CrowVoice Journal

Review of Mike Palecek's Johnny Moon

2011-11-12T15:50:00.001-07:00

Mixing absurdist flights of fancy with poignant memories of a time that was never as innocent as we pretend, Mike Palecek has crafted a free-wheeling novel of the adventures of Johnny Moon, a young Catholic boy who strives to live up to the idealistic credo of his hero President John F. Kennedy: “A strong boy makes a strong man makes a strong nation.” A chubby, pants-wetting target for bullies and strict authority figures, Johnny chants this mantra while walking to school to lose weight, struggling to complete a push-up or stoically coping with everything from icy puddles to attacking S.W.A.T. teams.

When his hero is suddenly gone, Johnny finds himself the unlikely leader of a league of truth-seekers made up of classmates, nuns (who just might really be space aliens), and the coach and janitor (who just might believe that the school boiler is a time-travel machine – and they just might be right). Through darkly hilarious twists and turns, intriguing mysteries and downright oddball WTFs, Palecek leads us into the JFK conspiracy, anti-communist paranoia, and the myriad eccentricities of Church and State. And, as in all of the writings of this Dali-Vonnegut-Chomsky conglomeration of a novelist/activist, the path by which he leads us is unlike anything we could imagine.

But beyond the surrealistic wildness that always marks a Palecek romp, what’s truly best in this novel is its profound empathy. We fall for Johnny Moon because we are Johnny Moon. Palecek remembers details of our childhood that we’ve long forgotten, and when we see (and feel, taste and smell) these minutiae of adolescence being lived by Johnny Moon we wonder how he was able to get into our heads and hearts unnoticed. In this most-enjoyable of his novels to date, Palecek shows himself to be a skilled cartographer of our collective dreams, fears and memories.

And if you don’t remember what you were doing when you heard Kennedy was shot, don’t worry; read this book, and you’ll always remember exactly what Johnny Moon was doing.

~by Marc Beaudin

Blue Slipper Theatre Hosts Theatre Workshop Series

2011-07-04T16:08:00.001-06:00

The Blue Slipper Theatre, 113 E. Callender, Livingston, will host workshops in acting, set-building and play directing this July and August. The workshops, facilitated by director/designer/playwright Marc Beaudin, are open to those of any experience level (including none), ages 15 and up. Cost is $25 per session. Registration is required and can be made at info@crowvoice.com or by leaving a message at (406) 222-7720.

The series kicks off with a two-session Acting Workshop on Saturday, July 23 and Sunday, July 24, from 1:00 to 5:00 pm. The July 23 session focuses on the audition; offering tips and techniques to give more successful readings and taking the mystery and fear out of the process. It will also cover the basics of the stage from directions, terminology and personnel to blocking, vocal projection and pacing.

The July 24 session builds upon the concepts learned the day before; focusing on fleshing out a character and living the scene. It covers discovering a character's personality, motivations, subtext and path, as well as identifying beats, arcs and dramatic units. It then examines the concept of The Moment: what it is, why it's absolutely vital, and (most importantly) how to find it, create it and stay in it.

Next in the series is a Set-Building Workshop on Saturday, August 6, 1:00 – 4:00 pm. Participants will learn the basics of set design, tool use, stage carpentry, and scenic painting. Safety and terminology will also be covered.

The series will end with a Directing Workshop on Saturday, August 13, 1:00 – 4:00 pm. This session will cover script analysis, research and developing a production vision. Participants will learn techniques for building a rehearsal schedule, managing the production team, casting, blocking and guiding actors toward a successful and artistically rewarding experience.

Those interested may sign up for any sessions, or all four. It is encouraged; however, that those planning to take the directing workshop first attend both acting workshops.

Teaching the series is Marc Beaudin, a director, designer, playwright and educator who has directed and/or designed over 40 stage productions and has taught artistic workshops to hundreds of students for many years. Six of his shows have been named to the Top 10 Arts Events of the Year by Michigan’s Saginaw News. This fall, he will be directing his play Frankenstein, Inc., a modern adaptation of the Mary Shelly classic, at the Blue Slipper. More information can be found at Crowoice.com/theatre.htm.

The Jump Club, Chapter One

2011-04-04T17:47:00.001-06:00

Below is chapter one of my novel-in-progress, The Jump Club. For full details on how to subscribe to receive a chapter-a-week directly to your inbox, CLICK HERE.

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

THE JUMP CLUB

Marc Beaudin

[NOTE: This work is fully copyrighted and intended for the private use of subscribers. Please do not post it online or print more than one personal reading copy. Feel free to share your copy with friends and family, but if they enjoy it, please encourage them to buy a subscription. Write info@crowvoice.com for details. Thanks and enjoy. ~mb]

“If it’s not love

then it’s the bomb

that will bring us together.”

–The Smiths

Chapter One

On the short list of things Heron hated, which included smooth jazz, religious hypocrisy and pickled beets, more than anything, he hated the smell of hospitals.

That stale, metallic, chlorinated death smell. It reminded him of jail, but that wasn’t why he hated it. His aversion to this smell started years before that first night he collapsed into the bunk of his cell, and the hopeless steel of the frame, the anonymous history of sweat & urine & blood of the mattress filled his nostrils and sent him reeling to the stainless steel toilet in the corner of the cell to vomit again and again. Perhaps then, it was the smell of jail that reminded him of hospitals, or perhaps the similarity was just a coincidence; if there were any such thing. He no longer believed in coincidence; then again, he no longer believed in much of anything. But he knew one thing for sure: he had hated the smell of hospitals ever since the train accident.

Nicholas Heron sat enveloped within this hated smell, enveloped within the steam rising lonely from his cup of cafeteria coffee, waiting. His eyes flashed back and forth across the half-empty room. They were the kind of eyes you though twice about. Dark brown that seemed to plummet toward black. Eyes that struck one as friendly and honest, but suddenly a shift would reveal some dangerous mystery. It was, in fact, their honestly: too deep and demanding for most people. It was a brutal honestly that cut out as deeply as it cut in. It was terrifying.

He sipped a little too loudly from his wax paper cup; too loudly for one needing to “keep a low profile.” This is what he had said to Dora when he told her that he was coming down to the hospital. She said, “You can’t Nicky, they’ll be looking for you.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep a low profile.”

Dora, his best friend’s wife, was the only person who called him Nicky. He would hate it from anyone but her. She was the only person that Heron allowed to play the role of older sister, or even sometimes mother, to him. Even when they had been lovers for that short, disastrous time a decade ago, she had been his elder, his protector, his worrying advisor. “Nicky.” How it sounded so reassuring, but only in her voice. To most in his close circle, he was simply “Heron.” To those who knew him less, he was “Nicholas.” Nobody ever called him “Nick.”

He had been waiting now for almost an hour, with his beard shaved and his long, light brown hair tucked under a baseball hat, waiting for word from Dora about Martin.

He wished he could be up there with them. He cared more about those two people than he did for anyone. But he couldn’t risk it; it was dangerous enough for him to have even come to the hospital. His escape from the courthouse was big local news, and with all the flag-waving fear mongering going on these days, many patriotic citizens were on the lookout for the “terrorist-at-large.” On top of that was the fact that the cops would suspect him of trying to contact Martin – it was learning of his best friend’s worsening condition that precipitated the escape in the first place. Actually Heron had been looking forward to the rest of his trial. In his mind it wasn’t him, but the government, that was on trial, and he was ready to lay out its guilt for all to see. In a way, it would be his greatest act of what they define as terrorism, but to him was merely following the advice of two of his heroes: Edward Abbey’s “Sentiment without action is the ruin of the soul” and Thomas Jefferson’s “I have sworn upon the altar of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny.”

Heron slurped his coffee again, then noticed that a group of nurses at a nearby table had paused in their conversation and were stealing furtive looks at him.

“Shit,” he thought, “low profile.”

A sudden eruption of laughter at the cafeteria entrance pulled the nurses’ attention away from Heron. A group of teenage girls bounced in, seeming to all talk at once, all in the same voice, all with the same boundless energy. They bought tall Styrofoam cups of fountain pop and sat around the table next to Heron’s, chewing on straws, giggling, and carrying on a conversation generally unintelligible to anyone over twenty.

Through the steam of his coffee, Heron watched the girls. One of them; lanky and freckled, fiery hair and eyes, reminded him of someone he knew long ago. Someone he had thought he’d forgotten entirely, but that was probably only wishful thinking – Anna would forever by lurking somewhere in his heart, waiting to gently stab it again when he least expected it. He wondered where she was now. Certainly married. Kids. A house on the outskirts of some city. Somewhere far, far from those days in Ann Arbor; even farther from those nights.

