE IS A TRAILER FOR IT

HOUSEFIRE PRESENTS: NOUNS OF ASSEMBLAGE from Riley Michael Parker on Vimeo.

Hey Look You Can Still Buy It Here

YOU WANT BOOKS?!

2011-08-21T18:01:00.000-07:00

After moving home for the year into a single room, I realize I have way to many books, a lot of which I know I'll never read or read again. So, I'm trying to find them good homes. Below is the whole list. The prices try to deflect shipping costs as well as reflect condition (some are written in/dog-eared/etc., but generally all are in good/great shape; message/email/comment me if you have any specific questions). I'm also not against trading (for more books or beers or other cool things). I'm also negotiable, especially if I can give you the books (i.e. you live in central Indiana or plan to be in the area/see me soon). Just let me know what's up. Paypal is tlgobble(at)bsu(dot)edu. LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU WANT ASAP; I'm taking these to goodwill in a week or two.

Two Bucks
Crab Orchard Review Winter/Spring 2005
Haiku U.
Environmentally Disturbed: Poems by Dwight Worker
New Madrid Summer 2007
Under 35: The New Generation of American Poets (1989)
ESL Writers: A Guide for Writing Center Tutors
Painless Reading Comprehension by Darolyn Jones
Easy Writer A Pocket Reference Third Edition
The Member of the Wedding by Carson McCullers
Lord of the Flies by William Golding
Under What Stars: Poems by Ryan J. Davidson
Walt Whitman: A Collection Of Poems and Criticism
The Color of Water by James McBride
Against Information and other poems by John Lane (signed)
Monster by Walter Dean Myers
Georgetown Review Spring 2009
Overheard in New York
Heaven Is A Playground by Rick Telander
Are You in the House Alone? by Richard Peck
Science To The Rescue edited by Benjamin Radford
The Best Teen Writing of 2009

Three Bucks
Best American Essays 2004
Selected Poetry and Prose by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Dictee by Theresa Hak Kyung Cha
killing rage by bell hooks (hardback)
S. by John Updike (hardback)
William Carlos Williams: A New World Naked by Paul Mariani
Mr. Sammler’s Planet by Saul Bellow
The Actual by Saul Bellow
Best American Poetry 1999
Best American Poetry 2006
A Poetry of Presence: The Writing of William Carlos Williams by Bernard Duffey
Connecting the Dots: Poems by Maxine Kumin
Enough About You: Notes Toward The New Autobiography by David Shields
In Fact: Essays on Writers and Writing by Thomas Mallon
Wonderful Town: New York Stories from The New Yorker
Best American Essays 2001
Best American Essays 1994
The Vigil: A Poem in Four Voices by Margaret Gibson
Poems by Stephane Mallarme
What Will Suffice: Contemporary Poets on the Art of Poetry
Selected Poems of Vachel Lindsay
The Best American Sports Writing 2006
How To Be Good by Nick Hornby
About A Boy by Nick Hornby
The Book of Guys by Garrison Keillor

Four Bucks
Literature: A Portable Anthology
Best American NonRequired Reading 2008
The Rocket’s Red Glare by David Peak
Origami Bridges: Poems by Diane Ackerman (hardback)
Complete Short Stories by Mark Twain (a sweet hardback)
FASTER: The Acceleration of Just About Everything by James Gleick
Best American NonRequired Reading 2004
Right Livelihoods: 3 Novellas by Rick Moody (hardback)
Western Wind: An Introduction to Poetry Fifth Edition
Troia: Mexican Memoir by Bonnie Bremser
Noisy Outlaws, Unfriendly Blobs, and Some Other Things...: A McSweeney’s Anthology (hardback)
Best American NonRequired Reading 2006

Five Bucks
The Best of Sports Illustrated (hardback)
The Sports 100 (hardback)
The Complete Encyclopedia of Basketball
The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces 5th Edition
Literature: An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, and Drama 2nd Edition
The Bedford Anthology of American Literature Volume Two: 1865-Present
Imponderables by Reader’s Digest (hardback)
Say Everything: How Blogging Began, What It’s Becoming And Why It Matters by Scott Rosenberg (hardback)

Also some DVDs/CDs from my teen years, I’ll never listen to/watch again for a buck a piece:
What Remains by Spoken
Lightworker by Yesterday’s Rising
Drive-Thru Records DVD Volume 3
Honor Roll College Basketball Volume 3
High School Basketball Phenoms
Story of the Year by Story of the Year
Vheissu by Thrice
Siren Song of the Counter Culture by Rise Against
Blood Sweat and Ten Years Comp from Trustkill Records
Let It Enfold You by Senses Fail
From The Depths of Dreams by Senses Fail
The Everglow by Mae
The Alchemy Index Vols. 1 and 2 by Thrice
Atticus Dragging the Lake Vol. 1
Atticus Dragging the Lake Vol. 2
You Come Before You by Poison The Well
When Broken Is Easily Fixed by Silverstein

LIVE

2011-08-18T13:27:00.001-07:00

Stoked: Volume II is live! Check it out here and below.

Add it on Goodreads!

Volume II of Stoked Journal features poems and prose by:
Matt Hart
Daniela Olszewska & Carol Guess
Nate Pritts
Adam Moorad
Joshua Helms
Thomas Patrick Levy
Christopher Newgent
xTx
Len Kuntz
Parker Tettleton
Nick Ripatrazone
Ryan Rader
Ashley Farmer

Also, the issue features the first installment of "What Are You Stoked About?" where our past contributors shout and stomp about what they are digging at the moment. The first installment includes:
An Interview with Peter Markus by J.A. Tyler
"Stoked On Slinky Storytelling" by Mike Young

Please spread the word.

Open publication - Free publishing - More adam moorad

It sticks out, oh yes it does.

2011-08-17T14:16:00.000-07:00

Riley Michael Parker and Frances E. Dinger are awesome editors at the sweet sweet HOUSEFIRE PUBLISHING. They interviewed me. Here it is. The new website is slick and I love the way this thing is going.

WAY BACK THEN THE FAMILIAR NOW

2011-08-16T16:43:00.000-07:00

I mean like when you find out the dude you've seen at local shows for the past few years was best friends with your girlfriend's brother when they were little dudes. Or like when you find a 2003 issue of Indiana Review in the free box of a bookstore and you discover that it's got poems by some of your now favorite poets.

I'm a booksale stokedbro. Like if its a buck, why not? Sara and I always came out of booksales and thrift stories with at least a sack. Now what? I've got these two big boxes of never-gonna-read famous novels, poetry that didn't strike my heartgut, and anthologies or journals that I've devoured but can't find an excuse to keep. (Side note: I plan to sell these two boxes of books online for CHEAP soon, so eyes open.) After moving home and getting the GOTTA GO pile and the STAY HERE BUDDY pile figured out, I discovered this old copy of Indiana Review: Celebrating 25 Years.

I flipped to the back cover and man oh man what a list: Robin Behn, Nick Carbo, Michael Dickman (Listed as Michael Conrad Dickman), Denise Duhamel, Martin Espada, Mark Halliday, Terrance Hayes, Tony Hoagland, David Kirby, Michael Martone, Gary Soto, David Wagoner, and a bunch of others. I was like WOAH LET'S READ. And I did.

Reading these poems in a journal, eight years after they came out, was a strange process. I recognized the developing voice of Dickman, the earlier voice of Hoagland, the markings of the great beginning of Hayes, and so much more. It was reading beyond the page, but for one of the first times, reading with a significant contemporary gap. I mean I read online magazines and see like Mike Young poems and think about how they compare to the We Are All Good Enough... poems or how the Matt Bell's first ever published story (republished in Volume I of Stoked Journal) developed into the How They Were Found pieces, but never had I'd engaged with a collection nearly a decade old with a bunch of writers whose current work I'm digging now.

Michael Dickman's is probably the most interesting poem to me. A sectioned long poem with left-alignment and long stanza'ed sections, "How To Make Love" shows the poet with the startling images, the fearlessness of well-placed abstractions, the calm unleashing. But along with the listing as "Michael Conrad Dickman" (not sure why that's so weird to me), this poem stretches itself so far that it's actually thin in parts. One thing I've already loved about this Dickman is his ability to deliver so much emotion with such fluidity. As someone still finding his voice, it was cool for me to see someone so noticeable in his current voice trying to find his own early on.

I loved Lighthead by Terrance Hayes, and having seen him read after that book came out, I can say he's a oddly charismatic manpoet. Sometimes he still pushes it too far, too wild outside his comfort zone, like that one list poem about t-shirt ideas. But his poem in this issue "The Blue Etheridge" seems almost an introduction to Hayes as a poet, a strong voice in an interesting poetic climate. Here are two sweet parts of the poem:

Let's just say the parable
of the Negro who uses his dick for a cane
and the parable of the Negro who uses his cane
for a dick convey the same message to me.

AND

But I won't be telling you the story
of the forlorn Negro or the Negro cutthroat
or the Negro Hero or the Negro Tom.
I won't be telling you the story of the night
I died. I believe everything comes back
to music or money.

My favorite poem in the issue is "Sometimes It Takes A Long Time To Get Burned" by Gary Soto, a big-time poet I'm unfortunately not all that familiar with. Perhaps because of that fact, I was able to most engage with the poem itself, singularly. The poem basically talks about a dead guy in a Lincoln and the world revolving without him, not knowing he's dead--a dog barking, construction workers coming nearby. Because of the subject matter and story-telling style--very plain-spoken word choice and syntax and the use of sequence markers (First, Second...)--I marked that it reminded me of Stephen Dobyns. I think I love this poem because like Dobyns, Soto doesn't try to cram too much in there (content or language-wise), but rather illustrates this odd, sad, and deep image and situation without worry about how and why he died or what's gonna happen to him long-term. It's as if Soto is saying DUDE DIED AND THE WORLD KEPT GOING. Which is a harsh reality and I think the third person helps me see that and think about that. The title, however, is heavy-handed. Nonetheless, a sweet sweet poem.

Third, a dog barked. Fourth, a car stopped
And the driver took pictures, then pulled away.
The fog returned with the acids of an industrial laundry
Two miles from the dead man who, when alive, drove past it,
His own shirt starched, his pants done right.

Definitely an old issue of a journal that's sticking around.

HELP COOL MUSICIANS

2011-08-13T15:29:00.000-07:00

HERE IS THE KICKSTARTER PROJECT

The Bonesetters are some awesome dudes, awesome musicians. And they need some help putting out their debut full-length. These songs are what I dig in music: sincere, body shaking, go-go serious jams. I can't wait to hold this album. DONATE PLEASE:)

SOME THOUGHTS ON BANDCAMP

2011-08-08T08:05:00.001-07:00

Bandcamp's a cool little thing I think. It's like purevolume gone sick DIY. I hear murmurs that some people don't dig it. I dig it lots. I wish they had a little better search/suggestion system like purevolume, but when I can listen to, and sometimes even download, majorly wicked tunes that the bands thumbs-up, I'm good and hand-clapping. Here are some thoughts on bandcamp:

- Laminar Excursion Monthly was this cool year-long subscription joint effort between Crossroads of America Records and Flannelgraph Records a while back. Each month two mini-cds with exclusive-ish music came spinning up to my mailbox. Sometimes they rocked sometimes they sounded like lawnmowers. Osteoferocious' output for LEM was their longest and totally best release. Nine songs of fast clanky rock n' roll, just the way I like it. Favorite tracks: "Fix Me," "Underage Drinking," and "I Don't Mind."

