Just In Case You Thought You Were Special

I remember when I use to want to be a writer. Dreams of Pulitzer prizes danced in my head.

But then I got older, and I started reading the stuff you write.

So I burned all my notebooks, all my hopes and dreams.

And then I realized you were quoting Flaubert and T.S. Elliot.

That you did not in fact write that yourself.

Damn it.

The Missing Of Friends Part I

shook out a couple of nights ago

Where Rise Fell

Cutting between I went left or
Right. I am unsure. I went a
Place between that was not
Straight. There was water and woods.
The mayflies had hatched
And all the kinds of fish were
Kissing them
From the surface. I sat under a
Tall willow and watched the fish
Rise and mayflies fall.
I watched the world reunite
Between right and left.
Sat there in the whole.
Glimpsing where it was gone.

take care - ds

new for today, 8/something

the evening is not
lonely. it's just I'm day and
you're night - still apart.

we walked up and down
the stairs together, living
in the same tall space.

I saw a thousand
mayflies, but lost them trying
to count silver wings.

every time a boat
swam by I worried the waves
would swamp my city.

I live here, and so
does everyone else. We try
all day to forget.

I did not wave back
because my arms were full of
rain. I am sorry.

almost never get
scared; we're cradling the end.
it's more important.

love all -

ds

Bottom of the Well

Some days she feels paint
others; words and dreams
And her slave driving boss makes her work in the kitchen, faster, faster
it is a holiday
yet her little sons are still in school
in a panic she realizes
she is very very late
she runs to the school, to the principals office
heart pounding
Administrators look down their noses at her
She is ashamed
the boys were crying she is told
-YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND she shouts as she grabs the telephone from the receptionists desk
-THE LITTLE ONE IS ONLY THIS BIG
she indicates he comes up to her hip, when he is standing
where did they go,did somebody steal them?
She fears the worst

The boys are in a white clapboard shack
abandoned and still, by the river's edge
Lost boys, abandoned
as usual, alone, together

She floats through the rooms over dirty hardwood floors
discarded cracker boxes litter the room
then outside
to find
The little one is sleeping on the roadside
in the grass
she nudges him repeatedly
-This is not safe

they return to the shack and lie down by the window
background of moonlight and darkness
still waters mirror the sky
-It is so peaceful here, she says to the young ones in her arms

-Yes

And they are walking collecting treasures
feathers, rocks and leaves

As they approach the overgrown walkway to the clapboard house
She sees him
The man is the Authority
Severe eyes, warm rust colored beard, soft voice
He says, in a whisper,
-Are you coming in here?
he is trying to decipher whether or not she is the one
She pretends to live somewhere else
to be someone else
someone other than the irresponsible mother she knows herself to be
-We are just going for a walk
calm voice, poker face
-Then why do you look so afraid?
-Perhaps you misunderstand me
-Perhaps

Of Paint & Poetry

A few years ago I read a collection of poetry written by disadvantaged children.

Some of them were quite good, which just goes to show that writing poetry isn't necessarily a matter of age; it's a matter of life experiences. And some 10-year-olds have seen enough tragedy to last a lifetime.

There was one in particular that stood out to me: a girl has made a mess with a bucket of paint. And so an attempt to help her mother all but precipitates an anxiety attack as she tries to clean up; not because she's afraid her mother will yell at her. But because she cannot reason how, on earth, she will ever "get all of this paint out of my mouth."

I loved that line. And I thought then, as I do now, that I understood her quite clearly. That even though I haven't lived her life or endured her tragedies, I knew (know) precisely what she meant.

And yesterday, driving home, those words popped into my head for the first time in months. And try as I might, I couldn't shake them out again.

Instead, I thought of all those moments I bit my tongue when I most needed to speak. Those times when I stared blankly at the world, my insides shaking with words.

And I imagined myself, as this girl, opening my mouth and trying — quite futilely — to clean the paint from my tongue even as it continues to flow through me.

If I were an artist: this is what I would draw.

If I could show you how I felt, this is what you would see.

flight nebraska

the great pheasants opened from
tall grass and rolled into the
sky. 20 feet. 30 feet.
they would have seen there were
no clouds. the grass was a
better place to hide.

down and down between the blades.
into greens and greys with no
air sound nowhere.
hide between, but never above.

ds

new poem looking for its name in the mist

In the long storm I reached
Across and touched her
Folded arm. She was unafraid,
And asleep. The thunder shot all
Around us. Rain slipped in
Along the wooden windowsill. I
Thought of the sea - the wind
There - a gale riding a small
Ship. I wondered on Phoenicians.