A voice from one of the girls pulled Heron from his reverie. It somehow cut above the birdlike chatter of the group. “What was that thing, that happened in Russia, you know, that was bad?”

“The Cold War?”

“Yeah. We had a test on it the other day, and…”

Heron stared into his coffee. He stared at his hands which, he noticed for the first time, looked like his father’s. Could it be true that he was this old? That they could be this young? That something as ever-present and looming, scarring and life-defining, as the Cold War could now be nothing more than a misunderstood topic on a high school history test. That nightmare of paranoia and hatred. That national death-wish. That vividly-imagined red button that made the entire world disposable. Heron was suddenly struck by just how long a road it was that separated who he was now and the boy he once had been.

He thought of that boy, and it occurred to him that his earliest childhood memory, before the people and places, before the sights and sounds, his earliest memory, was the smell of rain.

Acting Workshop at Pit and Balcony

2011-01-28T15:44:00.000-07:00

Pit & Balcony Hosts Acting Workshop

Pit and Balcony Community Theatre, 805 N. Hamilton, Saginaw, will host a two-session acting workshop on Saturdays, February 12 and 19, from 1:00 to 5:00 pm. The workshop, facilitated by director/playwright Marc Beaudin, is open to those of any experience level (including none), ages 16 and up. Cost is $25 per session. Registration is required and can be made by calling 754-6587.

The February 12 session focuses on the audition; offering tips and techniques to give more successful readings and taking the mystery and fear out of the process. It will also cover the basics of the stage from directions, terminology and personnel to blocking, vocal projection and pacing. Finally, it will explore the beginnings of building a character, creating relationship and finding motivation. This session lays the foundation for what's covered in the next one.

The February 19 session focuses on fleshing out a character and living the scene. It details how to analyze a script to discover a character's personality, motivations, subtext and path, as well as identifying beats, arcs and dramatic units. It then examines the concept of The Moment: what it is, why it's absolutely vital, and (most importantly) how to find it, create it and stay in it.

Marc Beaudin is a director, designer and educator who has directed numerous productions at six different venues and has taught artistic workshops to hundreds of students for many years. Four of his shows have been named to the Top 10 Arts Events of the Year by The Saginaw News. Originally from Michigan, he now lives in southwest Montana, and is temporarily back in the area, directing The Woman in Black at Pit and Balcony. More information can be found at CrowVoice.com/theatre.htm.

Happy 2011

2011-01-01T14:35:00.000-07:00

Click to read about some new projects for the new year. Thanks!

Facebook Poetry Page

2010-12-05T12:30:00.000-07:00

I now have a Facebook Page for my poetry & spoken word. Check it out and "Like" it. Thanks!

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Marc-Beaudin-Poetry/114416355287745?v=app_2405167945&ref=ts

Director's Note for "Dracula"

2010-10-19T16:08:00.000-06:00

From the program for the Blue Slipper Production of Dracula ...

Like Count Dracula himself, the appeal of the Vampire legend seems to be immortal. Ever since Bram Stoker popularized the eastern European myth with his 1897 novel, we’ve been fascinated by the mysterious stranger who comes in the night. Each new generation adds its own twist on the motif, and each generation is again mesmerized by the Vampire’s spell.

I think the enduring quality of this myth lies in the gifts that the Vampire offers. Unlike most monsters and creatures of the night, who merely want to kill and eat us, Dracula brings the boons of immortality, power and sexual abandon – the very things that many of us seek or yearn for through the avenues of religion, money, and lewd entertainment. But unlike those opiates that make seldom-kept promises, the Vampire fulfills his commitment to us with a sensual bite to the neck. Yet, the cost is the same: our soul.

This play, true to Stoker’s novel, takes us into the heart of this myth, exploring the complexities and contradictions of good and evil, as well as raising complex questions: Does society teach morality or demand repression of our natural selves? Does Dracula, as society’s opposite offer depravity or freedom? Like all great art, Dietz’s play doesn’t give the answers. Rather it holds up a mirror and forces us to search for those answers within ourselves. Hopefully, what we see reflected in that mirror (if anything) doesn’t terrify us … too much.

Dracula at the Blue Slipper, Livingston, MT

2010-10-17T16:50:00.000-06:00

Dracula Haunts Blue Slipper

This Halloween season, Livingston’s Blue Slipper Theatre will offer a terrifying and erotically-charged production of Steven Dietz’s Dracula, directed by Marc Beaudin, from October 8 through 30, at 113 E. Callender Street, downtown Livingston. Performances will be Fridays and Saturdays at 8:00 pm, with Sunday matinees on October 17 and 24, at 3:00 pm. Tickets are $12 ($10 for students and seniors) and may be reserved by calling the Blue Slipper Box Office at 222-7720.

Dietz’s Dracula, based closely on the iconic Bram Stoker novel, takes the audience on an exhilarating and frightful journey through the dark and mysterious world of Count Dracula. With powerful delving into the complexities of good and evil, as well as un-nerving effects and music, director Beaudin hopes to give Livingston a show to remember (and be haunted by) for a long, long time.

Beaudin, who has directed numerous shows in Michigan, including acclaimed productions of Amadeus, The Exonerated, Macbeth, and The Women of Lockerbie, as well as several plays written by him, most notably Frankenstein, Inc., makes his Montana debut with this production. He reports, “It’s exciting to finally have the chance to work with the talented people of the Blue Slipper, and inspiring to dig into such a challenging script with such an adept and hard-working cast.” In addition to his theatre work, Beaudin is also a poet who performs his work at venues around the country and often at the Pine Creek Café. His website is www.crowvoice.com.

The cast features veterans of Livingston and Bozeman stages, as well as exciting newcomers. James Guglielmo is “Dracula,” the mesmerizing count newly arrived from Transylvania. Aaron Scheurr is “Renfield,” an incarcerated lunatic who has a mysterious connection to Dracula. Alexis Weinkauf and Larissa Holdorf play “Lucy” and “Mina” respectively, young women who are drawn into the vampire’s deadly power. “Dr. Seward,” the head of a lunatic asylum, is played by Bret Kinslow, and Chris DeJohn plays “Harker” a lawyer lured into the horrible secrets of Castle Dracula. Rebecca Thomas, Justin Weisgerber, Scott Romsos, Rose Boyer and Jenny Jo Allen round out the cast, playing a collection of asylum attendants, servants and undead vixens under the control of Count Dracula.

Parents should be warned that this production contains scenes of a graphic and terrifying nature that may not be suitable for all ages. Reservations are highly encouraged and more information can be found by visiting www.blueslipper.com.

Memorial Day

2010-05-31T12:49:00.002-06:00

It’s another Memorial Day. The annual chance for everyone to post some sentiment about honoring those who died “protecting our freedom.” Really? Do people actually believe that the soldiers who’ve died since 1945 were protecting our freedom?

I don’t in any way mean to disparage those who suffered and/or died while wearing a uniform. I am saddened and sickened at such a waste of life and potential, and for all the suffering endured by their families. But I have to be honest: These are victims of the corporate military-industrial complex. They are victims of propaganda and jingoism (i.e. patriotism). Their deaths are tragic, but have nothing to do with protecting our freedoms.

Vietnam, Korea, Nicaragua, Lebanon, Grenada, Libya, Panama, Iraq, Afghanistan, Yemen, The Philippines, Columbia, Syria, etc. have never been a threat to our freedom. They have only, if at all, been a threat to some U.S. corporation’s freedom to make a profit. The only attacks that have been made on our freedoms have come from our government and our corporations, and often these attacks are backed up by someone wearing a uniform with an American flag on the sleeve, rather than the flag of one of our so-called enemies.

The reason I’m writing this (and taking the risk of offending some people) is that I believe until we observe this holiday with honesty; that is to say, until we use it to mourn the tragic and avoidable loss to the youth of our nation, to recognize (however painful it may be) that these soldiers are not heroes but victims, we will only be making it easier to send off a new generation to kill and die for causes which have nothing to do with democracy and freedom.

Today is not an occasion to wave a flag and perpetuate empty rhetoric about freedom and glory. It’s a day to mourn and to dedicate ourselves to stopping such horrid madness from continuing.

Love and peace to my friends (and to those we’re told are our enemies).

~Marc

(P.S. – I know some who are reading this will be angered and offended and may leave comments reflecting such. That’s okay. That’s one of the freedoms that you have because you’re a human. No one gives you that freedom. No one protects that freedom for you. No one can take it away. But if you find yourself angry, take a moment to ask yourself why. Could it be that you have bought into the propaganda that uses Memorial Day to make us willing to allow killing in our name and with our money? Something to think about.)