- Bunch of weirdo dudes from Muncie pumping out loud music in various shifted shapes: Support The Troopz, Acid Devils, and Indiana State Park. Get over your squiggly sideways face staring at the troopz page. That stuff shreds. And Acid Devils should be played at the top of every parking garage. And I heard Indiana State Park is finishing up a full-length, okay, thanks. "Cigars" is a summer rock tune if I've ever heard one.

- I'm not sure why I haven't bought Apache Dropout's full LP yet. I know it's at VGR. They have Side A up on bandcamp FOR FREE. Been shaking my body to these songs for months now.

- Half Raptor seemed like a bunch of (cool) dweebs when they played VGR awhile back and man do they make some killer gritty songs. Check out their discography FOR FREE. Favorite tunes: "Our Death," "Sadley But Surely," and "Andy Warr."

- Two soothing albums to buy on bandcamp for cheapz if you don't own a record player or JUST CAN'T WAIT: Oscillate Wisely by Mike Adams At His Honest Weight and Life But No More by Frank Schweikhardt. These are awesome albums for sitting on your roof or making out or walking your dog.

- I'm not sure why you wouldn't buy "Post-Nothing" by Japandroids for EIGHT BUCKS. I'm not sure why you would go see them with me for my birthday.

- LOOK AT ALL THOSE HUSBAND&WIFE TUNES YOU CAN LISTEN TO.

Alright alright alright. WHAT AM I MISSING ON BANDCAMP?

Some Thoughts Upon Moving Home

2011-07-29T19:48:00.000-07:00

1. After four years in Muncie, I can honestly say that Muncie is a cool town. Sweet bars. Lots of mostly fun/mostly free activities on campus. A good disc golf course. The Greenway. Killer food spots (Eva's, Greek's, Savage's, Concannons). Pretty much everything I need.

2. I think I'm a take-for-granteder. It's been a pleasure being able to see some people so often/so easy/so reliably. I think it goes without saying that moving is more out of a necessity than anything to do with getting away from anyone. Like Vega said, "Why would I wanna leave? Everyone I love is here."

3. This sucks: Clark moves to Muncie from Terre Haute, I move from Muncie to Elwood.

4. I'm going to start bowhunting again with my Dad.

5. I'll probably play more cornhole (because of my Dad) my first week at home than I did in my four years in college.

6. Now that I'm home and don't have to pay rent, I'll have more money to spend on cool things (read: books and activities). Future books: everything from Dark Sky and Brand Wells' book. Future activities: Bright Eyes/Mountain Goats, Polyvinyl 15 year celebration, Indiana State Fair, AWP 2012.

7. Muncie people: I plan to visit at least every other week, being only a half hour away. If you'd like me to stay with you, I'd be stoked. Also, you are welcome to visit anytime here in Elwood.

8. My parents are awesome.

9a. My last night in Muncie last Saturday was kickass. Got to see a great deal of budz. Had some great one-on-one time with two of my most cherished (and often taken-for-granted; see above) people: Ashley and Sara. Got to see Cody on his last night in town as well. Saw The Bonesetters shred. Fun fun time.

9b. SUPER BUMMED LAYNE COULDN'T BE THERE:(

10. Besides the people, the number one thing I'll miss is being able to go to pretty much every appealing literary/music event in town.

11. I plan to read a ton of books, write many stacks of poems, throw so many discs into so many baskets, hangout with pygmy goats, and learn lots of things about bikes and musical instruments. Hold me to that.

12. Having no car and a good bike in a town with a great public transportation system and plenty of car-pals is sweet. Being able to borrow either of my parents' cars in a town without public transportation and most of my friends a half hour away is sweet.

13. This

Plus This

Plus This

Plus This

14. Things might not have worked out between Sara and I, but they certainly are heading in a better direction than they were six months ago.

15. Still Stoked.

Some stuff I've read recently.

2011-07-26T13:27:00.000-07:00

I always think those book round-ups, where people talk about their experience reading several books they've read recently, are really awesome. Recent example: Roxane Gay over at HTMLGIANT.

Here's some stuff from my head:
- For All These Wretched, Beautiful, & Insignificant Things So Uselessly and Carelessly Destroyed... by Hosho McCreesh: Check out my single-sentence review over at Vouched.

- Four Quartets by T.S. Eliot: Sometimes, I get so wrapped up in contemporary and indie lit stuff that I forget about the goodness of people like Eliot. As I'm becoming more and more interested in long poems (somehow; I was always trying to find ways to not extend my poems beyond a page), this book was just what I need. Thoughtful meditation and sincere beliefs. I loved how this series took itself seriously in a way that some poetry today is afraid to. Eliot trudges forward unafraid of the big boys, the tough topics like life and death, time, and religion. Along similar lines of "The Wasteland," Eliot isn't afraid to risk torturing his readers by unleashing the torturing inside himself, through style and voice shifts. The thing I enjoyed most about this book was its sense of self, its fearlessness in searching for answers.

from "East Coker"
There is, it seems to us,
At best, only a limited value
In the knowledge derived from experience.
The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been.

- The July/August issue of The American Poetry Review: Though they've been really awful at getting me my issues (missed two of the four in my subscription so far), I do enjoy APR when I get it. This issue especially had me stoked because it was packed with people I like. Like 8 (yes EIGHT) new poems by Bob Hicok, along with an interview with him and a short essay about him). Like essays by Tony Hoagland and David Rivard. Like an interview with John Ashbery. I love how APR is unafraid to dedicate so much space to someone like Hicok with such a long selection of new poems. Obviously, it is risky because if the poems prove unpopular with a reader, there's a good amount of space taken up. Of course, I dug these poems; Hicok making further strides with the music of his poems, quirky meandering poems that breath out very well. Cynthia Cruz has a set of self-portraits in the issue that are impressive. Where the self-portrait often wants to expand and project, these poems use fragmentation that makes the self-portrait fresh, even non-self-focused. Overall, an issue full of more than great poems, but great thoughts about poems and great depth in engaging with poets.

from "Stop-loss" by Bob Hicok

The man beside you in fatigues, camouflaged
from Wednesday, holding his son’s hand
for the last time before he returns
to shooting at people, being shot at

in a war he thought he was done with,
I mean him: he wants to stop loss.
What a beautiful phrase for the army
to support. In it, I hear

that we’re through with grenades,
the violent enterprise of steel,
we’re on to the new war, the war against
the cannibalism of war.

- Skirmish by Dobby Gibson : Because this is the kind of poetry that I gravitate towards (white guy, discursive, associative, self-focused), I have to be careful not to read too much of it too often (read: trying to expand my range). After reading and falling in love with Matthew Zapruder's poem "Dobby's Sweatshirt," I've been itching to read this book. Amongst the stress of moving, I decided to console myself a little with this book. Overall, it's exactly what I expected. I don't know if that's a great thing or not. My favorite poems were the ones all titled "Fortune." Different than the typical style of one-two page poems, these only lasted a dozen or so lines playing strongly off the ideas of fortune and chance. I love how contemplative and thoughtful (kind of like the Eliot pieces) this series is; they piece various examples together in a way that equals an unstated fortune. The book as a whole didn't cure me, but it was a charming read that nursed me out of my stress zone.

Fortune (from H_NGM_N)

An iceberg calves and drifts
its first few feet toward destruction.
The motel hallway carpeting just goes on and on.
A cigarette is flicked from a speeding car,
a farmer files his horse’s teeth—
how is it that we can ever fall asleep?
There’s an infinity inside even
the shortest storms of our seen lives.
A Finn ladles water in his sauna.
He’s never met you, and that is why
he has to make himself feel better
by going someplace very small to be warm and alone.

YOU GONNA WIN?

2011-07-24T10:05:00.000-07:00

Not only is Metazen a sweet journal, but they do nice things, like raise money for charities. They are having a contest with a five dollar minimum submission fee and some pretty stellar prizes. And most of the money raised goes to a good place. Read more here.

here are some quick thoughts about last monday's vouched presents dogzplot reading

2011-07-20T12:27:00.000-07:00

1. i got to help chris run the table and it was super cool to be able to talk about these books to another human being in a way that's not just me tugging on my friends' shirt saying LISTEN TO ME. when people ask questions and you know the answer and furthermore want to give the answer it's a mighty nice feeling.

2. sunnyoutside press makes some gorgeous books.

3. indy-based scratchtruck fed me one of the best burger-fry combos i've ever had. Scratch Burger- 1/3 lb custom ground burger, bacon marmalade, arugula and gorgonzola cheese served on a fresh, toasted soft roll. oh and that banana pudding!

4. a lot of readers with three to five minutes each is a nice way to shake things up. quick and fun. similar to why i dig lit journals so much. if you don't like it, wait it'll be over in a minute and then someone new.

5. i love listening roxane gay read. can't wait for ayiti. hope there's an audiobook.

6. picked up hosho mccreesh's book as well as sean lovelace's new one from publishing genius. i doubt they'll make it into august being unread.

7. layne ransom is awful.

8. clark swears its an acquired taste, but i'm no fan of ipas. i can do one but after that it felt like i've been sleeping with my mouth open in the middle of the woods. if it's an acquired taste, i'm not gonna let myself get there.

9. vouched books is indie lit's best I WISH I'D THOUGHT OF THAT ventures.

10. i'm so stoked for AWP CHICAGO. PLAN SOON?

I remembers...

2011-07-14T13:06:00.000-07:00

Continuing my tribute to my students during my internship with the Writers Center, here are some "I remembers." Yesterday, we had the final celebration for one of the sites, and it was fantastic. Layne ruled the books the students created (hopefully a picture soon) and the kids were really enthusiastic about seeing the book and reading from it. Very cool.

I remember Bailey and her boobs and hours watching crappy TV and couch sitting.
I remember learning to love couch sitting and porch sitting and roof sitting with Cody.
I remember debating whether or not to drive to Indy for Cody's birthday party.
I remember getting lost with Sara on the way there and one of my happiest memories being when she led us home in a rainstorm.
I remember Sara asking me how the NBA Draft works.
I remember loving the NBA Draft and my high school friends watching it to please me and how I didn't understand why they did that.
I remember chicken subs with Sara by the duck pond.
I remember the different between sleeping in a twin bed alone and sleeping in a twin bed with someone else.
I remember the glow of left behind stars on the ceiling of my freshman dorm room and the odd surprise it gave me.
I remember ping pong with Zach and Mickey and Haven.
I remember that lame-o tennis player that lived below me.
I remember freshman year tennis club.
I remember late night walks down the cowpath with Sara.

I remember when I only wrote about my dad.

2011-07-09T08:27:00.000-07:00

For the past six weeks, I've been working with the Writers' Center of Indiana for their Memoir Project, going to two summer camps in Indy a couple days a week to help students write about their lives. We focus on strong memories, new or old, often using the famous "I remember" exercise to get thoughts stirring. As I often write alongside the students, I am becoming aware of my aesthetic's lack of narrative appreciation. In all genres of my writing, I tend to be distant from more traditional means of storytelling, instead relying on associative or discursion to move my piece along. I think this style comes from my tendency to get bored with narrative. To me, a narrative story/poem has to be really excellent to keep my interest while something that relies less on story and more imagination has a better chance of being interesting, even if I don't deem it as "good." So, I wouldn't want to inflict my possibly boring narrative on others. Of course, there are other reasons I write in my style, which is another post in itself. Anyways, point is, I still appreciate narrative as one of the core values of writing (and LIVING). Working with these students, who have written some awesome short pieces, has made me feel a little guilty. So in an effort to flex the narrative side of my writing brain, I'm gonna post narrative-driven pieces here throughout this month, ones more reflective of my actual experience as a tribute to thee kids and a record of my life.