The water is never quiet; it moves.
Moves doesn't silent.

I heard a telephone ring in the
Thunder, but it was only thunder.
Then I looked up from my
Thoughts. Our community of animals
Had gathered around me with
Prayers in their eyes. My
Head got quiet. We shook out
The storm alone.

ds

squiggly dashboard revisited

yes I understand what I've come to understand is
that words and not words don't mix. computer's not
made of words. internet not made of words.
programs not made of words:

computers always square, poems always round.

ever the two shall quarrel in between.
and then you and I and them end up
in between (which is where we were born).
my poems on my inside (I am round) dislike my
squares on the outside. inside I am a great
poet. much better than this. outside I am
social worker. group homes. silver car. no
house. living with parents at my age. wasn't invited to my
10 year high school reunion. see all the squares?
inside I am great poet. you too. we're so round inside.

I make dreams in my head when I have a house I will
buy this internet and write well and put it here.
this comes soon I hope. everyone is tired of this.
I have no center now. off the spindle. I make more
promises: dearest everybody that doesn't read this place,
I will make good poems in my house, and put them here.

see - now I've put the world into both its boxes.
and don't understand what either is.

ds

क्लुत्तेरेड Dashboard

If any of you understands my problem

Please send help right away

I have this place of words

sitting on my dashboard

right next to my portfolio

when I attempt to create a new post

I recieve a message from beyond my reach

It says: You are doing something wrong and may not create in this portfolio anymore

And I am attempting to be artistic and perhaps a bit poetic

hoping you will recognise my NEED to express myself in some way

But I would really like to play in my own sandbox for a few minutes

Does anyone understand this? Please?

Written Ten Years Ago About This Time

plastic utopia: thoughts on the
deification of pop culture icons; what
happens when push button salvation does
not work—written the night prior to
princesS dianA’s internment

i

(i might as
well be walking
on the sun)

it was started

yet nothing
ever really
happened

we looked for
heroes & we realized
that we didn’t have any

so we made
our own celluloid
deities

we looked
to the one-
eyed-picture-
box for our hollow
push-button
salvation

(all the while
giving praises
to the altars of
the peacock &
the eye)

we were given
flawed philosophies
that we lapped up
like mongrel
stray dogs
which we rebroadcast
as if we were self-appointed
stool pigeon demagogues

we needed leaders
we got harlequins &
lawyers

we need a messiah
we got cheers

we needed knowledge
we go fragglE rock

we needed heroes
we got williS & arnolD

we needed comfort (&what
the hell) it came through—
i miss johN boY & ol’ half pint

we sat in its ominous glow
playing paC-maN sucking down
carbonated beverages
& devouring greasy
reprocessed bovine carcass

we read the tabloids &
let our collective minds become saturated
with nothing-information
& new fangled
yellow journalism

our eyes were filled with pictures of
beautiful people with platinum hair
artificially sculpted bodies with no visible scaring
small noses & perfect caffeine stained teeth

(man, we got took)

ii

our knowledge was
doled out in
thirty second sound bites cleverly
spun by those in charge except
we never figured out who that was

iii

it was their fault
it was your fault
it was his fault
it was mom’s fault
it was dad’s fault
it was falwelL’s fault
it was jiM & tammY fayE’s fault
it was the see-eye-aee’s fault
it was the effa-bee-eye’s fault
it was coL. nortH’s fault
it was some conglomerate-that-took-our-souls-in-the-middle-of-the-night’s fault
it was reagaN’s fault
it was nobody’s fault
it was somebody’s fault
it most certainly was NOT my fault

maybe hensoN had something to with it
i always said that damn frog was going
to be the end of us all

that blasted rubiX cubE certainly didn’t
help matters either

we were doomed

(we were more worried
about ring-around-the-collar
then our preservation)

why didn’t we see this coming

we were too busy worrying about
where the beef was

we gratefully took what
they fed us & drank it
up through prefabricated
plastic straws

iv

our minds rotted & decayed
we still “don’t know diddley”

BUT! we’re in charge now
(haha) move over let us through

to hell with them

fight ‘em
knock ‘em down from
their overbearing righteous
high horses
let ‘em know who’s boss

(ah… a fantasy)

v

(a reality)

instead we just drift
looking searching
but finding nothing

looking

searching

nothing

vi

what does our plastic-cyclops
god say ask it!
turn it on!

hurry! hurry!

maybe the answers
can be found there

(i have a sudden need for
push-button salvation)

why the sudden silence

push the button
PUSH THE BUTTON

nothing! silence!
it can’t be!

the godboX is dead
the godboX is dead
the godboX is dead

!la godboX es morte!

no salvation?
no hope?
no…

nothing?

copyright 2007 DWC

the last eggshells here in this place 6/21

last day at my job, longest day of the
year, and almost six years at
this place.