If I were a songwriter ...

2010-05-06T20:32:00.000-06:00

There are no mountains in Montana today
This fog has washed them all away
And it seems this snow is here to stay
There are no mountains in Montana today.

Grizfork Update, Vol. 4

2010-03-30T12:23:00.001-06:00

Click here to view the latest on performances and publications, the current episode of Report from the Mountains – Poetry & Jazz from the Grizfork Studio, the newest installment of poetry at CounterPunch, and more.

To receive these weekly updates directly in your inbox, enter you e-mail below:

Notes from Forest House, SLC

2010-03-28T14:19:00.000-06:00

A fantastic reading at Ken Sanders Rare Books down in Salt Lake. A delicious audience ranging from stoic cowboys to pierced ruffians, from desert rats to yoga-heads. "This Poem" seemed to be the crowd favorite with many asking if it was published anywhere. ... I can't imagine a typical poetry journal ever wanting it, and am not sure if I would include it in a book; however, it definitely will be on the CD I'm hoping to record soon.

After the gig, back to Ken's fantastic Forest House, a magical ship rising above the ocean of steel, brick and glass of SLC, riding the crest of the Wasatch Fault. Delightful violations of Morman Law in cold brown bottles. Tripping over stacks of great books and an endless feast of artwork on every wall.

In the morning, with strong coffee and a wide-eyed window. Watching clouds peeling away from the mountain slopes like burnt skin. leaving scars of luxury homes and radio towers. A brooding darkness pouring in from over the lake, swallowing the buildings of downtown one by one. A goshawk takes refuge in the backyard, silencing all other birds.

Grizfork Update, Vol. 3

2010-03-02T09:28:00.001-07:00

The Rollo & Reba Dialogues, #1

2010-02-25T14:33:00.000-07:00

Rollo: If God created everything, then who created God?

Reba: Humans did, as a way to explain how everything else was created.

Rollo: So, if God is just a human creation, then who did create everything else?

Reba: God, of course.

Grizfork Update, Vol. 2

2010-02-15T15:51:00.001-07:00

Updates from the Grizfork, Vol.1

2010-02-08T15:00:00.003-07:00

Click here to check out the latest on performances, publications, Report from the Mountains, poetry on CounterPunch, and more.

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Ten More Tips for Getting Your Poetry Published

2010-02-03T12:21:00.001-07:00

Read the First 10 Tips Here.

11.
If you have a submission that is pending a response from a journal, don’t send more pieces until you receive a reply. If the stated response time has passed (for Poets’ Basement this is one month), it’s appropriate to send a polite note to inquire as to its status. As far as stated response times, give them some leeway: they may be swamped with more submissions than usual or your poems may be “on deck” for a later publication. But if it’s been a month or two after what’s listed, by all means send a query. If you don’t hear back from them after this, I would write them off as being unprofessional jerks and send my work elsewhere (but still send a still polite note letting them know you’re pulling your work from their consideration).

12.
Don’t send me your first draft. Don’t send me your second draft. Or your third, fourth, or fifth. Send me your final draft.

13.
Separate revision from editing. Editing is technical: proofread; make specific and meaningful decisions about punctuation, line breaks, capitalization, tense and style; cut the superfluous; etc. But revision should be literally “Re-Visioning.” See the work again from that original mind. Return to the heart of your creative spark and make sure that every word serves that vision.

14.
Find and read Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg and Pig Notes & Dumb Music by William Heyen. Re-read them both many times.

15.
Don’t resubmit a piece to a journal that’s already rejected it, even if you think current events make the piece more timely, or you’ve made a couple of minor changes. If the editors wanted it, they would have taken it the first time. If you’ve made a complete revision you might try sending it with an explanatory note, although this may merely give the editors the idea that you should have done the revisions before asking them to consider it the first time.

16.
Make good use of rejection notices. Most editors don’t have the time to send a personal note with your rejections, but when one does, take any comments or advice to heart. They wouldn’t spend the time unless they liked your writing and you were getting close. Honestly ask yourself if their suggestions could help your poem. If the answer is "possibly" or above, go back to work. See #13.

17.
Regarding political or “agenda-driven” verse: If your poem only exists to carry your message, it most likely will fail as a poem. You may be making the most vital and revolutionary point ever made, but that doesn’t in any way excuse a bad poem. Your poem must not be merely a subservient vehicle to your message, it must stand on its own. “No ideas but in things,” said W.C. Williams. Make sure your “thing” is authentic, vibrant and compelling, and then your idea will have the impact it deserves.

18.
If your poem includes an intentional misspelling or similar choice that could easily be considered a typo, include a note specifying your intent.

19.
In his book on directing, Creating Life on Stage, Marshall Mason quotes Jeff Daniels on how he views auditions: “The way I see it, the director has a problem, and I’m there to see if I can help him solve it.” Well, poetry editors have a problem. They need to find and publish the work that best matches their publication’s artistic vision. Help them out by first asking yourself if your work fits that vision, and then by sending them (in the required format) work that is at its best.

20.
Notice in that last tip I said, “work that is at its best” rather than “your best work.” Many journals will tell you to, “send us your best work,” which always bothers me because it implies that your less-than-best poems should be sent somewhere else. It’s not a question of a poem being your best, but its best. Until a poem has been crafted, revised, meditated on, listened to, etc. to the point that you’re sincerely positive (don’t lie to yourself here) that it has reached its full authenticity and music, you shouldn’t send it anywhere.

Poets' Basement on CounterPunch Guidelines & Call for Submissions
CounterPunch.org

Ten Tips for Getting Published in CounterPunch/Poets’ Basement (or Anywhere Else)

2009-11-26T12:29:00.002-07:00

1.
Read the Submission Guidelines and actually follow them. Poetry editors don’t set up guidelines just for kicks: there are specific reasons for each guideline. We receive a lot of submissions and having them formatted a certain way or delivered a certain way means less time making sense of things and more time reading your work. There’s a lot of great poets out there all trying to get published. Why blow your chances of being considered one of them by failing to take some simple steps that are clearly laid out for you? The guidelines are there to help you: use them!

2.
Use standard formatting. Basically this means Times New Roman 12pt. Font (maybe you can get away with Arial or Courier, but why test me?). You can put the title in 14 pt. and/or bold if you like. Single space your poem with one blank space between stanzas. And for gods' sake, don’t center it!

3.
Proofread, proofread, proofread. Have your friend proofread. Have your mom proofread. Have strangers on the bus proofread. Have your dog proofread! Typos tell an editor one thing (whether or not it's justified): you don’t take your work very seriously. If you don’t, why should anyone else? A couple techniques that might help: Read your work backwards. This will help you actually see each word rather than seeing what you think is there. Put your poem in a ridiculously big font. Previously hidden typos will jump out at you. (Just be sure to restore it to 12pt. before you send it.)

4.
This goes back to #2, but

that you think looks "poetic."

5.
This goes for using colors as well.

6.
Don’t tell me to Google you so I can be amazed with your online publishing credits. (Yes, someone did this.) I ask for a short bio. That’s where you can tell me your credentials. I don’t have time to Google you. I'd rather use my time to read your poem. Wouldn't you?

7.
Read your poem out loud and have others read it to you. Listen to the music of it. Are there “off notes”? Does it flow when it should flow and jar when it should jar?

8.
Read poetry. Read contemporary poetry. Read the classics. Read past installments of Poets’ Basement. Read other journals. Find poets who are better than you and learn from them. Read my poetry (this won't help you get published anywhere, but it will help me buy my next beer).

9.
Be specific. Your experience and insight is something that no other poet in the world can give me. Stanislavski wrote, "generality is the enemy of all art," and he was right. The universal is found in the particular.

10.
Beware of adjectives. They are almost always large, unwieldy children.

Read Tips 11 - 20 Here.

To Tweet or Not to Tweet?

2009-11-21T11:34:00.004-07:00

That seems to be the question I'm being forced to ask myself.
Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer yet another techie, time-eating attempt at book promotion
Or to take arms 'gainst a sea of silliness and by going offline, end it.

In the last few days (my apologies if you were hoping for more mangled Shakespeare), I've read in if not a horde of blogs and articles, at least a plethora of them, that Twittering (or is the verb always Tweeting?) is an indispensable tool for a writer. Somehow, telling the world your pithy, little thoughts in 140 characters will sell books. I just don't get it. The tweeter doth protest too much, methinks.

I suppose, for some writers, there could be something to it all. If one is posting actually interesting and relevant messages, as opposed to "I think I'll eat a sandwich now" and "omg, wtf? lol."