I remember dad’s story of playing “pocketbook.” As a child, my dad was limited in play options, stuck out in the middle of the woods, the only house at the end of a dirt road. Left to his own imagination by less-than-concerned parents, he told stories of running through the narrow paths created by deer, diving into unknown rivers, and playing pranks on the passersby at the end of their road. There, him and a random assortment of siblings, cousins, and friends played with an old pocketbook with toy money and jewelry glued around the edge and tie the pocketbook to the a long piece of fishing line. Where their dirt road met a city street that led into town, they hid in the night behind a row of bushes and tossed the pocketbook into the middle of the closest lane. Some cars swerved, some ran it over, while others slammed on the brakes or pulled to the side. As the driver approached the pocket book, my dad and the others yanked the finishing line and ran down the unlit dirt road.

I remember my childhood best friend, Ryan, and I becoming fascinated with this story. My father told it again and again with equal nostalgic enthusiasm of his trickery each time. The trick seemed remarkable to us as seven year-olds: kids tricking adults, fooling those fancy people in their cars. Determined to be cool like my Dad, we set out to trick some of Elwood’s finest motorists. Except Mom wouldn’t let us borrow a pocketbook and the fishing line was locked in the shed while Dad was at work. And we lived in the middle of town, rows of houses and driveways on each side, four houses from the entry to my town’s hospital. And we only had a single tall oak tree in our front yard, the boundaries of which were our boundaries of play. Oh and Ryan had to go home before dark.

I remember Ryan and I carrying my Spiderman backpack with Monopoly money stapled to the top with my red and white striped jumprope tied trough the arm loops. We pressed our bodies against the bark of the oak tree and hurled the backpack into the road. At four in the afternoon, cars left the hospital and people returned home from work, and just like Dad had said, cars swerved around it or turned before they got to us or even stopped, muttering WHERE ARE YOUR PARENTS?, our signal to run into our screened-in porch. We snuck back out to our post as Dad drove up, smiling through the windshield of his pick-up truck. He said, I think it’s time for Ryan to go home. As we walked him home, Dad told us another story and Ryan and I made plans to try backflips off the swingset.

SOME THINGS I FORGOT TO TELL BLOGWORLD ABOUT

2011-07-01T07:43:00.001-07:00

Here are some MEMEMEMEMEME links:

I have three poems in the new issue of Country Music.
I have a poem in the new issue of Mat Black.
I did an author interview for the PANK Blog to go along with my poem in the May issue.
I wrote a single-sentence review of The Book of Freaks by Jamie Iredell and a full review of So You Know It's Me by Brian Oliu over at Vouched.
With the help of a bunch of cool people, I made this summer reading list over at Smalldoggies Magazine.
Also, Shaun Gannon interviewed me for his Human Contact series.

ANOTHER READING WOOOOO

2011-06-30T06:36:00.000-07:00

Some very cool people including Roxane Gay, Sean Lovelace, Matt Mullins, Layne Ransom, and Brian Furuness are reading at this, so it only makes sense to be there. More Info Here.

VOTE FOR BIG CAR

2011-06-25T11:12:00.000-07:00

Below is information about a fundraising opportunity for Big Car Arts Collective, a really sweet venture in Indy that has hosted some really awesome events, like Vouched Presents. Christopher Newgent tells us more:

Big Car Arts Collective is in the running for a $25,000 Pepsi Refresh Grant to support our new community space here in Indy called Service Center for Contemporary Culture + Community! The top 15 projects get funded. We are in the final push at 9th place with 10 days to go, which means if we can just hold on we get the grant!

I'm not sure how many of you know that since nearly the beginning of Vouched, I've been partnered with Big Car. Honestly, Vouched wouldn't exist in the capacity it does today without Big Car's gracious support, providing me with a high-traffic space for my book table every month at First Friday, and the use of their gallery to hold Vouched Presents readings. In short, Big Car has been an integral part in the success of Vouched's mission to spread small press literature in Indy.

At this new space, we plan to host events (the next Vouched Presents reading will be here), maintain a community garden, hold art and writing workshops (e.g. we plan to have a Dzanc Day event here next year), and have a lending library (you can bet I plan to stock that puppy with small press literature galore). On top of that, they're devoting a shelf to Vouched Books so people visiting the community space have the opportunity to buy my books whenever the space is open. The whole endeavor is to kickstart a revitalization of a neighborhood in Indy that is in desperate need for new life.

I wanted to ask all of you to do me a huge favor in spreading the word about this, and if you feel inclined, to vote yourselves. Blog, facebook, twitter, whatever you got, anything at all will help. I've seen first hand what the small press community can do to support its own, and I hope you guys recognize Big Car as an integral part of what is happening here in Indy for the small press community.

Many of you have seen or taken part in some of the awesome ways Big Car is shaping Indianapolis through arts and literature. Getting this grant would mean big things for this space and this community, and I would be hugely grateful for any help you can muster.

You can find out more and vote yourselves at http://www.refresheverything.com/servicecenter
You can also vote multiple times each day by voting at the site, and voting by text (text 106734 to 73774).

Thank you, thank you, thank you for any support you're able to give to this effort!

An essay to remember

2011-06-13T15:21:00.000-07:00

A wonderful essay by Mark Halliday about the greatness of Tony Hoagland. Insightful, well-supported, and daring, this makes me appreciate Hoagland more than I already do.

For M & K

2011-06-12T13:58:00.000-07:00

I regret to inform you
To inform you I regret
I can’t make your wedding
Your wedding I can’t make
but good news: you still can.
But me, I can’t bear it.
I’m not a bear, you see,
I’m the fog in the forest.
My skin is like the paper
your marriage is typed on.
There’s two lines to say, I’m worn
thin. Then again, I’m the earth
folded in half. I’d hate to suck
you in. Truth is: I’m a divorce
not finalized. Maybe, you can’t
understand because you’re a week
from dancing nuptials, from smiling
church pews. I’ve been there, I know.
But me, yes me again, I designed
my shit poorly, my bad, whoops.
Can I be selfish for a moment?
Since when do I need permission?
Three months of shaking myself
awake, drinking myself to sleep,
the thought of another church
and our family with their white
dentures and white perms and
K, you with your white dress,
I’m a storm no one wants to chase.
Hide the dinnerware, hide my slice
of cake because right now I’m all fury.
I’d like to be sorry, so here’s a song:
Oh joy to those lovebirds flutter fly
but my bird got the flu, I need to lie down.
Whoops. Can’t even make it two lines
without ME ME ME. The poem
I’ve been writing all day says
MY HEART STILL WORKS
but I didn’t write that, so
hey hey don’t let me steal
your spotlight. I’m gonna go lie down.

SUMMER TIME READING

2011-06-09T12:22:00.000-07:00

For my monthly Vouched Satellite/Smalldoggies Magazine column this time, I asked some people for some summer reading suggestions, and here is what I came up with. YOU'VE GOT A WHOLE LOT OF READING TO DO

Stoked Volume II

2011-06-01T17:40:00.000-07:00

Hey writer pals,

In case you missed it, we at Stoked Press/Journal started taking submissions today for our second issue. You can find more guidelines in our call for submissions below or at our blog: stokedstokedstoked.blogspot.com. We'll be reading in June and July for this issue. Hope your writing is going well and hope we get to see some of your work in the inbox soon.

-----------------------

HEY HEY. Stoked Journal wants to see your coolest work for Volume II between June 1st and July 31st. Please check out the first issue before submitting: here. Volume II, which will be out in September, will be a leap forward from this issue, increasing the amount of content and including reviews, interviews, and possibly other artwork, while maintaining the focus on stoke-worthy writing and crisp design.

To submit poetry, fiction, or nonfiction: send 3-5 poems, one essay, one short story, or 2-3 short shorts or flash fiction/nonfiction pieces to tylerisstoked@gmail.com.

To submit art: send a .JPG of your work to tylerisstoked@gmail.com

To submit an interview or book review: send an e-mail including either who you want to interview or the book you want to review, along with links to your writing, such as a blog or published pieces/interviews/reviews.

Sure you can do that: send submission in body of email or as a single Word Document, iinclude a bio (third person, short, etc.), send us simultaneous submissions, be nice.

We look forward to seeing your work.

In Loving Memory

2011-05-27T13:49:00.001-07:00

My friend Cody and I have a band called Irun Long, and we jammed today. Here's the finished lyrics of our first song:

"In Loving Memory"

Patrick Swayze is a ghost
Demi Moore is not a ghost
Patrick Swayze is a ghost
Whoopi Goldberg is not a ghost
Patrick Swayze is a ghost
Jake Gyllenhaal is not a ghost
Patrick Swayze is a ghost
Maggie Gyllenhaal is not a ghost
Patrick Swayze is a ghost
Keanu Reeves is not a ghost
Patrick Swayze is a ghost
Gary Busey is not a ghost
Patrick Swayze is a ghost
Liam Neeson is not a ghost
Patrick Swayze is a ghost
Helen Hunt is not a ghost
Patrick Swayze is a ghost
Sam Elliot is not a ghost
Patrick Swayze is a ghost
Jennifer Grey is not a ghost
Patrick Swayze is a ghost
Charlie Sheen is not a ghost
Patrick Swayze is a ghost

Surrealism

2011-05-27T08:35:00.000-07:00

Todd bought me the anthology The Poetry of Surrealism edited by Michael Benedikt as a graduation present. Of course, I've heard many of the names in this collection--Breton, Apollinaire, Tzara--but my actual reading experience with them, regretfully, has been minimal. As they influence some of my favorite poets, like Dean Young, I decided to dedicate a good amount of time to enjoying and understanding this wonderful movement. I'm about halfway through the book, spending a few days at a time with a single author. Below is a recording of some of my favorite pieces from the first half of the book.

Reading from The Poetry Of Surrealism Anthology by Stoked Press

STOKED ROUND II

2011-05-25T14:01:00.000-07:00

YOU ARE COOL? YOU WRITE? GREAT. SUBMIT WORK TO STOKED JOURNAL.

there is but one fence

2011-05-22T12:28:00.000-07:00

Abraham Smith spits up rural life in beautiful fragmented songs in his debut collection, Whim Man Mammon. Exactly where it comes from, I can’t say. I know it reminds me of my Grandpa Gobble and his porch, that old shack at the end of the dirt road in North Carolina. And his whiskey in the fridge and the stories of my Dad’s youth.