I am waisting time.

it is the longest day of the year, the sun will
shine forever on today. this is
a little longer than on most
days.

I could talk about horrible and things I've
had to do at this job, I could fill poems of
it. I have filled poems of it. but that would make
it seem like I learned something.
no. I'm going to do something very similar at
somewhere else. I learn nothing.
different but the same. and
they didn't even throw me a party. almost
six years and no party. there was a
Dr. that was here for like 2 years and she got a
party. I came in at the end of the day and
ate some of her pizza. shit.

everything is off the walls.
in my mind, a party could have
redeemed this place and me in
my head. I think I will drink a whole
bottle of champagne tonight and
have a giant cigar. I will have a good
dinner. the stars will
whirl around and land
on some new fortune for me
after the sun returns to the
short days.


ds

spont

this is the eggshells (just have drank)

And now, no more family members to
Exploit - I have created everyone I can
Imagine. A family tree hangs in our office. The
Immediate mother is dead. There is no
Reason to invent aunts. One uncle
Hangs. But he is fleshed out, and I have finished a
Bottle of scotch with this thought in my head...
All the family is over.

All the family is over. Now we invent new.
You - you invent new.
This place is beyond cousins. Invent
Fish. Invent lines. Invent elk.
Invent looking up from the marshes with a
Mouth full of reeds and wet
Food. See that I am chasing you.
I look for you and future that is
In your gut. I am thirst, hungry.
You beautiful. I can eat you for a week.

Tomorrow morning I am to
Fish - with human on the edge of
Water. The world gets small.

I jig and spin.
I reel and jerk.
I accurate.

(we don't catch what we eat I'm drunk it's past late
night looks in the window no more wind I no good
at fishing this is the long day tomorrow I work six days
of work one of rest I rest much longer than one
day) forever.

The family
Rests.

The family
Rests beneath us.
Dust settling on country. Gravestones and
Windowsills. Blow in the spring. Go in the
Fall. Our back is acres.

Please remember
I have no future and know only what I
Remember. The night is
Just outside.
Everything else is
Under and under. Leaves
Grass
Compost
Happy
Worms.

ds - from the bottom of scotch.

Rant Gone Bad

(an apology) I have posted this three other places. I'm feeling manic right now. So, well...

So, you want to learn to write. You want to get to the marrow of it all? You want get that voice on paper and out of your head? I understand, completely. I do, too. But I think I've gotten pretty close to giving up. That doesn't mean that I can't help teach writing. Matter of fact, that is a simmering dream of mine: to teach writing, but there's a problem with that: "you can't teach some how to write." You either got it, or you don't. I know that was bad grammar, maybe even cliched, but it was effective. See, that's writing.

I have a voice in my head. Loud, high pitched and slightly inebriated. The kind of slurred voice one has after three or four vodka tonics, or high balls, or maybe some screwdrivers. Its an elfin voice, my particular bug-a-boo of a voice is Capote. I don't know why that elfin, good-time boy took residence in my head. I wish he would leave. Whenever I write about writing while typing I hear Capote blearily say"that's not writing, that's typing." Oh, I'm sorry, my fault, I used an adverb: "blearily." Sign of bad writing. Stay away from adverbs, says so in Stunk and White, the bible for writers. (An aside: it is my opinion that "the little grey book" aka The Elements of Style by William Strunk and E.B. White is the only book you need to be a writer and pages 70-85 are the fifteen most important pages you'll ever need to read. Those 21 rules are gospel and commandment all rolled into one.) He's right, Capote is, it really isn't writing, it is indeed typing. I can't write by hand. The words tumble out too quickly. My hand can't keep up, so my fingers do what they can.