Robert Lee Brewer at Writer's Digest offers some good tips to make it more effective. ... I'm sometimes tempted to give it a go. It might prove useful. Maybe. Possibly.

But then I think, it's most likely merely yet another way to avoid working on this new novel. Which is what I should be doing right now instead of writing this blog. I read once in a book I've forgotten, "Writer's write. Everyone else makes excuses." -- Which would make a great Tweet (or is it Twit?).

So please, anyone reading this, let me know what you think. Do you use Twitter? Do you follow others? Can it help build readership, etc. or is it just another fun thing to do with your thumbs? Convince me: should I become a Twit?

Mickey Z. Wants Your Revolutionary Poetry

2009-11-05T12:20:00.000-07:00

Here's something that showed up in my inbox recently:

Calling all feminists, wizards, Queer theorists, ex-Black Panthers,
Christians, Green activists, avant-gardists, Kabbalists, vegans, Hawaiian
nationalists, kickboxers, Punks, Hip Hop evangelists, New New Leftists,
pink-haired emo warriors, organic gardeners -- submit your work for "The Big
Book of Revolutionary Poetry," edited by Sparrow and Mickey Z. Send up to 3
poems to: sparrow44@juno.com or info@mickeyz.net

Also, please forward this announcement far and wide, post it on your website
or blog or Facebook page, and tweet it if you must. Thanks...

P.S. Please don't reply to find out what we mean by "revolutionary." As they
say, if you have to ask...

The Last Autumn

2009-10-27T09:57:00.000-06:00

Lying on the couch with a fever raging through me, I watch leaves dropping from the cottonwood outside my window. I have one hand on a speaker so I can feel this violin sonata of Mozart. Sometimes hearing just isn't enough. In my fever, with the gently-refracted light through the streaked glass, I can't be sure if it's leaves or little birds that are falling; pine siskins perhaps, or mountain bluebirds.

Suddenly, it's the last autumn. The final fall. All the birds fall silently from the trees like yellowed leaves. The bears prepare for a hibernation without end. The last of the green bleeds from the earth like the color from our faces when we hear the news. Our skin grows numb and we lose control of our hands. No amount of Mozart can save us now.

The grey of the sky is an iron door continually slamming shut. The mountainsides are crimson with dead trees: the warming brought the beetles and the pines can't climb any higher to escape. I don't remember voting for this. I don't remember choosing profits for oil companies in favor of life. Wasn't there a moment, some time in the recent past, that we could have said, "No"?

Submit your Poetry to Poets' Basement on CounterPunch

2009-10-05T14:06:00.010-06:00

CounterPunch is the internationally renowned political newsletter edited by Alexander Cockburn and Jeffrey St. Clair. Its weekly poetry installment, Poets' Basement, has published work by Robert Creeley, Harold Pinter, Laurence Ferlinghetti, Patti Smith, and William Heyen, as well as many talented new and upcoming writers. We generally publish three poems per week: Fridays at CounterPunch.org.

Editorial Statement:
For Poets' Basement, we seek work from the leading edge of the poetic dialogue. Have something to say, and say it with precision, music and electricity. In the words of Miscellaneous Jones, “If you’re going to kill a tree just to write something on it, you’d better have something damn good to say.” … Show us creation, not imitation. Passion, not romance. Blood, not tears. Give us thorns without the crown. … Make us think. … Make us stop thinking. … Amaze us.

Submission Guidelines:
We are open to all genres and styles, although the painfully sentimental and dogmatically religious would have more luck elsewhere. Although CounterPunch is a political journal, poems for Poets' Basement need not be restricted to political work. In fact, if your work is merely a political screed masquerading as a poem, it will almost surely be rejected. Simultaneous submissions and previously published work are accepted (provided that you retain the rights to any published pieces). Translations are accepted provided the original work is included along with documentation of granted reprint/translation rights. Works published on Poet’s Basement remain the property of the author. At this time, no monetary payment is possible.

To submit to Poets’ Basement, send an e-mail to CounterPunch’s poetry editor, Marc Beaudin at counterpunchpoetry@gmail.com with your name, the titles being submitted, and your website url or e-mail address (if you’d like this to appear with your work). Also indicate whether or not your poems have been previously published and where. For translations, include poem in original language and documentation of granted reprint/translation rights. Attach up to 5 poems and a short bio, written in 3rd person, as a single Word Document (.doc or .rtf attachments only; no .docx). Expect a response within one month (sometimes longer due to heavy submission periods).

Poems accepted for online publication will be considered for possible inclusion of an upcoming print anthology (details forthcoming).

Ten Tips for Getting Published
Ten More Tips

Prestidigitatious Verse: Enjoying the Trip of David Blaine’s ANTISOCIAL

2009-09-12T12:55:00.003-06:00

(Published by OW Press, 2009. www.OutsiderWriters.org)

The author’s bio at the end of this book notes that this is not the magician of the same name. Yet, David Blaine, the poet, plays with words the way I imagine the other David Blaine plays with cards or silk scarves. His agile manipulations nearly defy physics and the results are surprising, mystifying, and sometimes downright magical.

Blaine revels in the double entendre: In “Guns and Butter” he describes a love affair with oil, the “hydrocarbon medusa,” as a “crude relationship.” In “Child” he says, “the remainder of you perhaps buried / as dust motes drift into a dune / across the top of some deserted windowsill” and we might not even notice the sleight of hand that connects “dune” with the desert of the “deserted windowsill.”

Extended references lurk around the corners of lines like rabbits made to disappear, yet you know they’re still there, somewhere. In “Allen and Jack,” Blaine has Kerouac reincarnated as Willie Nelson (“On the Road … Again”), then later sneaks in a line from “Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.”

But these pages are not merely games and verbal dexterity. You can feel the depth of thought and passion flowing below the surface of most every poem. Blaine takes on issues from the social, political, religious and environmental front-lines. Never beating you over the head, his attack is more subtle and fun to watch – like a blade eased gently through the slot in the brightly-painted box he’s put you. In “The Usual Suspects,” we hear of hands that “sign the orders,” “pull the trigger,” “deal in currency,” “swing the hammer,” “place the nails,” and perform a host of other heinous crimes. We then are given the revelation that all of these hands are ours. And with that, we are successfully sawn in half.

There’s much in the poems of Antisocial that describe an entire world sawn in half. Dead soldiers, starving children, drunks, prostitutes, saints who’ve lost their goodness, Judas’ pointing finger, Dick Cheney’s lies and vitriol, and “a thin man [who] cries so people won’t notice it’s raining.” However true all of this is, we can take comfort in the stoically existentialist wisdom of Blaine’s “Terminal”:

I have this suspicious feeling
that in the end,
at the pearly gates,
it’s all going to turn out
to be fake, worn
and shabby.
But still,
I’m trying to enjoy the trip.

And what a trip it is.

– Marc Beaudin, September 2009

ANTISOCIAL by David Blaine

2009-08-29T11:44:00.004-06:00

New from Outsider Writers Collective:

Listen to some poems - Sign the mailing list

2009-08-17T12:29:00.000-06:00

26

2009-06-23T18:28:00.002-06:00

... Perhaps this is too many. Maybe our poetry would be stronger with less to choose from.

As Jim Harrison says, "The earth's proper scripture could be carried on a three by five card if we weren't drunk on our own blood."

Of course, he uses 20 just for those two lines.

Ecopoetics vs. Nature Poetry

2009-05-30T16:36:00.003-06:00

A recent invitation to a conference on "Ecocriticism" has me thinking about some definitions.

I've always been uncomfortable with the term "nature poetry." It seems to instantly conjure up images of some effete versifier with a quill pen regaling us with adjective-laden descriptions of flowers and sunsets. The problem with this, is that singing of the beauty and inspiration of nature often ignores the fact of our destruction of it. Bad nature poetry uses the natural world for its own selfish end, much as a mining operation or lumber corporation does. When it comes to the natural world (or any world for that matter) mere "observation" or "appreciation" offend me. The Subject/Object fallacy lies about the seer and insults the seen. You need to get your hands dirty, revel in the muck, risk losing your domesticality. In other words, don't talk "about" nature; be nature. Connect.

I think that's what Ecopoetics does; what separates it from nature poetry. In this sense, I think writers like Roethke, Gary Snyder, and Jim Harrison are absolutely not nature poets. And I hope that my work puts be in the same category (not in terms of ability, but of method).

Poetry Clearance Sale at Alt-Current

2009-05-27T12:41:00.004-06:00

The great folks over at Alternating Current are practically giving away books of poetry. Get 'em quick before they're all gone.