Wherever he comes from and whatever he’s been through, Abraham Smith has shaken it loose and tossed it on the page. He speaks and it’s the trembling sound of the self, of throwback, of removed in America. Smith hopes, “may we live live live/forever far from walmart, among/the husk and husky peas and husky voiced singers/who ring among rusts and thrive on good boot gals.” He is not speaking from beside me in Central Indiana but broadcasting in his loud spoken word. A removed throwback self. These poems strike the sense that beg COME OUT AND PLAY. The best kinds of poems pull me out of my apartment, off my couch, away from the computer; Smith’s poems taunt and punch me out of my comfort hole. You want experience? Take this:

in work jeans

patched four ways with pants
I ripped the ass on

kneeling to my first
still warm deer

my knife just so
my hand slid in

and all the plates
began a claim

on hopeful
blues

vultures and crows
sky-locked

waiting
to fall to steaming

Abraham Smith is not shouting the gospel of a distant way of life. He’s breaking open the bottle to prove there’s whiskey inside. In these moments, Abraham Smith knows the knife is more than a knife and the blood more than blood and those pants and their patches remind him (and us) that those bits live on. And he can pull close to himself, to others, to us remembering a grandpa:

it goes without saying
my grandpa’s head is one helluva circus
never was religious man
people say he walked with deer
tickled their chins
flipped kernels of field corn
off his thumb
in and down their dog nun hatches
alzhimer’s now sad because
never would have wished to live this far from deer
happy when he doesn’t pine
happy when is bed is
cut from skin of moon
how much you need?

This collection isn’t easy to talk about because this isn’t a man sitting down to write the next great American poem, this is the man cutting his poems from the mud and muck of the American rural. Though some of the poems blew themselves into too small of bits or rattled too far, Abraham Smith’s first collection is one to be reckoned with, the work of a man possessed by the where as much as the what.

It's always better to hear Smith read his poems.
It's always best to see Smith read his poems.

(SPECIAL THANKS TO LAYNE FOR BUYING ME THIS BOOK ON HER RECENT TRIP TO NYC)

More on the last ITFOW Show

2011-05-17T11:47:00.000-07:00

Some videos and pictures have been popping up around the web from the final ITFOW show:

The most ridiculous picture of me I've ever seen. HA.

The last ITFOW song ever: ALASKA

A picture of Kyle and Zack from the Away With Vega set

FOR A BETTER TOMORROW

THANKS FOR ALL THE WONDERFUL YEARS

Vouched Reading: 5/15/11

2011-05-16T11:36:00.001-07:00

Another excellent Vouched Presents... Reading put on by the super cool Christopher Newgent. Two of my (former) professors at Ball State University, Jill Christman and Peter Davis, read, along with Ball State grad Kyle Winkler and touring poet Michael Shiavo. As usual, a really fun reading to be in attendance for.

I hadn't heard of Kyle until Christopher vouched this story a short while back. I dig this piece a bunch. Kyle introduced himself to me after the reading, and he seemed like an enthusiastic, good dude. Though he is not on Facebook (?).

Michael Shiavo, whom I'd read poems from around the web and printworld, read from a couple of his books along with some new pieces. I really dig the idea using found text and erasures like he did for many of these pieces, though not all of his work stuck with me. He does have a new chapbook out from Forklift, which is a great press.

Jill Christman read an essay called "The Margarita Game," which was published in Barrelhouse awhile back. It was a surprisingly, yet fantastic piece, about being a grad student, figuring out relationships, and growing up. For some reason, I have never seen Jill read, nor have I read her book, Darkroom, which is certainly in my to-read pile this summer.

Peter Davis read from his two books and some new poems. He is always a riot with a strong undercurrent of AWWWYEAHMAN. I count myself lucky to have had a poetry workshop with him.

Well, I just wanted to say HEY I WENT THERE AND THIS WAS COOL. So I did.

I have arms to hold you up...

2011-05-12T11:20:00.000-07:00

But, it’s the symbol of what you’ve accomplished and been through in college was the response I kept hearing from relatives and casual friends about my decision last Saturday to choose the last In The Face of War/Away With Vega reunion show over graduation. Okay okay okay, I could’ve done both, but if we are being real, that graduation stuff is a bunch of shit. I went, sat in the crowd, whooped and hollered as some of my most supportive friends went through with it. But I couldn’t.

We’re talking end of an era right? We’re talking closing a chapter of my life? I didn’t see spending forty bucks on a gown, bussing in a load of my family and family friends, etc. etc. as any symbol of closing my college years. I saw watching two of my all-time favorite bands jam through sweet tunes as the BOOYEAH on the end of a fun, trying, interesting, rewarding past four years.

I saw both of these bands for the first time when I was fourteen or something. Since then, they’ve put out some killer records (I’d put both Vega’s Recovery and ITFOW’s We Make Our Own Luck in my top five) and put together some amazing live shows. All I wanted as an end to my undergraduate college days was to see these two bright spots play one last time.

Man oh man, they didn’t disappoint. A fantastic show. With limited practice and a short set, Vega came back with rock n’ roll fury, ending with “Make Your Muscles,” always a crowd favorite. The moment I hopped up on stage with pals I know pretty much solely because of this band was that cool shower after a rough round of disc golf. Everything about Vega, the chunka-chunka song structure, the mixture of singing, yelping, and shouting, the lyrics that go BOOMIHAVEAHEART, pours a connection to me that I’ve never known otherwise. In The Face of War played something like 28 songs from all their albums, with several different lineups represented. This show proved what I’ve been saying for years: Ben Sutton is the best frontman I’ve ever seen; you can never have too many guitars or amps; the person I inspire to be is wrapped up in those songs.

In The Face of War Covering "Everlong" by The Foo Fighters

Looking back on these past four years of college at the wonderful/disappointing relationship with Sara, the great friendships (dead and alive), my journey into the wacky world of poetry, and the exploration of what it means to be TYLER GOBBLE, I realized that Vega and ITFOW represent the two main parts of me. Vega is the nostalgic, sentimental part of me and ITFOW is the restless, stoked part of me. To see both of these bands, these sides of me, in one evening, was admittedly a bit overwhelming.

Part of me wants to be loving and romantic and a headfirst diver into relationships. Another part of me just wants to take care of others, to shout about how wonderful we all can be, and to be honest in the face of some shitty times. Here is what I’m talking about:

In The Face of War Lyrics

We will not go quietly and we will never lose our passion.
If all we have is this moment in this day in our lives, how can we make the best of it if we don’t even try?
We need to start a revival in our hearts. A rebirth of passion, a rebirth of dedication to our lives and to our dreams to never abandon the hope we have in ourselves.
We want something more. Is that too much to ask for? Cause we don’t know if our lives make any sense.
The best way to take care of yourself is to take care of someone else.
You’ve been with me for my whole life, we’ll be much stronger when we say goodbye.

Away With Vega Lyrics

It’s not commitment that’s a bother; it’s the thought of being stopped.
I, too, collapse when things get heavy.
What a miracle it is to be loved at all. Maybe loving is, but what more are muscles for?
I haven’t come this far so that everyone could watch me fall apart.
It's gonna take some time, to appreciate my skeleton.

Sure, this part of my life is ending. In the next couple months, I’ll be getting divorced, figuring out what it’s like to not be in college for a while, and starting some new projects. But leaning on my best friends as they saw Vega for the first time, saw ITFOW for the last time, together, it was beautiful, together, it felt okay. Together, I think I’ll be okay.

"Make Your Muscles" by Away With Vega at their "last" show

Music is a mushroom, an argument between mirrors

2011-05-08T20:13:00.000-07:00

Don’t know how to do that fancy upside down A like on the cover, so I’m just gonna call it Fall Higher by Dean Young.
We know Dean as the surrealist, associative master of the wacky and wild. We know him as the great example of the art of recklessness. We know him as the poet with the new heart. But reading this book reminds me of what is so simply evident in Dean’s best poems (in books such as Strike Anywhere and First Course in Turbulence): Dean Young knows poetry.
In this book, his musicality has been turned up. At first, I was like WOAH WHAT, but rereading these poems, it just shines through that this dude knows what he is doing, again and again.

VIDEO READING OF MADRIGAL

AHHH GEESH the video cut off the last two lines. WHY I DONT KNOW. I wanna finish this post and sleep, so here are the lines, read them to yourself in my voice or someting: while the next set of fools scampers into the puzzle garden/detonating with laughter.

The steady rhythm and rhyme scheme at the beginning, the parts with too many rhymes or syllables, and the choppiness at the end all mark for me the brilliance of what Dean is doing in this book. Like the subject matter dealing with loss, he starts with the sturdy and steady, before loosening up, breaking down.

Not to be a butthead in the middle of a review, but: ANYBODY ELSE REAL DISAPPOINTED WITH THIS INTERVIEW WITH DEAN AT THE RUMPUS RECENTLY? The majority of the questions seemed goofy or disconnected or broad to the point of being empty.

Often, music to me hides the meat of the poem or even makes it seem like something is there when it’s just a pop song. This book uses the music to sing a beautiful chant of blistering bitterness, strong contemplation, and yeah-yeah-yearning
Yeah, the typical Dean stuff is there, but the poems where he expounds on those old ways, using a tightened sense of music, a calmer sense of association, is where this book reaches into the fresh, the new, the bold. Take the last poem, “Teetering Lullaby.” Dean pushes here where he normally would pull, giving to the “you” this beautiful lullaby. Take the middle stanzas:

The heart’s
adumbrations of bees may never
cease, not the hopeful hum
or peevish sting but rest I would
my hand upon your breast, sleep I would

above the troposphere. No accounting
for your beauty moving through me
like a branch, a sigh coming from under
the squeaky remnants of the old barn.

Though more refined, these types of poems do not strike me as watered down or passive. Rather, they are bold in their clarity, their sense of self. Yes, we know Dean can rattle through a page and a half of associative energy that breaks bones and hearts alike, but that only makes this resolve so beautiful, so impressive. To end the book with such a feat of a slow exhale reminds us that this type of writing, this type of thinking, this type of living is harder than it seems.

I don't think anybody understood then what a monster really was.

2011-05-07T12:00:00.000-07:00

The Man Suit by Zachary Schomburg, his debut collection, represents an exploration into some pretty gritty spaces. Into contemporary surrealism. Into imaginative association. Into that blur between prose poem and flash fiction. As I read this book, I became enamored with the shapes Schomburg was making with his words, with the images, with the pieces and sections and book as wholes. Honestly, I am perplexed how to talk about this book as a collection in any defined/refined way. I know I liked it a great deal and am intrigued by why I like it. But when looking up one of my favorite poems “A Band Of Owls Moved Into Town,” I discovered it was originally published in a free verse form with linebreaks and a few other differences. Because my mind immediately latched onto the structure of the poems in this book, I thought I’d examine the differences between the two, hopefully uncovering some of the answers to what makes this book rule.

A basic overview of what I found structurally/thematically in this book: Two major structures of poems are normed in this book: half-page to full page prose poems and narrow, small stanza free verse poems. Also, recurring themes, names, and ideas repeat themselves (and Schomburg even includes a key word index at the end of the book). Also, there are some short sections/series in this book.

“A Band of Owls Moved Into Town,” a full page prose poem early in the book, is a great example of the type of things Schomburg is doing:

A band of owls moved into town. They shopped for groceries and ran for office, that sort of thing. It began casually. Everyone simply put up with the owls because businesses were booming and the schoolchildren’s test scores had suddenly taken a turn for the better. More and more owls, and some people too, made the move into town and the room for accommodations began to diminish. Needless to say, there was a lot of construction. The town became a city. It developed a night life and the
constant yellowish buzz of electricity.