Where ever I go I have paper and pen: in my blue bag I take to work, in my desk (an oblong green sketch pad that I have written in intermittently since Houston, I had high hopes for that one, but alas it didn't pan out), I have small moleskin notebook, too. Today, I was nippin and tuckin the writing journals and I found one that I liked, I almost bought it with the intention of "writing in it," wouldn't of worked. I'd of written something, but then that pour journal would end up in a corner somewhere dusty. The start of the last sentence "I'd of" is left over from my time in the Appalachians. That's straight Appalachian right there. "I'd of..." bad writing? I don't know. What do I know about good or bad writing.

I work in a bookstore. So, I guess I might know good writing when I see it. I don't. I know what I like and what I don't. I don't know if what I like is good writing. How can I make that decision? Who am I?

You know who started this thought in my head? These thoughts, I should say, and no, it wasn't Capote. It was Tim O'Brien. His book The Things They Carried always beats me over the head. What amazing stuff. I wish I had a thimble of his talent, I don't not even close. I'm a wack job next to him. His book would be my textbook in my writing class, well that and the "little grey book." There would be no tests, but there would be writing. My how there would be writing. My students write until their hands bled. They would hate me. I would make them go deep. Deep into places they wouldn't talk about. I break them. They'd hate me. But they'd survive. They'd write it. They'd have no choice.

I freely give my opinion when I'm reading someone's work. I'm not sure they appreciate it. I should probably stop giving my opinion. My opinion doesn't count for much any way. I'm no critic, I'm an unfulfilled writer. There are shelves and shelves of books that tell me how to write, how to put a word, a thought, an idea on paper. Write that novel THIS year. Here is the proper way to write a poem (oh, please, tell me). I zoned through that section today I should never zone through the how-to write section at 0600, because I brood. Just like I shouldn't zone in the cookbooks after 1600, I dwell on the covers and get hungry and disappointed that I can't cook like that.

So, you want to write? You want to be a writer? Why? What is it that you want? You want to be a writer? Fine, go write. Go ahead. I'll be here, waiting. I'll just go read the master Tim O'Brien. I'll go read my writing class textbook.


DWC

The Father, The Son

my son will never amount
to anything

forty and bald
he spends most nights
locked in his room, emerging
like gregor samsa
(only at feeding time)

and i know what you're
thinking: what does a
dirty old man know
about kafka?

well i'll tell you:
he was miserable
too

peter's mother gave him
to me that summer before
the year of continuity

when everything changed


she was a pretty
thing, smart as a whip,
distributing pamphlets
like some girls collect
diamonds

when i left her, swollen
belly and all, she called
me a coward

said that those papers
were like firewood and
should've been burnt


he was crawling
the first time
i saw him

it made me sick,
watching him,
having him see
me

crawling too

and there,
with blood on
my hands he
sat on my lap,
fussy as all
get out


she never forgave me
for leaving

some nights
i'd wake the whole house
with my screaming

i could feel her lying
tense next to me, still as a
body

i'd scream louder, she
told me, until she
touched my hands and

"shhhh," she'd say, "shhhh"

and in the morning
jonah would
come in, jumping,

as though there was never
a battle

to begin


you can take a life
but you cannot
unlive it

union fees, mowed lawns
groceries and whistles and
dusty books you'll never
read

maps you've marked with
all the places you'd like to go

you will grow old,
i promise you
and you will hate
yourself for it

i became old in the dead
of sleep, waking to find
my son creeping over my legs,
no more promises,
stealing my pabst blue
from the buzzing fridge

"stupid old drunk," i hear
him say

swallowing the ribbon

but i am not drunk, peter,
not now

i am watching you

i am watching what
you have become

I am Peter

well thirdworst - you know me... life through contradictions and all that. I think it's mostly because of the Gemini thing. I mean, I don't believe in it, but it means a lot to me. so anyway... I wrote this in response - thanks.

I am Peter


I am Peter. Well, that’s not my name, but
I am Peter. I had a bag of Chee-tos and scrambled
Eggs for breakfast. Last night I drank two of my
Old man’s beers. Now I will tell you why I
Hate the world.

Everyone always said that I should do something.
Everyone always said that I should do something.
I got both kinds of grades in school. I liked a
Couple of girls who didn’t like me. I got in
Fights because I talked slow and most
Everyone hated me. Then
School was over and I didn’t want any more
School. My mom coughed a lot then
She died. Everyone was so damn sad and
My uncles yelled at my grandma. My aunt
And cousins from New York New York sent me
A card that I couldn’t read because they write
So sloppy. You would think for once they could
Print or something. Everybody in my
Family writes ugly. That’s why I don’t write.