Computer Crash Test Dummy

2009-04-19T20:28:00.005-06:00

Recently, a comment I left somewhere was labeled as sarcasm. I wanted to comment back that it wasn't. It was just regular, generic humor. Okay maybe it was absurdist or hyperbolic; certainly meant in fun (surely, I jest wanna have fun). At it's worst, the comment could be pegged as containing a grain of schadenfreude. But just a grain.

But then it finally happened: I knew that my computer was nearing it's D-Day. For some time I felt like I was driving 75, uphill, in a Chevette, pulling a horse trailer loaded with clydesdales. Thursday night, I threw a rod, blew a gasket and broke a CV joint.

After trying every option on the system recovery except the last one, which warned it would erase all programs and files, I closed the lid and went to bed. I lay awake for quite a while thinking: "What am I going to lose." As far as my novel-in-progress, I had printed all but the most recent 3 pages, which I could mostly recreate from memory. There were several poems that I would have to go back to rough drafts in my journal to rework. Several random bits and pieces of ideas for other books and plays. Hundreds of photographs, some of which are posted on Facebook and MySpace and therefore could be retrieved. And about 60 cd's worth of music.

I would also lose the programs I use to maintain my website (which is almost a month late for its monthly update), the program I use to record and engineer my radio show, and the program I use to maintain my genealogy addiction.

Oddly, I fell asleep thinking that it might be a good thing to have it all wiped clean and start fresh. Maybe I would go back to using my old Underwood or Remington Streamliner, if I can find ribbons for them anymore (older folks, please explain typewriter ribbon to the young'uns. Thanks). Maybe I would write my books long-hand and have my wife type them out like Melville; or since I don't have a wife, my sister like Roethke. Maybe I would memorize everything like the people at the end of Fahrenheit 451 or everybody in pre-literate societies.

Or maybe I'd take my computer to a whiz-kid in town and have him fix it for me.

Which is, of course, what I did. And now it's back, better than ever. Still an overloaded Chevette, but at least now with mag wheels and a spoiler. Turns out, the Norton security crap that I paid $60 for was the cause of all the trouble. I read online that one of the problems I had been having was caused by Norton, but when I went to them for help, they told me the problem was Windows, not them. Thanks Norton. Thanks for your great product and great service. I'm sure I'll be sending you much more of my money soon.

Now that was sarcasm.

Opening for The Fossils at Pine Creek

2009-04-10T13:22:00.003-06:00

Tomorrow night, I'll be enjoying the food and bevs, and very cool atmosphere of Pine Creek Lodge, just south of the Grizfork in Paradise Valley.

I'll be performing a set of poetry to open for the legendary Livingston band The Fossils. At the moment, I'm working on a special piece just for the occasion. I should go on around 7:30 or so, the band starts at 8:00.

Kindle or Kindling?

2009-02-11T13:26:00.003-07:00

My friend Brad over at IndyBookMan recently posted his misgivings about Kindle and the whole E-Book idea. I was about to leave a comment, but the more I thought about it, I realized that my thoughts would be too long for a comment. So here's my hat being thrown into the ring:

In a nutshell, I don't like it, I don't want it. Kindle can bite my bytes.

When I'm sitting at my writing desk, surrounded by stacks and stacks of books, I can feel their presence -- hear the whispers of hundreds of stories. They are my friends, my comrades, my muses. I could have all the "information" contained in those books in a little chuck of plastic and metal on my desk, but I would feel nothing from it. No matter what is stored in it, it's still just a lifeless chunk of technology -- without a soul. Books, actual books that I can feel and smell, have souls. Books that can rest on my chest as I fall asleep; books that I can read in the bath and drip water on their pages; books that I can shield the sun with as I lay on my back reading in the tall grass; books that I can underline, scribble in, dog-ear, press flowers in, tuck feathers in between pages that mention that bird, and throw across the room when they piss me off.

And every book on my shelf has a story to tell, beyond the story that's printed on its pages. The story of where I got it. Some were gifts, some from trades with other writers, some found at quirky little book stores in towns I was passing through, some discovered at a Salvation Army hidden between romance novels and Christian self-help drek.

My most treasured came directly from the author and are inscribed personally. Jim Harrison wrote "to a fellow poet" and drew a one-eyed self-portrait; Peter Matthiessen honored me with "Namaste'" and "keep up your good work"; Bill Heyen said "prune for shade" and "let's keep on keeping on despite the diminishments we feel"; Country Joe McDonald, John Sinclair and Ed Sanders all signed "with love" -- Joe throwing in "peace" along with a peace sign; and Al Hellus, in the last thing he ever wrote to me, "friend and fellow traveler." How could these fellow travelers and mentors sign their folder stored in my E-Book reader?

Which gets me to my biggest isssue with all of this. It seems to be just one more way to de-humanize and disembody the art of writing. To further remove the reader from the writer, so that the writer becomes a function of upload and the reader a function of download. That behind the beauty and wonder of the word is nothing more than strings of 1's and 0's, pulses of electricity on a curcuit board; rather than a living, struggling, dreaming and feeling person.

And when times are tough and it gets really cold here in this mountain cabin; a fire of these books would keep me warm and give me light to write by. No Kindle can do that.

Thoughts on "The Poets Are at Their Windows"

2009-02-04T22:16:00.002-07:00

This month's "Poem-of-the-Month" at CrowVoice.com is a new, unpublished piece called "The Poets are at Their Windows."

The title is a line from the Billy Collins poem "Monday" which is collected in his book The Trouble with Poetry. However, I know the poem from a reading of his that my good friend Todd burned for me. I really like his poetry (Billy's that is; though I really like Todd's, too), and I like it even better to hear it in his voice. My favorite is the poem "Japan." Find it. Read it.

But like a good poet, I was hard at work standing at the window with a cup of coffee. It was an uncommonly sunny day (uncommon for a Michigan winter, anyway), and the sunlight on the snow revealed crystals that seemed to be scattered at impossible depths. My eyes went in and out of focus, a late night phone call was still on my mind, and suddenly I was in the middle of a new poem.

I haven't read Billy's book, so I don't know what he thinks the trouble with poetry is; but I would say that given mornings of sunlight on snow and nights of phone calls that feel just as radiant, poetry is doing just fine. As they say in Kiswahili, Si jambo -- "no problem."

"What to Pray For" Wins Editors Award

2009-01-30T12:05:00.000-07:00

I have just been informed that my poem "What to Pray For" was selected for the 2008 Pirene's Fountain Editor's Award. I'm honored.

The poem, which is included in The Moon Cracks Open: A Field Guide to the Birds, was written one evening sitting outside of the Red Eye, and was one of those "stumble-upon" pieces. I was lucky enough to be looking at the moon and the sparrows and the passing cars and listening with more than ears. The words were there for anyone really listening to pluck from the sky and commit to the page -- I was lucky.

You can read about the award and read the poem here.

Learn more about The Moon Cracks Open here.

And, as a postscript, the award comes with a $100 gift certificate for Amazon.com. My question for you is this: What should I buy? Any suggestions for books, cd's, etc. are appreciated. Thanks.

Murder and Coffee

2009-01-29T10:39:00.003-07:00

My first day back at the Grizfork -- back to daily work on the new novel. The light from the woodstove flashes on bookshelves and sleeping cats. For some reason I woke up this morning thinking of the chapter of the cutting of the tree. Which won't mean anything to you until you have a chance to read the book, which won't happen till I finish the book. But it's not a happy chapter, at any rate.

A strange place to begin my first day back. Maybe it's this cold that's torn my throat to shreds, or the exhaustion of driving across the country; but I awoke thinking about that tree and that chainsaw. Sitting at this old wooden table with the sound of the fire crackling, with deer and grouse stalking past the window, I just killed off two of my characters before finishing my second cup of coffee.

Damn good coffee, though, so I'll keep writing.

Review of "The Women of Lockerbie

2009-01-20T18:09:00.001-07:00

Bay City Players production of "The Women of Lockerbie" solidly directed and acted

by Janet I. Martineau | The Saginaw News
Monday January 19, 2009, 11:32 AM

Choice vs. fate ... grief that knows no end ... hate turned into an act of love....

For a little more than 90 uninterrupted minutes, the Bay City Players production of "The Women of Lockerbie" leaves its audience hanging on every word and wondering, wondering, wondering.

Will its suffering parents, who lost a son on the very real Pan-Am Flight 103 blown-up over the tiny Scottish village of Lockerbie in 1988, find solace during their visit there seven years after terrorist act? Watching the wife/mother roaming the town's hills for some small remnant of her son, after all these years, is utterly heart-breaking.

What about the three Lockerbie residents, still coping with what they saw that grim day...and in particular what about one of them, Olive. There seems something unusually unsettling about her.