One night at the Electric Mole, I met Julia, the daughter of new and prosperous socialites in town. She was incredible—the most amazing eyes. We stayed awake
through most nights holding each other beneath the moonlit window. We talked about everything, but mostly about our disdain for the construction and the flood of immigrant owls.

I would tell her, We seem to be the only two who are concerned, who notice. The only two who want out…

…Who want a simpler life, she would say. The only two who…who…

Aided by its structure, I am most intrigued by how this poem works its themes. This surreal context of owls moving into town automatically creates an oddness that for me allows the metaphors and the themes to shine. For instance, the struggle between youth and the various difficulties they face emotionally growing up, such as the conflict with adults, difficulty grasping change, and feeling like outsiders, radiates beautifully in this poem. The development of the piece complements those difficulties in the way it unravels. The first paragraph sticks to the third person, which allows readers to get comfortable with the unfamiliar situation. The second paragraph sets up the relationship between the I and Julia in this typical we-stay-up-all-night-and-just-talk-and-are-alone-together-in-the-world sort of way before finally unveiling the tension the speaker and Julia feel. Most telling, I think, is the separation of the speaker’s phrase, the more disgruntled of the two, from Julia’s, whose voice seems less concerned and more passive before trailing off symbolically. This structure pushes the poem to a good height because it allows readers to take each thing one step at a time, leading to the full realization of what it is representing.

Tarpaulin Sky originally published this poem in a different version. I’m intrigued by how the differences inform what Schomburg is doing in this book.

A band of owls moved into town,
shopped for groceries, ran for office,
that sort of thing. It began casually,
some of them gathered on Sundays
at Sophia’s to get their hair done and
then it was the bookstore on the corner.
Everyone simply put up with the owls
because businesses were booming
and the schoolchildren’s test scores
had suddenly taken a turn for the better.
More and more owls, and some people too,
made the move into town and the room
for accommodations began to diminish.
Needless to say, there was much
construction. The town quickly became
a city. It developed a night life and the
constant yellowish buzz of electricity.
One night at the Electric Mole, I met Julia,
the daughter of new and prosperous
socialites in town. She was incredible—
the most amazing eyes. We would stay
awake through most nights holding each
other beneath the moonlit window. We
talked about everything there, but mostly
about our disdain for the construction
and the flood of immigrant owls. I would
tell her, “We seem to be the only two who
are concerned, who notice. The only two
who want out…”
“…Who want a simpler life,”
she would say. “The only two who…who…”

Besides the additional musicality of the line breaks and the use of more fragments, especially in the opening, the main difference in this version is how the single stanza drives the poem. As mentioned before I think the white space informs the reading, allowing readers to take their time with the poem and progress into the metaphor and surrealism. In this version, however, I think that effect is lost because the added musicality pulls the reader without much room or time to reflect or deal with what is happening. Not until the indentation leading into the final two lines and notably Julia’s sole primary appearance does the reader have a chance to pause. While it may be a bias of having read the prose version first, I think this version of the poem lacks the tightness in readability that allows the message to really shine through.

At first, the poetic grumpyhead in me was mumbling about the abundance of paragraphs, but honestly, I realize that these are certainly poems and the prose form that is abundant is the best move as it allows Schomburg to do what he does best. Where many poems, mine included, are aided by linebreaks and a more stanza’ed form as it matches and controls the musicality and reading of the poem, most of Schomburg’s poems, especially his best ones, utilize their surrealism and symbolism as their catalyst for reading the poem. Rereading this poems, I find myself caught in the rhythm of the wild things happening on the page, engrossed and loving it. That is enough for me right now.

I've been telling you for years to get stoked...

2011-05-06T12:57:00.000-07:00

We are proud to announce the release of our first issue of Stoked Journal. The issue features new work from Amber Sparks, Brian Oliu, Daniel Bailey, J.A. Tyler, Mike Young, Ryan Ridge, and Sarah Carson, as well as reprinting of stories by Roxane Gay (originally published in Gargoyle 56) and Matt Bell (originally in Drexel Online Journal). Big thanks to all these authors for making this first issue such an excellent and enjoyable one. Please check it out and spread the word; we are sure you'll be just as stoked as we are.

READ THE FIRST ISSUE HERE

we know you're in there

2011-04-30T12:23:00.000-07:00

LAST DAY (NOOOO), but hey poetry lives on. And Dean Young lives on with his new heart. And I live on with the new Dean Young book. And I live on with the other Dean Young books. Let's accept it is over and do our best to KEEP GOING.

Acceptance Speech
BY DEAN YOUNG

This time I’m not going to say a thing
about deity. It’s not the blizzard,
it’s three days after. Trinkle from thawing
roofs, ruined crocus pronging through.
Ruin, I promise, won’t be mentioned again.
Trees, sure, still begging in the road, split
to the bole but this isn’t about the chainsaw.
A pruning saw will have to do. The puppets
aren’t hanging themselves in each other’s
strings. Everyone’s easily identifiable
beneath the funny mask. Somewhere in Oregon,
Mary has another month to go, she’s comfortable
in any position for thirty-five seconds. Lulu,
we know you’re in there but no one’s
blaming you for reluctance to come out.
Poetry is the grinding of a multiplicity
throwing off sparks, wrote Artaud
and look what that got him: toothlessness
and shock therapy. Your dad, who has the worst
teeth of anyone I know, once ordered eggplant
in a steakhouse. Do not order eggplant
in a steakhouse turned out to be more
than aphoristicly true. Do not spend a lot
of time in an asylum writing cruel poems
if you can help it, one Artaud is enough.
In Kandinsky’s Blue 2, there’s a shape
in two rows of shapes that seems okay
although to the right’s a capsized canoe
full of mathematicians, to the left a bow
about to launch the killer astrolabe.
By what manner is the soul joined to
the body? How about climbing a ladder
of fire? No thanks. On TV, a rhino’s
lying in some red dust, munching a thorn.
You wouldn’t think he could ejaculate
for half an hour straight, but you’d be wrong.
See that cloud, it might weigh 10,000 pounds
which is about average for a cloud.
Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.
Tony says Mary is always writing about the sacred.
Talcum powder, binoculars, this decimated
planet. I know, a promise has been made
but Tony’s been sick for years and no one
knows with what. Flax oil, bark tinctures,
corticosteroids. He’s not exactly someone
you’d trust to drive your car, but still.
Something awful’s coming, isn’t it?
Would it help if I said Amen?

Dean Young, “Acceptance Speech” from First Course in Turbulence. Copyright © 1999 by Dean Young.

OH MY GRACIOUS DON'T TELL ME IT'S ALMOST OVER

2011-04-29T07:10:00.000-07:00

How many days are in April? Thirty, I think. That's suck because today is the 29th. What am I gonna blog about? Worry later, knucklehead. I've got two more days of National Poetry Month. A Song on the End of the World by Czeslaw Milosz is a biting, tight little poem that does it's thing and I like that thing.

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Last night was the Poets Picking Poets reading at Be Here Now, and MAN oh MAN it was fantatic. Christopher Newgent was there with his Vouched Books table. People bought some books (like me finally picking up Easter Rabbit by Joseph Young). The crowd was a bunch of palz and professors and wo(a?)nderers. I was so pleased.

Ryan Rader was a sweet MC, his good mix of humor, sentimentality, and business.

Layne Ransom opened up the readings with her loudproud goodness and poem where God has a Facebook. That's nice.

Mark Neely brought his calm goodness, not to mention this amazing poem about kicking rats and SO MUCH MORE. He also read Elysia's poem titled "Dominatrix," which begins "I want to force feed you a pigeon." LOLZ.

Elysia Smith has a reading style, this shouting girl kinda thing that I'm digging a lot. She also read a Hoagland poem which made me smile lotz.

Zach Arnett showed the community what he's been hiding. This nice dude has more good words in there, I KNOW IT.

I got to read to my parents and that makes me SO happy.

Christopher Newgent rules mucho, I mean much, I mean so much. Him and his stage presence. Him and his lit presence.

Todd McKinney has one of my favorite reading voices EVER. Get to see him read again Saturday and that'll be nice.

Patrick Collier read his martini haikus and some other haikus and some more martini haikus and a couple of my "On" poems and that was funny and brilliant and humbling. WHAT A GREAT WAY TO END THE NIGHT.

Really, I can't thank everyone, the readers, the listeners, the bar folks, enough for being so welcoming and friendly and patient. A great boom to end this undergraduate career.

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I have a new Smalldoggies post up for the Vouched Satellite, an interview with Micah Ling of Book Punch Reviews.

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Order my tickets for this goodness earlier this week:

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GET STOKED FOR THIS:

Some days I'm terrified that I exist at all.

2011-04-28T10:21:00.000-07:00

Tonight, we are gonna celebrate National Poetry Month RIGHT. And by we I mean, Todd McKinney, Patrick Collier, Elysia Smith, Zach Arnett, Layne Ransom, Mark Neely, myself, and Christopher Newgent, along with whomever is cool enough to show up (LIKE MY PARENTS). Ah, Christopher Newgent. What a cool dude, a good dude, spreading the word of indie/small press lit, inspiring community, and writing cool poems. Remember that week long thing awhile back on Everyday Genius? Yeah, I revisited that to get pumped for tonight. It's all good, but man oh man, that day of "The Lamb" was a good day. Simmer in its goodness and CELEBRATE.

WILL SOMEONE PLEASE GIVE ME

2011-04-27T13:20:00.001-07:00

Hey, did you know it's National Poetry Month? Cool. For some reason, I started thinking about Robot Melon, which was one of the first online journals I got really into. I started revisiting their old issues. I remembered this sweet poem called Town and Country by Adam J Maynard. I've been writing in more fragments, snippets, and such. This poem seems kind of like the poems I've been writing, except it's really really good.

Bang, she's dead.

2011-04-26T09:04:00.000-07:00

My head is a big throbbing tomato and National Poetry Month is almost over. Some poems make me yearn for MORE MORE. Some poems are so tight, good, gracious that I am good where I end up. HERE IS ONE OF THE LATTER.

Tomatoes
by Stephen Dobyns

A woman travels to Brazil for plastic
surgery and a face-lift. She is sixty
and has the usual desire to stay pretty.
Once she is healed, she takes her new face
out on the streets of Rio. A young man
with a gun wants her money. Bang, she’s dead.
The body is shipped back to New York,
but in the morgue there is a mix-up. The son
is sent for. He is told that his mother
is one of these ten different women.
Each has been shot. Such is modern life.
He studies them all but can’t find her.
With her new face, she has become a stranger.
Maybe it’s this one, maybe it’s that one.
He looks at their breasts. Which ones nursed him?
He presses their hands to his cheek.
Which ones consoled him? He even tries
climbing onto their laps to see which
feels most familiar but the coroner stops him.
Well, says the coroner, which is your mother?
They all are, says the young man, let me
take them as a package. The coroner hesitates,
then agrees. Actually, it solved a lot of problems.
The young man has the ten women shipped home,
then cremates them all together. You’ve seen
how some people have a little urn on the mantel?
This man has a huge silver garbage can.
In the spring, he drags the garbage can
out to the garden and begins working the teeth,
the ash, the bits of bone into the soil.
Then he plants tomatoes. His mother loved tomatoes.
They grow straight from seed, so fast and big
that the young man is amazed. He takes the first
ten into the kitchen. In their roundness,
he sees his mother’s breasts. In their smoothness
he finds the consoling touch of her hands.
Mother, mother, he cries, and flings himself
on the tomatoes. Forget about the knife, the fork,
the pinch of salt. Try to imagine the filial
starvation, think of his ravenous kisses.

