Hot Idea!

Let’s talk to Lucy and learn to play bongos.
Let’s break all our old habits and then start new ones.
Let’s leaf through some old issues of Playgirl.
Let’s read our fortunes in whorls of chest hair.
Let’s see if Lucy has any ideas about aluminum doors.
Let’s run through a hallway of doors, slamming them one by one.
Let’s ask Chief Robotman what he thinks of our actions.
Let’s not stay to hear his answer.
Let’s ride away on our Schwinns, or in a Vista Cruiser.
Let’s eat Hostess Sno Balls, thumb our noses at everyone but us.

 

 

If it’s Tuesday p.m., it’s time for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.

Standard

Winter’s Wing

Speaking of travel and snowy owls,
white wings of this weather,
the dishwater sky awaiting heavier
clouds than these, another round
of snow; we are pulled into
the polar vortex again and again.
It’s because we’re heating the seas,
making soup out of creatures
we have no interest in eating.
Still, there’s something about
winter again, the real winter,
how it puts you someplace else,
like the inside of a closet, muffled
and warm when your parents are
having a party, and you are a child.
The laughter and the clink of ice,
present, distant. It’s like that,
under winter’s wing—your blood
thick and quiet, hungry for meat.

 

 

Check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets every Tuesday p.m.!

Standard

Ghost Ship Full of Cannibal Rats Could Be about to Crash into Devon Coast

But then again, it might not; there’s still time to divert its course if we all
pull together, acknowledge the unimpeachable reality of cannibal rats,
and beam our positive thinking toward that voluptuous shore, help her
fend off this assault, the scrabbling of vicious claws tearing tender rock. Or
shall we get lost in the seaweed that tangles our minds? Deny not only the
rats, but also the ship? Chalk it all up to some paranoid wish list of unlikely
events—even as that spectral prow laps the milk where land meets sea?

 

 

Be sure to check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets every Tuesday p.m.

Standard

Man Dead, Woman Missing from Chicago River Accident

Whatever it is, it isn’t worth it, though it seems so at the time.
A little climb on the rocks by the lake at night, in midwinter, or
a January midnight lunge into the river to retrieve a falling phone.
It only looks calm, navigable, shallow, that water. It only looks
placid, like it will happily receive you, help you find what you lost.
It will receive you. You may perceive that it is glad. You might find,
as you are fading, that nothing more is lost. But now your family
dredges up from some other depth this fact: You died at age 26
for a phone that is now waterlogged and frozen, no longer
sending any signal, no longer searching for you.

 

 

If it’s Tuesday p.m. (which it’s not right now), check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.

Standard

Transported

But when I came back, I was celery
or a facsimile of celery, and it took me
a while to coordinate my leaves and
the pumping system that keeps me
occupied and crisp throughout the day.
I have no teeth anymore, or else I would
crunch myself, accidentally on purpose.
I had never been celery before, or even
been especially interested in celery,
because who is? Because it’s celery.
Because I am celery. Because I am.

 

 

Hey, it’s Tuesday, and Open Link Night is back. Check it out!

Standard

Let it Drop

I want to write something to you for the end of the world,
but I can’t peel this orange. It pushes back the seam between
thumbnail and thumb, and there it stays, and stings. Do you
know the feeling of stepping in a pool of slush in your sock feet
as you take off  your boots—when you are in the seam
between away and home, outside and inside, your public and
private selves? The slush is dirty meltwater from road-driven snow.
It is possible, entirely possible, that you have tracked lead, soot,
other poisonous particulates, into your kitchen as you stand by
the back door and worry this seam—as I worry so many seams,
am aware of so many seams. This is why I can’t comfort you, can’t
exalt your year just ending, can’t help you put on a brave face
and a party hat for the one that’s yet to come. We will all just have
to let it happen, count down and let it drop like the orange that it is.

Standard

Fig Wasps

I tell you a tale as big as a kite,
and I fly it into your fig tree.

It rattles the wasps from their
work in your figs, their offices

of pollinating, egg-laying, death.
They are annoyed, and they sting

with the knowledge that
there’s no tale bigger than

their own. It is, they are certain,
the greatest story the sun ever told.

 

 

If it’s Tuesday p.m., check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.

 

Standard

Publication Spotlight: Hobo Camp Review

I’ve had a pretty good few months, submission-wise, and I’ve been feeling like before my usual Christmas madness fully sets in—and certainly before I move on to another round of rolling the dice and anxiously awaiting responses—I really should stop and say thank you.

For the next little bit, then, I’m going to spotlight the publications that have recently made my day by giving my work some space in their pages, whether paper or digital. It’s my way of saying thank you, and also pointing you toward what I think are some great publications (and no, not just because they accepted my poems).

Each one has a distinctive character—a theme or a twist or something that sets it apart and makes for fantastic reading. All of them, as it happens, are done as a labor of love by individual editors and publishers, without backing from a university or other such.

First up: Hobo Camp Review.

Besides being fun to say (does anyone else remember Amy Sedaris as Jerri Blank saying, “hobo camp“?), this publication has a great concept: stories, poems, and essays that have the flavor of something that might be read down by the railroad tracks, around a trash-can fire. Dark, gritty … maybe a little smelly. Itinerant.

Even the information at Hobo Camp is fun to read because of its great voice and commitment to the theme. From the submission guidelines:

“While we like to envision Steinbeck, Li Po, McCullers, Bukowski, and Kerouac sitting around a campfire eating hot dogs and beans with a stray dog named Tom Waits wagging his tail at their feet, we don’t want a rehash. We’ve been eating hash here for months and we’re sick of it.”

I had a poem that was a bit of a hobo itself—I wrote it in 2009 and submitted it so many times, to so many places, and it always came limping back—and I love that it finally found a home at the Hobo Camp, in the Autumn 2013 issue.

Head hobo James H. Duncan is also an editor at Writer’s Digest and busy and successful with his own creative work, both poetry and prose. (Oh, and another thing about the collection of stories I’ve linked to—if you order it before Christmas 2013, you’ll help contribute to the Food Bank for New York City.)

If you visit Hobo Camp Review—and I hope you will—tell them FilthyJeans Sabrina sent you. They won’t know what you’re talking about, but I bet they’ll still share their mulligan stew. They’re good people that way.

Standard

Your Host

If you need anything while I’m asleep,
please feel free to smash the glass.
I think you’ll find your accommodations
are quite pleasant. We didn’t skimp
when it comes to the shag carpeting—
it’s wall-to-wall and double-ply, also
sealed for your protection. We believe
in safety here. Safety and sanitation,
everything buttoned up just like
God’s own sewing kit. A stitch,
you know, a stitch in time saves
feathers. That’s what they say—
or we say it, anyway. We say
a lot of things around here.
I think you’ll find us downright
chatty. Garrulous as gabardine,
and almost as sacred as mice.

 

 

If it’s Tuesday p.m., check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.

 

Standard

Frost Free

and filled with distinction:
a standing rib roast
a rack of lamb

minted chicken salad
clams Hollandaise
and some entire beast

en croûte.

Here are all the
edible creatures
of land and sky

and sea. The exterior
is seafoam green and all
cool reassurance of

permanent plenty,
banishment of want—
everything that was
needed and not had,

now procured,
secured,
safe.

 

 

PAD Challenge prompt: ____ free. If it’s Tuesday p.m., be sure to check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.

 

Standard