And that ornery American government official ... why can't he bend and release the clothing gathered from the crash site, so the women of Lockerbie can perform a healing ritual with it.

Deborah Brevoort's insightful script and Marc Beaudin's beautifully understated direction of it make this a must-see play. It speaks volumes about the human condition, and is performed brilliantly by its cast of seven.

This is a quiet play. A soft-spoken one that allows for some unspoken moments of reflection. It is a 10-tissue affair, but the tears are unusual ones we cannot fully explain other than to say it is because the eloquent lines, the poignant situations have so resonated on a zillion levels.

In those 90 quick moments "Lockerbie" deals with difference in how men and women deal with grief, the anguish of how one simple decision (Pan-Am vs. Delta) made by a mother meant her son died, what the residents of Lockerbie witnessed that day juxtaposed with how the New Jersey mother heard the news, how faith enters into all
this and the importance of making sure love always triumphs over hate in some significant way.

Enough said so not to spoil the joy of discovery in this play other than to praise the performances, in particular Elizabeth Dewey as Olive, who from her first appearance on stage connected fully with us; Dulcie Baker and John Tanner as the grieving parents, and Bethany Wagner and Carrie Krzyminski as two other women of Lockerbie who also deftly serve as a Greek chorus in the script.

"Grief needs to talk" is one of the early lines in "Lockerbie." And in every sense, the script lives up to that concept.

Because of Those Smiling Eyes

2009-01-09T14:39:00.002-07:00

It's strange that I can go for days or weeks feeling that there's nothing to write about. One part of me, of course, knows that there is always something to write about. Unfortunately, this doesn't seem to be the part of me that actually does the writing. But then, stars align, or the sun hits the snow in just the right way (I originally typed "write way" which may be more accurate), or the right person looks my way with smiling eyes, and the next thing I know there is everything to write about. The world and every moment of it is a poem, the trick is being able to hear the music continually raging and whistling beneath the cacophonous bleating of your own thoughts.

Listen.

Is There Poetry in my Home Town?

2008-12-18T10:19:00.004-07:00

So I'm back in Michigan, directing a play in the town where I was born. I miss the mountains and the solitude and shooting 8-Ball at the Owl, but it's been interesting returning to some of the places of my childhood.

I drive down a street in my old neighborhood and memories come flooding from every porch and stoop. I step into a corner store and see myself buying penny candy with my birthday money, feeling rich. One may think that all of this would prove fertile ground for poetry; but, so far, nothing. The only thing I've written since being here is a piece that takes place in Kalamazoo.

I was there for a reading recently. A really wonderful night. Great crowd, reception, free beer, good dinner with friends. Caught up with old poet comrades; and met the subject of the one thing I've written since I've been back in my hometown. Or, started to write, that is. Haven't found the ending yet.

Anyway, the point of this is simply to ask: "What the hell?" Where's the flood of words to go with the flood of nostalgia? Maybe I left my writing soul back in the mountains, and am left to flounder here with the other six souls that bounce about within the walls of this morbid boil.

Time to shuffle off.

New Poem Published

2008-11-30T14:50:00.002-07:00

The December issue of Flashquake includes my poem "Tawas Point." You can read it here.

Behind the "Elegy"

2008-11-22T15:23:00.003-07:00

This month's Poem-of-the-Month at CrowVoice.com is a new, unpublished piece called "Elegy."

The cabin where I live (the "Grizfork Studio") is on the east side of the Yellowstone River in an area of Montana called Paradise Valley. In many ways, it's a fitting name. My "backyard" is the Absaroka/Beartooth Wilderness, and I've decided to focus on a small section: the treeline along the south fork of Deep Creek directly behind the property I'm living on. I hike there often, and try to get to know it as I would a friend or lover. To connect. Understand. Be amazed by. Love. To get there, I pass through a rising pasture that's divided into four fields by old ranch fences.

The first section I've named Spirit Owl Field, in honor of the experience discussed in this month's poem. Since first finding the owl, I've stopped by several times on my way to the treeline and mountains, usually bringing tobacco. It's good to see him returning to the earth as everything does. As we all do. Actually, it's not a matter of returning to the earth: we've never left. In fact, there is no we to do the leaving; is there?

Earth places Earth on Earth, watching Earth become Earth. This is a good thing to remember.

Remember.

Interviewed on "Destination Out"

2008-11-11T10:37:00.001-07:00

Mike Johnston, host of the great experimental jazz program "Destination Out" on WCMU Public Radio and bassist for Faruq Z. Bey & The Northwoods Improvisers, called me the other day for an interview and to have me read some poetry for his show.

The interview will air as part of his next broadcast, Sunday, November 16; 11:00 pm (Eastern Time).

If you are in mid- or northern Michigan or the Algoma District of Ontario, you can tune in on one of these stations:

89.5 Mt. Pleasant
90.1 Bay City
91.7 Alpena
95.7 Oscoda
96.9 Standish
98.3 Sault Ste. Marie
103.9 Harbor Springs

Otherwise, you can listen to it online here: http://wcmu.org/radio/listenlivepage.html

We discuss the link between jazz and poetry, current politics, and I read several pieces from both The Moon Cracks Open: A Field Guide to the Birds and Jihad bil Qalam: To Strive by Means of the Pen.

New Review of The Moon Cracks Open

2008-10-28T23:37:00.002-06:00

Yu-Han Chao has written a review of The Moon Cracks Open on Roses and Thorns. Give it a read. Then check out Yu-Han's work. Hell of a writer.

Poems Published in Pirene's Fountain

2008-10-26T17:57:00.002-06:00

Three of my poems, "October," "What to Pray for (Passer Domesticus)" and "Federico Garcia Lorca Reminds me of Robert Frost," have just been published in the online poetry journal, Pirene's Fountain.

These poems are from my book The Moon Cracks Open: A Field Guide to the Birds.

Those Pesky Picas

2008-10-25T10:53:00.005-06:00

Actually, it's those pesky ornithologists.

Today, while researching another book, I found out that The Moon Cracks Open: A Field Guide to the Birds contains some faulty science. Fortunately, it's a book of poetry, so the science is of questionable import anyway. However, my poem "Writing at Grizfork Studio" identifies the magpie as Pica pica. Turns out, it should be Pica hudsonia.

They (ornithologists, not the VanPatten's) had thought, until recently, that the black-billed magpie of the western U.S. (and my poem) was the same species as the eurasian magpie. But now, the official word is nope. (Not a very official sounding word, I know.)

Anyway, here's the new version of the poem, based on the latest science. If you'd like to read the original, unscientific version, you'll have to buy the book.

Writing at Grizfork Studio (Pica Hudsonia)

Each day begins
w/ the conversations of magpies
who never run out of things to talk about

Each morning unfolds
w/ the fact of those mountains
who never feel the need to say a thing

I sit at my desk
w/ both of them and try
to grab hold of something that lies between the two

On a good day,
I come close.

Regarding "October"

2008-10-17T21:15:00.002-06:00

This month's "Poem-of-the-Month" at CrowVoice.com is titled "October." This may be the most poetic of months. Old T.S. may have April pegged as the cruelest, though I disagree, but there's something about October, something pensive and sadly beautiful, that makes for putting pen to paper and filling it with sighs and longings.

The poem "October" is a bit of departure for me, in that it's on the surface, a piece of fiction. The characters and events are made up. Fabricated. Imagined out of the hunger for poetry in a mood that can be best characterized as October. However, I agree with an e-mail I just received:

"I read your October poem…how real to me it felt. I was that woman and I was that man ..."

We've all been there. Unwilling to admit the failure of a relationship. Unable to accept the truth. I had no one in mind when I wrote it. I had everyone in mind. I had you in mind.

I was looking out of the window at the bar. I was listening to quiet jazz. I was working at the gas station, watching the guy at the pay phone.

"And I'm lost in the window
I hide on the stairway
I hang in the curtain
I sleep in your hat
And no one brings anything
Small into a bar around here."

New Mini-Chap from Propaganda Press

2008-10-12T11:37:00.002-06:00

My friends over at Alternating Current and Propaganda Press have announced the release of the newest book in their Pocket Protector Mini-Chap Series. It's a great idea, and these folks are doing wonderful work to support independent writers. Here's their release:

Ice Age
by David S. Pointer
$3.50 [includes US shipping; out of country add $2]

Ice Age is David S. Pointer's most recent masterpiece of social commentary and eye-opening honesty, now available from Propaganda Press. The newest poetry collection from this veteran poet maudit is book three in our Pocket Protector mini-chapbook series and will not disappoint in being a telling and lasting remark on our current government, economy, society, and way of life. Touching largely on the separation of classes, the understanding of order and place in our current system, the substandard living environments of substandard people, and what the hierarchy does (or doesn't do!) about it all. This collection is Pointer at his sharpest and most insightful, jamming 40 poems into this small pocket-sized book, each one a dagger of wit, keen observation, intelligence, and stunning imagery. An absolute must-have for your collection! All authors on our press receive royalties for each copy sold, so your purchase goes to support David directly!