All afternoon you feel the weight of the things you've never done.

2011-04-25T05:37:00.000-07:00

National Poetry Month is almost over and I'm not sure I know where I'm going. HOLD ON HOLD ON. I'm sorry for this: in poems I'm finding something that I can't find in my neighbor's shouts or in the hum of the city bus. David Shumate shows me things in these little chunks ("prose poems") and that's nice.

This is the poem for the day: Trains by David Shumate

MUH BAD

2011-04-24T08:32:00.001-07:00

National Poetry Month also happens to be my last month of college. WOAH COINCIDENCE. You're thinking, what a way to go out. I'm like, YOU ARE SO RIGHT. Yesterday, I was hanging in my hometown, going to a crappy sports bar, playing cornhole with my dad and his friends, it was strange, but okayfun. Point is: whoops, no poem. I've been thinking about what has impacted me the most in the past four years. Being involved with The Collagist has been a huge part of my growth as a writer and a human. Here's two of my favorite poems from the past issues of The Collagist.

Stargazing by Keith Montesano: The language and the scene are both gorgeous, but further, this poem says some great things about interruption, both in that awesome scene and language.

Upon Seeing Photos of My Ex-Lover's Cooking-Related Injury by Jaime Warburton: This poem reminds me about honesty in reaction and the difficulty of not caring, not being interested, the difficulty of completely letting go.

Get it?

2011-04-22T08:22:00.000-07:00

National Poetry Month is almost over, but not yet! No and maybe never really, because some people do good work. Like Adam Robinson. Here's a poem from his book called Adam Robison and Other Poems. I like that book. It's wacky. Adam also does Publishing Genius which RULEZ. Okay okay okay, I don't drink bottled water, so I get what's up here. I think.

O my body!

2011-04-21T11:40:00.000-07:00

I don't wanna say anything because it's National Poetry Month and this poem says it all.

This is really something!

2011-04-20T11:07:00.000-07:00

It's raining and April and I don't like it. If I wanted to be wet, I'd go swimming or take a shower. I'm sitting at a computer and it's National Poetry Month. Peter Davis is one of the more influential people on my early poetry days. He writes poems that make my brain warm and full of good-natured chuckles. Today, I'm reminded of Pete's goodness and this poem about water and reading poems.

IT IS OKAY

2011-04-19T12:48:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I get all nostalgic and sentimental and possibly lame, laying in my underwear for hours, listening to, not watching, the NBA playoffs, looking at the nail on the wall that used to hold a picture I liked a lot, but I CAN'T DO THAT GET UP IT'S NATIONAL POETRY MONTH. And Tony Hoagland teaches us how to get up, how to be sentimental, how to look back, how to handle it.

Jet

By Tony Hoagland

Sometimes I wish I were still out
on the back porch, drinking jet fuel
with the boys, getting louder and louder
as the empty cans drop out of our paws
like booster rockets falling back to Earth

and we soar up into the summer stars.
Summer. The big sky river rushes overhead,
bearing asteroids and mist, blind fish
and old space suits with skeletons inside.
On Earth, men celebrate their hairiness,

and it is good, a way of letting life
out of the box, uncapping the bottle
to let the effervescence gush
through the narrow, usually constricted neck.

And now the crickets plug in their appliances
in unison, and then the fireflies flash
dots and dashes in the grass, like punctuation
for the labyrinthine, untrue tales of sex
someone is telling in the dark, though

no one really hears. We gaze into the night
as if remembering the bright unbroken planet
we once came from,
to which we will never
be permitted to return.
We are amazed how hurt we are.
We would give anything for what we have.

Tony Hoagland, “Jet” from Donkey Gospel. Copyright © 1998 by Tony Hoagland.

you are the greatest living authority

2011-04-18T12:18:00.000-07:00

I feel like shouting WHATS GOING ON? and I mean it, but it's National Poetry Month and today is NO SHOUTING DURING NATIONAL POETRY MONTH DAY, well I mean, no shouting during national poetry month day, and I need to chill out. Mary Ruefle agrees. Her poem "The Hand" is a nice reminder of wuzzzzzup.

Hey check out the ass on that guy

2011-04-17T10:25:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling absurd, but that's okay, it's National Poetry Month. I love Jennifer L. Knox. People say funny, I say okay but how about brave and feisty and go-getting. Like vroom. Hot Ass Poem is a poem that says LANGUAGE IS ABSURD SEXUALITY IS ABSURD HUMANS ARE ABSURD. I'm gonna agree.

But it's weird my face don't look quite the same

2011-04-16T11:33:00.000-07:00

Sure, it's National Poetry Month, but don't forget National Record Store Day. In honor of the goodness words that come with music, my favorite lyrics from one of my favorite bands right now. These three dudes and one girl shredded the inside of VGR last NRSD and I was like OH NO THE FLOOR IS GONNA CAVE IN. I wish. Pile it on.

Help Me Sing
by State Champion

Some lay flowers on the side of the highway
To note the death of the ones they loved
While other flowers spend their whole lives out on the highway
Standing for nothing it's just where they're from
And I guess I know in some backwards way that all these

Billboards lighting up the back of the day
Been slowly inking me down a giant map of the states
'Til I can find somewhere to shack up and unpack all my things
I got a swine full of quarters, a telephone
If I could only find a minute to talk
I got a gold watch ticking with a sailor's mouth
I think the hour hand is flicking me off
I got a pocketknife and a pocket mirror
But it's weird my face don't look quite the same
'Cause I got a half-empty bottle of something Lord
It's a half-full bottle of dreams

Can you help me sing the one
You helped me sing when the day was done?
You helped me sing to a great big sun
That was setting on some old black couch in my room
Can you help me sing the song
You helped me sing out on the lawn?
You helped me sing to bring up the dawn
And bring it back to your mom and daddy's house
'Cause I don't want to sing this one
If I've got to sing without you
[ Lyrics from: http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/s/state_champion/help_me_sing.html ]
Brother let your hair blow
Won't you let your hair blow brave
Don't let them tell you that it ain't the same wind
That's been making them sacred bandanas wave
A Jew on the cross a dew on the moss
That's two ways to behave
Gas station diner firework shop souvenir
Twenty-four hour cum stains on the radio waves
I guess I'll figure it out when I'm older
For now you call Sal and I'll call Dakota
They've got a half-empty bottle of vodka with them
I got a half full bottle of optimism

And we'll sing the one
You helped me sing when the day was done
You helped me sing to a great big sun
That was setting on some old black couch in my room
Can you help me sing the song
You helped me sing out on the lawn?
You helped me sing to bring up the dawn
And bring it back to your mom and daddy's house
'Cause I don't want to sing this one if it's going to make me feel blue

About the way things will never be the same again
Been feeling red about the places where I laid my hands
Last night thought I could save a couple grains of sand
From slowly slipping through a south-bound highway ramp
But I was wrong

So can you help me sing the one
You helped me sing when the day was done?
You helped me sing to a great big sun
That was setting on some old black couch in my room
Can you help me sing the song
You helped me sing out on the lawn?
You helped me sing to bring up the dawn
And bring it back to your mom and daddy's house
'Cause I don't want to sing this one if just I've got to sing
Don't want to sing this one if I've got to sing without you

More lyrics: http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/s/state_champion/#share

OH YES YOU CAN YOU CAN DO IT

2011-04-15T06:46:00.000-07:00

Elysia Smith and her Chicklitz palz will be reading tonight and guess what IT'S NATIONAL POETRY MONTH. How nice of a combo! I think it'll calm something in me. Or at least, I'll stand in the back, clap appreciatively, and not act like an idiot.

RECOVERY

2011-04-14T14:43:00.000-07:00

OH YOU TRIED TO GET ME. But National Poetry Month goes on. In the hospital last night, I read The Man Suit by Zachary Schomburg. FOUR YEARS IT TOOK ME WHY? I open up and the first poem goes uggggggggggggghhhhh here's something. I was churning inside and I churned inside. I re-read this first poem then I laid the bed back and fell asleep finally.

The Monster Hour
by Zachary Schomburg

On the Monster Hour, there was this monster that used to come out and try to kill everybody in the audience. No one expected it, not even the producers who were told by the monster he would play a few blues tunes on the piano. The monster apologized after each show and asked for another chance. I'm planning on telling a few jokes this time he would say. But time after time he'd break his word and try to kill everybody. The producers finally replaced him with a gorilla in people clothes that came out and played a Wurlitzer, but they never changed the name of the show. It was always the Monster Hour. I don't think anybody understood then what a monster really was.

Es muy divertido.

2011-04-13T06:29:00.000-07:00

It's National Poetry Month, but I still studied enough to get a B on my Spanish test. WOOO. One time, I tried to buy a Neruda book online and it said it was both the English/Spanish, but it was just the Spanish. I stare at it and go, uhhh if only. Robin Robertson translated this Neruda poem. Neruda wrote this Neruda poem. It's good.

Ode to a Large Tuna in the Market
BY PABLO NERUDA
TRANSLATED BY ROBIN ROBERTSON

Here,
among the market vegetables,
this torpedo
from the ocean
depths,
a missile
that swam,
now
lying in front of me
dead.

Surrounded
by the earth's green froth
—these lettuces,
bunches of carrots—
only you
lived through
the sea's truth, survived
the unknown, the
unfathomable
darkness, the depths
of the sea,
the great
abyss,
le grand abîme,
only you:
varnished
black-pitched
witness
to that deepest night.

Only you:
dark bullet
barreled
from the depths,
carrying
only
your
one wound,
but resurgent,
always renewed,
locked into the current,
fins fletched
like wings
in the torrent,
in the coursing
of
the
underwater
dark,
like a grieving arrow,
sea-javelin, a nerveless
oiled harpoon.

Dead
in front of me,
catafalqued king
of my own ocean;
once
sappy as a sprung fir
in the green turmoil,
once seed
to sea-quake,
tidal wave, now
simply
dead remains;
in the whole market
yours
was the only shape left
with purpose or direction
in this
jumbled ruin
of nature;
you are
a solitary man of war
among these frail vegetables,
your flanks and prow
black
and slippery
as if you were still
a well-oiled ship of the wind,
the only
true
machine
of the sea: unflawed,
undefiled,
navigating now
the waters of death.

IF YOU DIED RIGHT NOW....

2011-04-12T06:20:00.000-07:00

I need a job, but really who needs a job when you have National Poetry Month? Heaven is a place where there are no jobs and lots of poetry and singing and the Internet. Mairead Byrne posts poems on her blog, Heaven. I AM GOING THERE. This poem is called "Heaven" and it makes me giggle and feel nice.

Heaven
by Mairead Byrne

I'm in heaven
&God springs
a surprise
party:
it's John Lennon,
Bob Dylan,
& Bob Marley.
Someone says
Hey God
Dylan's not dead
& God says
Hey man
this is Heaven.

I have been to the happiest place on Earth and it rained.

2011-04-11T06:05:00.000-07:00

It is raining again and I kinda just wanna sleep, but National Poetry Month moves on. It's cool when friends write poem. It's cooler when the poem is good and fun and makes me go AHHHH. My buddy Cody Sean Davis just posted this poem on his blog. Keep going, keep going.