My old man works a lot but he tries to take me to my job some
Mornings because I hate the bus and I complain about
It a lot.

My old man works for the union and makes houses. The
Union sucks. They take all his money just for nothing
And he gets nothing out of it. He could make a hundred
Dollars more a week but they won’t hire without the stupid
Union. I hate the union. I’ll never work for the
Union. My old man sleeps in his chair every night.

When I look everything has a glare. It’s all dull and fuzzy.
It gives me headaches but if I breathe through my
Mouth it doesn’t hurt as bad. I hate work. But I have to
Go because I get paid money so I can buy something
Somebody told me about. I think I have insurance, so
I don’t have to pay to see the Dr. or if I fall or something.
I hate all the customers. I made the store give me a new
Name tag because I didn’t want anybody to know my name
Because I hate them. I wish they could buy everything
On the computer so they wouldn’t bother me. Then I could just
Get a job on the computer. My uncle that lives with us
has a job on the computer. We used to have a dog.

There. That’s why I hate everything. I want
Everybody to shut-up. And if I said the rest of
It, then you’d just tell someone else. And they
Wouldn’t give a damn but they’d tell someone
Else then everyone would know. And everybody
Would want to look in my window and talk to me.
Well I just want the shade down and everything fuzzy
And to drink my old man’s beer after he’s asleep and
The warm world quiet outside the door outside the door.

-ds

It's an oldie... I don't write much anymore, sorry...

Any input is welcome... I'm trying to get back into being creative and my brain has become quite rusty indeed.
----
Stranger

He smelled of cigarettes
And laundry detergent
And of memories…

Watching the sun set
From the loading dock,
Painting pictures with words.

Late nights spend holding Coffee,
Watching a blue screen
Through a drugged haze.

Early morning risings
Chilled with dew,
Walking through puddles.

He smelled of meetings,
Friendships, and blurry-eyed
Good-byes of another time.

And he was just some stranger
Who happened to smell
Like memories…

The Ride Home

Swollen brains, adrenaline buzz.

Desolate city warehouse district
abandoned storefronts, hand-painted signs, "we bay and sale'
broken glass, flat tires,

derelict cars, people and buildings.
City stench

Refinery tanks, rusty and foreboding fences.

Young man, survivor, driving him home.

Young man survivor;

The fall, the moves, the abandonment, the poverty, heartache
heart ache, the endless cycle of new home, school, best friend-leaving.

Single teen-aged mother, two mismatched shoes on her feet, she found them in the warehouse dumpster.The shoes, not the sons, they fit.

All day long, they face their death, riding the Griffin, holding hands, silent screams end in thunderous laughter, SURVIVORS.

Passing silvery tombstones now that shimmer like minnows in a still ocean during a full moon. The endless sea of silver minnow tombstones.

Young man survivor rides his bike past minnows and fences over broken glass and sink hole streets ; to go to school, to get to work, to survive.

She asks him if he is afraid when he rides late at night past the minnows.

He wonders what their lives were like and what finally took them, he is not afraid.

Taking young man survivor home.

the whitewash

there is nothing
i can say to
make you
understand

the boxes
the intangible
loneliness

of lysol, white
walls

and jackets

crammed into
boxes

like st. helen

there is no
excitement
here

only anxiety
& fingers cut
to the bone

and the knowledge
that outside
everything is
the same

that it is always

the same.

linoleum & dust

peter stood at 5'6
a stout thing
with little legs

balding, too,
(adding insult to injury)
and worn plastic
glasses that slid
down his nose

his fingers were
thick, and round, with
nails trimmed by
teeth at
laser precision (just
before the blood
line bursts)

i watched those
fingers drag
the red bicyclette
across the machine's
eye

head down
glasses retreating

he stood watching
the customer bag his own
groceries

not so much refusing
to help, like bartleby,
but rather like a soldier
without the legs

to run


[shoulders caved in,
eyes that camoflage
with linoleum &
dust]