Purchase this book via well-concealed cash/check/money order (made out to Alternating Current) and mail to Alternating Current, PO Box 398058, Cambridge MA 02139 USA; or via PayPal to the email address alt.current@gmail.com; or purchase online at alt-current.com [available online in mid-October!]. Only $3.50, includes domestic shipping (out-of-USA add $2 shipping).

And what is the Pocket Protector mini-chap series, you ask? Well, it is a series of teeny tiny poetry books, so small they can fit in any pocket, available for a super great price. Poets are chosen by invitation only, and a new book featuring a new poet comes out once a month.

Get a SUBSCRIPTION starting with David's book!
One-year [12 books] for $30
Two-year [24 books] for $45

Special deals:
*ONE FREE random chapbook from the archives with each purchase.
*Purchase a subscription, and we'll throw in a bonus pack of several random chapbooks from the archives.
*GET ALL THREE Pocket Protectors in the collection [including David S. Pointer's Ice Age, Ed Galing's Scribbles, and leah angstman's an alien here] for one low price of $7 !!! [includes US shipping; out-of-country add $2 shipping]

Please do not ask for comped or traded copies of the book, as this is an unaffordable request that hurts both the author and our press. If you are willing to review this book or get the material in local stores, libraries, or zine collections, please contact us, and we will gladly negotiate. Support the small press!

The Moon Cracks Open Book Trailer

2008-10-05T21:57:00.002-06:00

Find more videos like this on Book Marketing Network

Thanks to:
Mike Johnston and Faruq Z. Bey & The Northwoods Improvisers for the use of their song "Rwanda"
Kellie Schneider for the use of the illustration "Holy Pigeons"
Meg Kearney, Mike Johnston, William Heyen and Doug Peacock for featured blurbs

Poem excerpts from "La Sona de la Mar" from The Moon Cracks Open: A Field Guide to the Birds
Photography of Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes and Mackinaw Island by the author

Coyote of the Birds

2008-10-05T11:10:00.004-06:00

(I like that title. Reminds me of "Harold of the Rocks.")

Anyway ...

Something I didn't notice until after the publication of The Moon Cracks Open: A Field Guide to the Birds is the prevalence of Coyote dancing through those pages. I think, somehow, he and Crow are the two main characters of this story. I was already aware of Crow's stature in my writing (he will show up in poems about anything -- always an unannounced yet welcome guest). But Coyote is different.

At first, only his voice appears. He himself remains hidden. He's heard first in "Federico Garcia Lorca Reminds me of Robert Frost," a poem that seems to speak to the frailty of a life lived isolated from nature:

" ... When a coyote knifes the darkness
you think of sirens ..."

And then, nearly a dozen pages later, in "Southeast of Red Shirt":

"... Coyote’s song rings in my ear
like the afterglow
of a lightning flash ..."

In both poems, his voice comes at night, as a knife and as lightning. Both cutting the fabric of the darkened sky. But when we finally see him in the flesh, it is in the light of day:

"... They trick the sun as
Coyote tries to
but always gets distracted
by his own dancing shadow
(These being shadow, have none) ..."

Here is being compared to his counterpart, his opposite, his double: the Crow. They spin around each other like the Yin and Yang elements of the Taoist symbol. Coyote is of the night, but brings day with his lightning flash. Crow is of the day, but made of night. Together they turn the wheel of the sky around the world.

The final time we see Coyote, he is bringing day back into night; continuing the endless cycle of birth/death/birth. In "The Illness of Windows," a northern junco has died by flying into the window near our feeders at Green Point Nature Center. The idea is that it is our human weakness that necessitates buildings, and therefore windows; and if it weren't for this weakness, this illness, the bird would still be alive. But coyote enters at the very end of the poem to remind me that forms change, but Essence is eternal:

"... I place the stiffening body on the grass,
deciding against burial:
the coyotes, at least, have a love of glass."

Excerpts from the Labyrinth Journal

2008-09-29T10:17:00.003-06:00

[Disconnected fragments found in one of my old journals.
A couple times a year, I pull out one of these tattered, beer-stained notebooks and read through it. I feel like an archeologist. Many poems of mine have come from one of these digs. I'll let you know if any come from these bone fragments and pottery shards.]

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

... We can never be sure of any of our memories
when the sea is involved ...

... she touches her ear;
seems softly happy ...

... I don’t mind Christians individually. It’s when two or more are gathered in His name that they start to worry me. ...

... Noah was often seasick and dreamed of taking a drive in the country in a pale blue Chevy; the bugs splattering against his windshield, two at a time. ...

... A walk in the woods alone is a meditation
A walk in the woods w/ two is a communion
A walk in the woods w/ three is a fellowship
A walk in the woods w/ four or more is a walk in the woods ...

... A crumpled dollar bill
like a distant dripping faucet:
Desolate. Beautiful. ...

... All art is revolutionary.
All revolutionaries are artists.
All absolutes are false. ...

Two Degrees of Greg Klyma: "Rust Belt Vagabond"

2008-09-25T22:02:00.002-06:00

The gods of the mail smiled on me today: I received a small package from Buffalo, NY. I opened it to find the new CD by my good friend Greg Klyma, Rust Belt Vagabond. Pulling it from the envelope, I felt instantly I was in for a treat: The hauntingly beautiful cover image – a snow-dusted, lonely, winding road lit ethereally in red – indicates precisely the mood and depth of the ten songs within.

I dropped the disc into the player, opened a beer and stepped out onto the porch. Leaning back in a decrepit rocker, feet kicked up on the half-painted rail, I watched the first western stars pull themselves from the rags of cloud cover over the mountains and listened to the first few tracks.

What I heard was the testament of a man with more miles behind him that most singers twice his age. When you hear a Klyma song, you can never be sure if you’re hearing something brand new or some long-forgotten song that has been a part of the American Folk psyche for generations. As the songs continued to roll out of the speakers like a slow moving train or river barge, it became apparent that Rust Belt Vagabond is Klyma’s Magnun Opus; at least, so far – one suspects, and hopes, that there will be many more.

I defy anyone to try to listen to “Suicide Blue” without being haunted or “Add a Little Love” without smiling and tapping a foot or “Two Degrees in Buffalo” without feeling that he’s singing about your home town or any track on this album without riding waves of nostalgia and empathy.

My favorite line from the Jarmusch film Down by Law is spoken in broken English by Bob (Roberto Benigni) to Zack (Tom Waits): “Is a sad and beautiful world,” he says. That line sums up the reality of life as well as any I’ve heard; and it describes Rust Belt Vagabond as truthfully as could be imagined. Sad and beautiful, indeed – and the exquisiteness of the latter owes to the deep honesty of the former.

Visit Greg's Website, Klyma.com
Buy Rust Best Vagabond at CD Baby

Why Another "Handful of Dust"?

2008-09-22T13:37:00.002-06:00

As I was developing, discovering, living, and writing my novel, I went through several working titles. "Renew the Ghost Dance" (trite). "The Ghost Dance Sutra" (pretentious). "The Blah, Blah Chronicles" (brilliant, but no).

Eventually, an account I read in Mooney's The Ghost Dance Religion and the Sioux Outbreak of 1890 began to become a central symbol for the book I was writing, which led to the final title of A Handful of Dust. This was an act performed by a doomed man in the moments before the massacre of Wounded Knee. As I describe it in the novel:

"The light of early morning brought no relief from the bitter cold of late December as the pneumonia-stricken Lakota leader [Bigfoot] and his followers were assembled by the troops. An order for a surrender of weapons resulted in a handful of hunting rifles. The Bluecoats were unsatisfied and began ransacking the tents; taking axes, knives and even tent stakes. Following this, they began pulling blankets from the people themselves, searching without a shred of discretion. At this newest insult and haughty lawlessness, the medicine man Yellow Bird performed an act of profound poetry. In the face of absolute hopelessness, treachery and impending slaughter, he danced a few steps of the outlawed Ghost Dance and began singing one of the holy songs -- he then took up a hanful of dust and threw it into the air. A handful of dust in defiance against not only this insolence, these blood-thirsty cowards, those looming Hotchiss guns; but also against the generations of greed, hypocrisy and stupidity; the lies, thefts and murders; the genocide, enslavement and subjugation.
"A handful of dust to sting the eyes of hatred."