I’m certain that the beer I’m now drinking is for you.

2011-04-10T10:22:00.001-07:00

Last night was beautiful and I shouted poems, not alone. Poetry sucks when you do it alone. WHERE ARE YOU RIGHT NOW? Nate Pritts + Matt Hart. As conversation. As togetherness. And You + Me. PrittsHartatTheCollagist.

*

Bonus: Electron Face by Matt Hart recording. YIKES SHAKING MY HEART.

*

MATT HART HAS A NEW BOOK AND IT LOOKS EXCELLENT

GET STOKED!

2011-04-09T12:54:00.000-07:00

2011-04-09T11:38:00.000-07:00

I slept in too long, but HEY IT'S NATIONAL POETRY MONTH. Something about this poem makes me love my dad more. Something about this poem makes me want to go outside and never come in. Something about this poem makes me want to care again.

The Fish
by Elizabeth Bishop

I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
—the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly—
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
—It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
—if you could call it a lip—
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels—until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.

Your Trouble Is Ballooning

2011-04-08T07:55:00.000-07:00

My hand hurts, but it's still National Poetry Month. Started Your Trouble Is Ballooning by Amber Nelson today on the bus. People look funny at little books like THAT'S NOT THE DA VINCI CODE. I know, thanks. I met Amber in Alabama. She was nice. Publishing Genius just released this book (split with A. Minetta Gould). Publishing Genius makes me swoon litlove. Here is a poem from the book, first appearing in H_NGM_N 7. NICE.

1.4

I travel to Caligari

the mistakes, who teased

our bony cherries

in this playground?

To ease

we only reinvent absorption.

I am Married and Insubstantial

as a stain

to this field,

a skirmish and flyswatter

made buxom.

I open my mouth

2011-04-07T09:12:00.000-07:00

Abraham Smith teaches at Alabama and I saw him and I was nervous and I didn't say hi and I think that was lame of me and he seems a 10 on the INTERESTING DUDE GOTTA KNOW YOU chart and yeah I keep that chart and these poems all called DEAR WEIRDO are holycow and this video maybe the best reading I've ever seen and YIKES TO WRITE WITH SUCH GOGOGUSTO.

And the best thing one could do was get arrested.

2011-04-06T05:52:00.000-07:00

I'm almost out of groceries, but somehow National Poetry Month pushes forward. Today, Todd McKinney leaves to be a visiting writer at El Paso Community College. Larry Levis is like his fav poet. I dig Levis for sure. Today's poem is In 1967 by Larry Levis. Safe travels, Todd.

I WENT TO ALABAMA AND ALL I GOT WAS SLASHED

2011-04-05T08:44:00.000-07:00

Since I am the last of the group to post about this trip, what can I say much original? NOTHING. Here is a list of really cool things I remember from the student exchange trip to Alabama and the Slash Pine Festival:

Some seriousgood reading time in the van: all of When All Our Days Are Numbered Marching Bands Will Fill The Streets & We Will Not Hear Them Because We Will Be Upstairs In The Clouds by Sasha Fletcher and Smiles of the Unstoppable by Jason Bredle, as well as parts of books by Tim O'Brien, Chuck Klosterman, Bob Hicok, and the April issue of Poetry Magazine.

Something like 6 (OKAY OKAY I SKIPPED ONE) readings featuring 50+ readers in two days. People say, MAN I WOULD HATE POETRY and I shook in my poetry shoes (boating loafers?), but smooth execution Slash Pine people. Nice work.

Meeting and seeing my online pal Brandi Wells read. We had matching black tank tops and we didn't plan it. She apparently doesn't like dudes in tank tops. I'm a dude in a tank top. We didn't fight. She was like, I WAS NERVOUS and I'm like, YOU RULED.

Seeing cool people like Oliver de la Paz (his new book was sold out :( ), Christopher DeWeese (THIS GUY IS FUNNY IN A GOOD I KNOW WHAT I AM DOING WAY), Brian Barker (PERSONA POEM WITH GORBACHEV), and Amber Nelson (NICE FEELING OF THE WEEKEND: She is the Alice Blue editor and said, You're Tyler Gobble, and I said, I guess I am. She said, I liked your submission. I said, thank you.) read.

Watching my fellow trippers rip it up and stuff. Jeremy brought THE BEERS in a way I can't rip it off the page. Elysia said something silly about wearing cowboy boots because she's in the south, and people liked her poem that started, I WANNA FORCE FEED YOU A PIGEON or something like that. Layne was loud and people want to be here when they grow up. The cursing/vulgarity score was like BSU 19 Others 0.

Meeting some sweet new people like Parker, Shea, and Stacy.

Seeing the always awesome Brian Oliu. This guy does the robot to Salsa music, writes awesome lyric essays, has a voice like I SUPPORT YOU, and was woahelpful in getting us to the fun and goodness of the town.

BREAKFAST. FREE AT THE HOTEL. First day: turkey sausage and cheese omelets. And they didn't suck. Also, donuts and apple juice. Also, mints. Last day: french toast and sausage patties. THANX HAMPTON IN. Oh yeah: Cookies and milk FOR FREE every night.

My reading was a little jumbled. I got nervous and the cool outside air shook up my contacts. But I recovered when I read On Friendship and people didn't go GROSSSSSSSS. Nice folks wanted to know me or say good job or just hug me drunkenly in a bar. Sounds good to me. I said, TYLER GOBBLE, a lot.

TANK TOPS. Beautiful weather/beautiful campus. Layne was good company lotz. We have similar goals in life and on the trip and with each other and with poetry and etc. etc. etc. WE ARE ADVENTUROUS.

DANCIN' was pretty awesome. One of the readers on Friday dj'ed at this nice little bar called The Green Bar, so Layne and I boogied down with Oliu, Parker, and others. YES.

Tuscaloosa's disc golf course whooped me, smacking my disc into creeks and shrubbery and snakepits. I hit more trees than chains. Cool seeing Lovelace tear it up and hearing his stories about his early days as a golfer there.

Overall, I'm so stoked to have these memories wiggling in my brain. Thanks people who helped like donating money like dancing with me like asking me to go like keeping me from being lonely down south like setting me next to booze like clapping and laughing at my poems like saying GOOD JOB and YOU MATTER A LITTLE. That's all I can ask for and you ruled it.

Read Lovelace, Elysia, Layne, and Jeremy's accounts of the trip.

This feeling is called hi.

2011-04-05T07:05:00.000-07:00

Another day of National Poetry Month and it's sun-shining good. Mike Young says "clever" times lots over at HTMLGiant in his (clever?) essay about the perils and innerworkings of some aspects of cleverness. I'm not sure I get all of the essay, but it thumps again me in the way I check my face more carefully ever since I gave that speech with mac-and-cheese in my beard. PURPOSE. Here is a poem by Mike that sometimes booyeahs with cleverness, but I see PURPOSEFULNESS written all of its face.

YOU CAN KNOW THAT WAIT MEANS STAY
by Mike Young

for Carolyn

Right away there’s thinking. Right away.
No matter how much I want my face to moon
with no contortion, leave all talk to voiceovers.
Hands take after purrs. Nicknames remind us
mostly of the fun inventing them. Every beach
fire is a kind of desperate flag. Cops pull over a
riding lawnmower, and the man won’t turn it off.
We walk the dike that crosses I-91. Headlights
pan like reasons. We’re keeping warm. Cars aren’t
fireflies, which is not even how I feel. “Funny isn’t
the same as being happy,” I tell you. Duh. Neither is
that. A family of tiny arsonists live in burned out
delivery trucks behind your neck. They are your
bad pillow. Hands wobble. It’s never been infinity
with me. Infinity is something I can fist bump.
It’s more like when I chew the top off a lightbulb,
and there’s no blob of light to hold. Carry. Get
close. Let me eat your eyelash like a mission.
If we plant it in a divot on my cheek, maybe I’ll
grow your love of coats. The lay of your wrist
when you’re tired. What plays in your head after
you gnaw my finger, look at me, teething the skin like
wrapping paper you want to save for next Christmas.
Sometimes I know that I don’t know what’s going to happen
next, but I know exactly who I’m going to be with when it
does. This feeling is called kiss me. This feeling is called hi.
But maybe you’re not thinking of anything. I’ve thought
about that. We’re on a hillside. Night grass. Grass face.
And the sky is clear enough to see exactly how you feel.

OH MY GOSH IT IS RAINING A LOT. IT MUST BE NATIONAL POETRY MONTH.

2011-04-04T06:30:00.000-07:00

Diving into the Wreck by Adrienne Rich: Huge metaphors like this are tricky, but Rich pulls it off. This poem provides me a sense of comfort in my current situation. I really appreciate the sense of purpose Rich has bestowed upon her speaker.

National Poetry Month

2011-04-03T20:03:00.000-07:00

I started National Poetry Month off by reading at and attending the Slash Pine Fest in Alabama this weekend (more on this soon).

I'm organizing a reading at the end of the month for here in Muncie for NPM.

In between, I'm gonna post a quick post each day including a poem I dig lotz.

Since, I just thought this up a few minutes ago, I'll catch up with three:

April 1st: Day by Jeremy Bauer Jeremy was on the trip with me and read this poem at the reading. I'm happy to see this poem with such a good home, so everyone can see the wicked beauty in here.

April 2nd: Poem (Lana Turner Has Collapsed by Frank O'Hara Discussing my less-than-stellar literary criticism paper for my American Literature class with my great professor Dr. Mix, I was reminded of this poem by O'Hara, a truly enjoyable little thing. AND IT USES CAPS.

April 3rd: Information Kiosk by Jason BredleI finished Smiles of the Unstoppable by Jason Bredle today, so this poem seems appropriate. The energy woven into the listing and repeating is astounding. This is definitely a book I'm gonna do some thinking and writing about in the next week or two.

The facts aiming your eyes down the road...

2011-04-02T16:24:00.000-07:00

One of the main reasons I got into poetry is that I’m drawn to using writing to deal, cope, live, move on. My favorite poets are the ones that push that ability, working through problems and points, staying true to their voice and persona to take their readers to a rewarding end. Bob Hicok was one of the first contemporary poets that I remember. He introduced me to the power of pushing his poems deep, stretching them wide to get their full effect.

In my poems, I have created the most satisfactory complete-feeling pieces by using this lesson to make the most out of what I was talking about. Sometimes, it involves traveling around the topic. Sometimes, it requires digging deep into myself and the idea. As I am currently going through the beginning stages of a divorce, college graduation, and the other things that come along with those big steps, I am having to remind myself, hard as it may be, to write about these things, and take them the distance.

Hicok’s early collection The Legend of Light is a great example of a young poet doing just that. Whether the poem be in first person or not, Hicok does not shy away from the tough subjects. In my favorite poem from the collection “Divorce,” Hicok guides us through his relationship with such a difficult topic by starting at an entry point away from himself, a man on the phone, through his own associations, like thinking about guns, before settling down beside his own wife to think:

When she asks what’s wrong, I begin to say
idiots, we’re all idiots, but stop
and put my arms around her. Because
we’re not, and because warmth’s
better comfort than words.

This is a place where I worry about going, because sometimes it can come off overly self-concerned. However, The progression of this poem pushes himself and his readers so deep into this idea so that the ending comes out meaningful. This isn’t just some whiny poet guy worried about his marriage, but rather a thoughtful poet giving himself the benefit of the doubt and being honest with what’s he’s finding.

