When I belonged to you
and you were tall grass
around a boulder and I
made sewing needles
out of thorns and I was
going to live there near
the downspout and you
were mock orange
blossoms and you
were baby squirrels
and my mother and
the neighbors’ black cat,
poisoned while running
home to see my mother
And that was before it all hit the paywall.
That was before it all went down.
Quad City DJ’s told us to
c’mon, ride the train
and we all pumped our fists:
Choo, choo!
We all danced at weddings; nothin’ wrong
with a little bump and grind. That was before
everything cost so much. That was before
the stakes got raised. That was when
everything was everything, and we all
thought it always would be — that we
could always find our dancing shoes,
or buy new ones, or dance in
whatever shoes we had on.
So, any day now (well, probably around June 1), my chapbook Secret Rivers will come out, from the fabulous Evening Street Press. (Oh, hey, and it’s available for preorder there.) From any of you who have done one of these before, I could use some promotion tips. I don’t want it to just lie there, but here’s the thing: I’m reeeeeally introverted and not given to self-promotion — despite all my blah-blah here and on Facebook and Twitter. Do I walk into my neighborhood bookstore and ask them to stock a few, or is this just “not done” — like, so “not done” that I’ll be laughed out of the store? Not really … but you know what I mean.
Also, I could swear I saw something here on WordPress about bloggers who are authors with things currently out. Does anyone know what I mean, and how I go about telling them, “Me, too?” Also, here is a stupid WordPress question that might vary a lot depending on what theme you use: How do I put the cover image somewhere on my blog, with info on how to order, so that it lives there until I decide it’s no longer needed? (Which would be “never,” or until it sells out — whichever comes first.)
I know I need to line up a reading or two — and this will involve (erk) talking to people and asking if I can do this at their space. I’m on this part. Sort of.
But I keep thinking that there may be other great ways to promote a chapbook, and I’m just not thinking of them. I do not want to fall down in the hustle department. So … How do you promote a chapbook, anyway? Thanks for any ideas!
I believe this will all work out fine;
all the umbrellas will open on time,
none of the ducks will fall into the river
without first unfurling their pink-orange feet.
No one will get cancer who does not actually
want cancer. No one will suffer from needless
rot, or from not being needed. No longer will
sentimental favorites mildew in the basement
of the mind. There will be no more basements.
We won’t need them. Everything we love,
we will keep upstairs with us. The whole
world will be nothing but upstairs then.
This is not my animal.
I would never leave it
malingering in the yard.
How it slinks. How it howls.
It disgusts me, its belly all
fantastic like that. All its
feathers sticking out
like that, silver as
thieves.
I do not recognize it, nor
its sovereignty over my
garbage cans or the shed
where I keep broken things.
I will not listen, not even if
it crawls up my bedroom wall
at night, calls my name.
Or yours.
Listen, I watched ‘night, Mother just like everybody else.
Sissy Spacek’s got nothing on me. I know where all my
onions are. I know where I keep my guns, and my onions,
and my guns for shooting onions. You’ll never catch me
in the parking lot of a Wigwam discount store, trying to
sell shoplifted tube socks. You’ll never catch me,
no matter what I’m up to. I spray myself with PAM
morning, noon, and night so I can slide through this
world with the slickness of a wildebeest. You’ll never
catch me unawares at some watering hole. Go be
someone else’s lion, or your own, or no one’s. I’ll be
lying in a field—counting my onions, watching
night rise around me like gnats from damp grass.
Would you believe it? McCormick bloomed
stronger than honey, quicker than spice—
an oak rocket in Heimlich benediction
on this: I think I’m made of plastic. Are you?
But, oh, that detour, short and sweet
against my inner thigh, if you can’t be good.
The old, sweet world—this one, the one where
I’m typing now—expires as we break and burn.