"sir, i'll need you to swipe
your card again"

he interrupts his own
quiet, palm on
pad where everyone
enters their secrets

(kids birthdays,
high school graduation,
virginity lost)

standing there, watching,
my stomach re-invented
itself

thinking of my nephews
and all i hope they never
become

it's not the checkout
or the employee i.d.
engraved by some
corporate entity
that bothers me

but that look in
peter's eyes — those
eyes blurred through
dirty lenses —
when he finally looked

up

(and then down again)

oh, peter,

i imagine once upon a
time you, too,

stomped on your shadow
& made your mother a valentine,
scrawling your name
with the sort of pride that only
a five-year-old knows

this is not what i want
for them

that look, peter,

that look

i see it, again, exiting the store

the man waiting for the bus
the old women hobbling through parked cars
the people who gather and honk

(demanding they hurry along)

it's everywhere, peter,
isn't it?

that look

i see it in me, too,
slamming the trunk
lid

staring into
eyes i scarcely
recognize

opening the
car door
and slouching
into my seat

as if becoming

(again)

a slave to

myself

©thirdworstpoetinthegalaxy, 2007

two old poems

the infinite
(after reading “mescaline” by ginsberG)

i will wait
& watch &
contemplate
think lofty
thoughts &
be a revolutionary
(like giovannI)
i’ll put some
mardI graS beads
in chrisT’s hands
& put a few around
his neck i’ll take a kinG
cakE & put it at his
feet that will be my sacrifice
(that is my offering of penitence)

i’ll stand in front
of a mirror shirtless &
obscene i’ll observe
myself see my stomach
(pink with birthmark) move
as i breathe i’ll see my unshaven face
& my blue/grey eyes my nose
(it fits my face) chin
(genetically dimpled)

these things i’ll see & contemplate
for good or indifferent
i’ll take them i suppose
because from what i understand
a beggar is loathe if he is a chooser

eight haiku


writing to clean me
poetry: bitch of bitches
mind vacant & pure

thoughts of happiness
ideas gone to a bad end
mind-prison: lock-down

mental graffiti
rumors of greatness abound
mind's eye: blank canvas

ideals: destructed
thoughts stricken from the record
poet! take your stand

silence deafening
prisoner to poetry
not wanting freedom

written word unleashed
literature uncorked free
expression: still born

from my hand words flow
writing equals free thinking
poetic soul scream

out! free! not silenced
forget your fear be alive
be now satisfied

DWC 1999

another side of the animal

Yes

Yes Jesus walked on water.
Robes above wet.
The crest bowed.

It was shining
From the arc.

I watched on his knees
Him sit,
The weather heavy
On.

- Short breath into
Drive wind.

And press fingers against the
Coat of water.

And fought the jackal gods of egypt.



The blue virgin

The blue virgin,
Heavy with God
Weight in the desert. A
Sky full of clouds. The starless.
And the small deus came out
In a red wind.

This Jesus, blue from mom
And cold, opened without sight, dark over
His eyes. The weeping crossed his
Chest. The trembling moved him
Down her lap, into other hands.

Lions snorted at the soft god.
Some men stood in a ring.
Morning took its time to come.

Repeat twice and end.



Whale Song

The red. The sound,
Distant, sound of bread
Falling behind the boat. The
Heavy exhale when the whale comes
Up, grabs sobbing crust, dips. You there,
Breaking bread against the sunset,
Fish bleed on the deck behind
You and two streams run under your
Feet. They rill slow and
Sink in the water. Red sunset blurring too.
Red water red gunwales and red
Kissed by the glare
When she surfaces, grabs sobbing crust,
Dips.

The boat is always ahead.
The bow and keel nodding windy.
The whale catching rye and
Breathes of thick red water.

She followed the boat until she rubbed her
Belly going down. Until she felt
A breeze in her eyes. Until she washed in the
Shallow lapping on the stones. And I am
Sure that bread was dropped
Up the beach up the hills
Into the sky where gulls got heavy with it.
The boat does not know
Water from sky.

But what sea journey has
Become a tired whale on shores?
Yours or mine? We are all the same, and
Have followed ourselves to here and man.

all for now. have good weekends.

ds

Call for Submission Calls

I know, I know. I started this blasted thing, and I've yet to curse it with an actual post.

But this unpacking jazz is serious business, and I'm a bit overworked in that regard. It's 1:30 a.m. for crying out loud, and I'm only just preparing for bed.

But I digress.

All to say if I'd like to create a "link list" here that links to poetry magazines, journals and the like that accept submissions — or, more particularly, the exact page that offers the nuts and bolts of submission information.

Feel free to e-mail me any useful links you have; I hope to put something together in the next few days, though we can add/subtract from the list at any time.