Hicok’s complete sense of empathy, both with himself and others, balanced inside complete honesty is what makes Hicok such an admirable person on the page. Sometimes, I worry that my self-focus and confessions of things like depression and loneliness, even masked in my energy and associations, will come off as whiny and unpurposeful. Hicok manages to turn those risks into rewards by not relenting on his path.

Looking at “Neighbor,” I notice how Hicok carefully crafts the relationship and juxtaposition of a homeless man that is his “neighbor” and his own life. I am blown away here with how Hicok portrays the man and himself within the situations of themselves and their relationship to one another in a way that neither belittles or puts the homeless man on a pedestal, also without overemphasizing Hicok himself as the observer/poet, but rather smoothing out the details in a way that moves me equally in thought and feeling:

A man lives under the Beakes bridge. I drive over him
every day. His hair’s
like a troll’s I had once, a thicket though not purple.
Curled fetal, he sleeps
with his back to the river. I see him when I run, when
I chase my breath
to stay alive. He has a radio I’ve never heard croon.
Perhaps he’s an aficionado
of silence. He doesn’t wear foil on his head. Does not
spread the flower of his hand
for coin. Not that I’ve seen and we are neighbors.
I pass his house
on my way to breakfast, to buy shoes, tan or black
lace-ups, to drive
into what’s called the country but is really the city
spread out like paint
on canvas. I live in an area where cities are growing
together. The term used
is megapolis. Everything will have to get bigger.

The places he puts the lens circles around both him and the man in their various contexts to really allow himself to keep the tone and perspective in control. Then, like in many of his poems, the “point” barrels out, hitting me at my most natural level: a caring, worried human being.

ANOTHER Q&A ANOTHER QUESTION STUCK IN MY BRAIN

2011-03-26T10:15:00.000-07:00

One of the many awesome things Ball State's English Department does, The In Print Festival of First Books, was this past Wednesday and Thursday. The basics: the first night three first-time authors (one from poetry, fiction, and CNF) read from their book and the second night they are joined by an editor for a Panel discussion and Q&A.

This year's writers were Tina May Hall, Paul Killebrew, and Debra Gwartney, while the editor was Tadd Adcox from Artifice Magazine. I had met Tadd at the first Vouched Presents... Reading awhile back, and it was a nice opportunity to see him again, pick up the new Artifice, and discuss lit mags/small press stuff with him. Artifice is one of the best-looking and tightest journals around, NO DOUBT. I read Killebrew's book for a class, a book that I enjoyed quite a bit, and he was full of good stories and interesting insights into poetry (THE DUDE IS A LAWYER). Tina May Hall is a really nice lady. I haven't read all of her book, and I'm not sure it's quite my type of fiction. However, I do respect her for her persistence (she admitted she started writing the collection a decade prior to its publication) and academic success (straight through BA/MFA/PHD to a tenured position). I'd never read Gwartney's book either, but I think it's a disconnect from the type of memoir (story of dealing with her teenage daughters running away). All four offered great answers and perspectives to publishing and the business. ANOTHER SOLID IN PRINT.

Oh yeah, my unasked question: How did/do you decide what pieces/stories/poems to include in your book/issue? Each of you talked about "making a tight collection" or "sticking to your vision," but what is that process like? Also curious about ordering.

I did asked Tina and Paul about it during the meet and greet. They were really helpful in encouraging me to be patient and take time to consider each piece carefully.

One discouraging thing: all of them took more than 6 or 7 years to get their books together and published, for various reasons. I know it's not realistic to expect a book soon, but having and making friends with books makes it feel necessary/soooo wanted, even if they are better, more experienced, and older than me. PATIENCE DUDE.

Also, the festival marked the release of the 2011 Broken Plate. I was Lead Poetry Editor of this issue. It was an honor to work with such good people: my classmates, my professor, and the authors. Some of my favorite BSU undergrads appear in the issue, such as Ryan Rader and Cody Sean Davis, along with some really great poets/writers like Ryan Ridge, J.A. Tyler, and Jasmine Dreame Wagner. I'm also honored to have had my review of Matt Hart's Wolf Face included in the issue. Layne Ransom ruled it with the sweet cover/back cover design. If you want a copy, email brokenplate@bsu.edu or pick one up from the Vouched Table.

Good news: I found out that Matt Hart has a new book, Light-Headed, coming out soon from Blaze Vox books. YES YES.

Here is a Paul Killebrew poem I like lotz:

Eponymous

BY PAUL KILLEBREW

I am unable to jump more than ten feet in the air.
I am blind. I am unable to understand the dark
passages. I begin to speak of being deprived.
I believe that I am being kept in want. Who
governs me? Who is to say what I am,
and what I am not? I wish to be conscious
of myself. My frontiers are long and insecure.
I contract them. I cannot command them.
I determine myself not to desire what is
unattainable. I have a wound in my leg.
I am a schoolboy. A rule does not oppress me
if I impose it on myself. I assimilate it
into my substance. I can never be thwarted.
I cannot want it to be other than it is.

For reasons I'll probably unveil in one form or another, this week has been the most emotional wacky week of my life, but stuff like this keeps me together. THANKS.

What Matters, Revised.

2011-03-24T12:20:00.000-07:00

Frottage By Dean Young

How goofy and horrible is life. Just
look into the faces of the lovers
as they near their drastic destinations,
the horses lathered and fagged. Just
look at them handling the vase
priced beyond the rational beneath
the sign stating the store’s breakage
policy, and what is the rational but
a thing we must always break? I am not
the only one composed of fractious murmurs.
From the point of view of the clouds,
it is all inevitable and dispersed—
they vanish over the lands to reconstitute
over the seas, themselves again
but no longer themselves, what they wanted
they no longer want, daylight fidgets
across the frothy waves. Most days
you can’t even rub a piece of charcoal
across paper laid on some rough wood
without a lion appearing, a fish’s umbrella
skeleton. Once we believed it told us
something of ourselves. Once we even believed
in the diagnostic power of ants. Upon
the eyelids of the touched and suffering,
they’d exchange their secretive packets
like notes folded smaller than chemicals.
They told us nearly nothing, which
may have been enough now that we know
so much more. From the point of view
of the ant, the entire planet is a dream
quivering beneath an eyelid, and who’s to say
the planet isn’t. From the point of view
of the sufferer, it seems everything will
be taken from us except the sensation
of being crawled over. I believe everything
will be taken from us. Then given back
when it’s no longer what we want. We
are clouds, and terrible things happen
in clouds. The wolf’s mouth is full
of strawberries, the morning’s a phantom
hum of glories, morning glories.

THINGS THAT CAN REALLY MAKE ME FEEL BETTER THIS WEEK

2011-03-23T06:04:00.000-07:00

The 2011 Issue of the Broken Plate (More on this later.)

Who The Hell Do I Think I Am Talking About Music?

2011-03-21T20:33:00.000-07:00

Like with the most important books post, I wanted to make a list of the albums that have had the most impact on me, whatever that means. These are in no particular order.

Proud Flesh by Husband&Wife: From their first self-titled album to this latest album, Husband&Wife has progressed as smoothly and melodically as any band I've ever heard. I was hesitant to put this one on the list since it's so new, but 1) I didn't feel like Dark, Dark Woods has the constant effect on me needed to be on this list and 2) this is already my favorite H&W release. YOU SHOULD TOTALLY SEE SARA AND I SING THIS ALBUM. CUTEZ.

Rock N' Soul Pt. I by Hall and Oates: I like to BOOGIE. It feels nice.

Nothing Feels Good by The Promise Ring: No singer seems more approachable on an album that Davey Von Bohlen on this release. Start to finish, this album taught me the power of a voice in art, whether it be music or otherwise.

Stale Champagne by State Champion: Another newer album, but in my unorganized mind-list of favorite albums, this one keeps climbing. If jangled into music, I feel like this is what my two families sound like smashed together. Also, some of the best rock n' roll lyrics I've ever heard.

Nouns by No Age: When I bought this album at VGR, I had settled into this groove of just listening to music I already knew and my friends bands. This album got me rejuvenated about the music being made today.

Recovery by Away With Vega: YOU WANNA SEE ME REALLY STOKED? LISTEN TO THIS WITH ME. This album taught me how to be comfortable with getting excited about things.

Life But No More by Frank Schweikhardt: This album taught me to calm down and relax and listen. I haven't heard a better album to listen to when talking to buds.

Turn It Around by Comeback Kid: Sometimes, this is the only record I'll listen to at the gym. Pure energy and heart.

Slippery When Wet by Bon Jovi: I'm not joking when I say I like this album. I've never heard BIG ROCK music that sounds this close to cool. "Livin' On A Prayer" is one song I wish every band would cover.

Do You Know Who You Are? by Texas Is The Reason: I like fuzz and cool lyrics and pounding drums. PERFECT. I bought this on the first trip Sara and I took together like four years ago, so it's always a nice reminder.

Post Nothing by Japandroids: Another newer one. Another mind-list climber. THIS IS ARM SHAKIN' MUSIC. These songs are also attached to Tyler F. in my mind which makes them extra important.

Full Collapse by Thursday: The first band that I listened to with a girl. The first album I listened to when that girl broke up with me. The first album I go to when I wanna feel 15 again. IT HAPPENS AND THAT IS OKAY.

The Very Best of The Temptations: The soundtrack to my childhood oddly enough. The unity in the singing is still extraordinary to me. So many memories of trying to sing these songs with my dad on the way to hunting and fishing trips.

The Things We Carry by Have Heart: I have to be careful listening to this in public. I start shouting and stage diving off benches.

That Within Blood Ill-Tempered by Shai Hulud: When I need a reminder that loud can be beautiful, this is my go-to album.

The Moon and Antartica by Modest Mouse: I'm a sucker for quirky lyrics and wacky music. BOOYEAH. My go-to shower album.

Check Your Head by The Beastie Boys: I bought this album for four dollars, new, at a closing FYE like four or five years ago. I don't know if a week goes by without listening to it. I love how the sillyness can come through as cool. LESSON THERE.

Red Light District by Ludacris: I'm a big fan of association and Ludacris is the master. EXAMPLE:

Causin lyrical disasters, it's the master
Make music for Mini-Me's, models and Fat Bastards
These women tryin to get me out my Pelle Pelle
They strip off my clothes and tell me, "Get in my belly!"

Clarity by Jimmy Eat World: There is a perfect time/place/weather for this album that I just know when it's hear and that experience is something like meditation or yoga or other things that sound good for me but I can't do. Also, this album will always be the link that started my friendship with Layne.

We Make Our Own Luck by In The Face Of War: Another favorite shower album. MAY 7th will be ITFOW's last show, but this album has enough heart and punch to last me awhile.

The Sky Stared Down With Angry Clouds by Fire When Ready: The first time I saw Fire When Ready, I was like they are okay. A year later, I saw them again and was like WHAT WERE YOU THINKING DUDE THEY TOTALLY RULE. And then they broke up. This album is a reminder of how silly I can be when I'm paying more attention to babes than art.

OKAY THAT IS ALL I GUESS

What Matters for 500 Pt. II

2011-03-20T14:12:00.000-07:00

What Matters For 500

2011-03-19T12:22:00.000-07:00