I check every few minutes to see such joy
on every face, but still don’t see snow
to play in. I would do this for any little boy, if
I were you; you already know that love is a
stereotype, the sound of our own breath
repeating our name, the invitation: Come
on down to think about other things
for a while if you can. Who tells her—this
shoulderblade sea cat, unequal bittersweet—
some small things just the same? The comfort
and style are beyond comparison. Your girl
of the houses (until I am flame-farewelled)
didn’t know you yet, wet fingers never ever
wrapped around your eyes that came with it.
(Gravel. That laugh. That flash of teeth.)
Bloom, and you’ll find berries on this plate
of chimpanzee sun. Blink once. Scratch.
Consider.
For NaPoWriMo, Day 30. (Yes, 30.) Thank you so much, to everyone who stopped by this month! What can you expect to see here in May? Well, not a poem every day … BUT one per week, usually on Wednesday — and maybe some other thoughts on poetry, writing, and publishing in between. Stay with me! I’m not going away (just dialing things back a little). Hope to see you around …
Sometimes the sun is a ball of chimpanzees.
(We’re their distant cousins—we show up drunk
at all the family reunions.) Do you hear the pause
in their chattering? Do you see how they disapprove?
I feel no warmth from this kind of sun; I taste only
bitterness. It smells like we have been willfully
forgotten. Does it smell, instead, like the color of
lemon drops? In Portland, Oregon, there’s at least
one pinball machine with Elton John on it. The sun,
that orb of apes, loves and warms us in Chicago,
tells us conspiratorially how much it hates Portland.
But that’s not really important, whether chimpanzees
love us, hold us in any particular regard. YOLO! we
scream, because we cannot help ourselves and
because we know that’s what keeps our world
stitched together, not oozing and shifting under
our helpless feet. It’s time to acknowledge
the corn. The wet fence of hope demands that
we keep reaching for the stars, which is easy when
they’re lapping at our ankles, like the koi with whom
I sometimes play pinochle, euchre, or bridge. Twinkle
says the koi stars will become supernova bonobo suns
someday. But she’s only a malevolent leaf. I think
we all know the direction the koi are headed in; that’s
what all those star maps are for. But qu’est que c’est?
¿Quién es ese? The empty Scotch tape dispenser asks
pointed questions I cannot answer as the sun—the
chimpanzee sun—blinks once, scratches, considers.
For NaPoWriMo, Day 29.
After so many decades in your living room, the game shows never forget: America is watching.
–Josh Noel, Chicago Tribune
If heaven is a game show, I like that.
APPLAUSE APPLAUSE APPLAUSE!
That immortal shout of existence,
like a large and enthusiastic tornado.
How quaint it all seems, this sobering
dance party, this razzamatazz that
offers no insights. A glass of wine
relaxes me, whispers that I am still
young and pretty. Young and restless,
a colorful swirl of movement and frenzy.
Someday, I know, the puzzle will be
thrown out. Joy and tension, conquest
and defeat, all will dissolve in the jokes
and boogie music from the hidden powers
above. The mere truth of being here,
entering this wonderland at last, is
enough to drive you a little crazy. We
stand and sit, clap, clap more, clap
louder. We wait for lightning, to hear
our name, the invitation: Come on down.
For NaPoWriMo, Day 28.
Trust me–don’t even look at
the place where you used to grow.
You’ll only make yourself sad.
Would you like me to distract you
with another chorus of Dem bones,
dem bones, dem dry bones? Or
The worms crawl in, the worms
crawl out? We don’t know if it will be
worms for you, or a raccoon,
maybe a squirrel. I’m sorry I don’t
know a good song about your innards
being eaten. I’m sorry there’s not much
left to talk about. Have I told you that
sometimes I think I’m only pretend,
never had any flesh at all? Sometimes,
I remember the sounds of a factory.
Hey, do we even know for sure
that you grew on that vine? Maybe
you can’t be eaten, after all. Maybe
you’ll get packed away in the basement,
like me. My box is called Halloween Stuff.
Maybe you’ll spend winter, spring, summer
with me inside Halloween Stuff. It all depends
on this: I think I’m made of plastic. Are you?
For NaPoWriMo, Day 27.
Marilyn Rauch Cavicchia 