And then later:

"Against certain death, in the face of the complete destruction of his people and everything that he knew was sacred and good, Yellow Bird danced. And in complete defiance of the reality of those guns, to scoop up a handful of dust and throw it into the air. ... It is merely a handful of dust, and yet we must remember that this is how the world began."

Yellow Bird's final act became the central metaphor for the primary message of the novel, so I then knew which title was the only one to use. A couple years later (it took me ten years to go from the initial idea for the book to hammering out the last page), I was shocked to come across a small paperback in a used book store: A Handful of Dust by Evelyn Waugh.

I was floored, stunned, and distraught with the thought that I might need to change my title. Not for legal reasons (you can't copyright a title), but for personal ones: I needed my book to be singular. I haven't read Waugh's book, though a friend has told me that it's one of his favorites, but flipping through it, I got the sense that it's yet another look into the tragic lives of obsenely wealthy British people. Something Robin Leech might narrate. I'm sure that Waugh means to condemn this lifestyle, but I'm not sure that these types of books ever achieve their intent. I suspect that most readers get caught up in the fancy estates and extravagant clothes and exorbitant dinner parties, and entirely miss the underlying social message. (To me, Titanic was a poorly-acted story about the injustice of the rich placing more value on their lives than those of the poor; but to the vast majority, it was a tragic love story. ... I couldn't wait for the damn boat to sink ... but that's a whole other can of worms -- who says that? "a whole other can of worms"? I'm not even sure if that's the right expression, not being a fishing person).

(Here's a dirty, little secret for you: I don't give a damn about the troubles of the extremely rich and their constant strife with being torn between love and class propriety. The vast majority of the world's people have real troubles, caused mostly by the aristocrats and oligarchs who are enshrined in so much literature and film.)

Waugh takes his title from T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land:

And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

So what to do? Change what I knew was the true title of my novel, or share the name with another book? I finally decided (after much grief and soul-searching) to keep it, and here's why:

Nothing against Waugh; in fact, I'm sure he's a much better novelist than I am, but I believe that my use of this particular title has more meaning than his. I can't prove this, or even wish to argue it -- it's just something I feel. I'd choose Yellow Bird over Eliot as a guiding inspiration any day. Nothing against Eliot (although I am a better poet than he; except for "Four Quartets" and "Prufrock.")

[You can read sample chapters of my A Handful of Dust here.
And you can read in interesting review of Waugh's book here.]

Poetry Podcast

2008-09-20T22:31:00.002-06:00

This aired in June, before the release of The Moon Cracks Open on the Saginaw News' entertainment editor's podcast, "Janet's Journal."

Marc reading from The Moon Cracks Open.

It features me reading several poems from the new book. It was an early morning recording, and I was somewhat hungover, but I think it turned out pretty good, considering.

Enjoy.

(Also, I've posted a brand new poem at my MySpace blog -- I'm not sure if you need an account or not to read it. Somebody try and let me know. Thanks.)

Back in the Scrabble Again

2008-09-14T22:04:00.005-06:00

Three chapters into the new novel, and it finally feels like it's coming back to me. The flow. The focus. The feeling of the right word at the right time. ("The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between the lightning and the lightning bug" --Mark Twain).

When I was writing A Handful of Dust, I got to the point where I was in that space all the time. I would do things like forget to eat and sneak away from parties to go back to my typewriter. Granted, it took me eight years to get to that point. Eight years of living with that story in my head and gut. While I was in Dublin, I finally figured out how the story could be told. I came back to Michigan as quickly as possible, found a free place to live, stocked up on coffee, pasta, and red wine, and wrote.

I stuck an index card on the wall above my typewriter that said, "Writer's write; everyone else makes excuses." Another wall was covered with hundreds of small scraps of paper with the details of the book scrawled on them. I had my journals, a few stacks of books, and a small radio tuned to the public radio station -- I organized notes during classical music and wrote during jazz.

This time around I have a studio/cabin full of books and CD's, a good supply of Rainier beer, a talkative cat, and the mountains. All of them help.

Tomorrow morning, we start chapter four. Wish me luck.

Today's Writing . . .

2008-09-13T21:53:00.003-06:00

. . . Not a word, really.

I looked at chapter 3 of the new novel I'm working on. I changed one or two words. I remembered the the type of boat motor I wanted to have one of the characters use was an Evinrude 7.5 horsepower. But other than that? . . . Crickets.

Well, in all fairness, I did write most of a blog about 9/11 and having dinner with three amazing and pretty well-known writers, but it began to feel like a facade for name-dropping, so I scrapped it. There was a point to it, though. Maybe I'll rewrite it and just use their initials.

But the point is; I'm trying to get into the habit of writing everyday. At least a page. Or a poem. Something to justify this life of complete leisure I've managed to devise. Maybe I can decide that today was the last day of a little vacation and tomorrow it back to the grindstone. Yes, tomorrow there will be two pages to make up for today.

I did write something the day before, though. A short poem that I composed while still half asleep. It made much more sense at the time, but here it is:

Smoke rings silent
around the bell of his head
Bell rings once: deafening

Karma Eats Dogma

2008-09-12T15:14:00.003-06:00

Jesus wept, but Kasapa smiled.
That's the only theological argument I need.

Naming Nagashana

2008-09-11T10:13:00.005-06:00

I thought I'd start off with a question that I get asked all the time. "Why does the main character in A Handful of Dust have such a strange name?"

Finding names for characters is one of the aspects of fiction that I find most difficult, and in the case of this character (since it's really just me), especially so. I didn't want a name that reminded me of anyone, or implied character traits that would be misleading. During my search, I came upon a Sanskrit word, Nagashana, which literally translates as "peacock, whose food is snakes." On a trivial level, this name satisfied my two conditions: it certainly didn't remind me of someone else, and it didn't imply misleading traits the way "Buck" or "San Peligroso" or "Mary" would.

But on a deeper level, it was immediately the right name to use. You see, at the time, I could only trace my family matrilineally back to my mom's mom's mom, DeEtta Peacock. Since a matriarchy makes more sense to me than a patriarchy (one of the themes of the novel), I liked aligning myself with the Peacock clan. As far as the "whose food is snakes," i.e. who is nourished by the Snake -- a major theme of the novel is the Snake being a symbol for the Earth, and as the novel reveals, the character of Nagashana (and the me he's based on) is literally the Peacock who is nourished by the Earth.

When I was giving a reading for a university writing class once, an Indian student asked, "Nagashana is a Hindu god; aren't you worried that you may offend Hindus by using a name for a god as your character?" (I think the implication may have been, "you arrogant bastard, how dare you compare yourself to a god!")

I explained my reasons for using the name and said I meant no offense, but the answer I would have given if I weren't still trying to convince this jerk to buy a copy of the book, is this:

If anyone is offended by someone's use of a word that they consider "holy" (all words are, incidentally), that person is clearly wrapped up in the dogma of their religion rather than the essence of it. The name is not the Being. The map is not the land. Words can never hold the Nameless. Which is why Lao Tzu said, "The Tao that can be named is not the eternal Tao" and why some nomadic Hebraic tradition attested that the true name of Jehovah could not be spoken. Those wrapped up in the essence of this religion knew that this meant that the big spirit of the cosmos can't be contained by a human word (you can't limit the Limitless). Those caught up in the dogma of it, stoned people to death for saying, "That halibut was good enough for Jehovah."

Saying "god damn" is not taking the lord's name in vain; using god to justify invading Iraq is.

And as far as the implication that it's egotistical to call oneself god, it's the exact opposite of ego. Our ego makes us think we're separate from the Eternal, the Nameless, the Tao, the grand pooh-bah in the sky. I am god just as you are god and everything known and unknown is. This is why the Mandukya Upanishad says, "All this that we see without is Brahman. The Self that is within is Brahman." (Hint for winning an argument with a dogmatist: Always quote their own scripture to them; it will always prove them wrong, and usually force them to acknowledge that they have no idea what they're talking about, they're merely regurgitating what some mean, old guy told them to think.)

As far as being a Peacock, I've since traced my genealogy back to my mom's mom's mom's mom's mom's mom's mom whose name was Sarah Miller, but I don't know her maiden name. Which I guess means that Nagashana's name should be "the Unnamed-Unknown who is nourished by the Earth." Works for me.

By Way of an Introduction

2008-09-11T09:31:00.003-06:00

Greetings and Salivations!

So I've finally decided to keep a blog. I've been blogging erratically on my MySpace page and haphazardly over at AuthorsBookshop.com, but it seems high time I got a little more focused with the whole enchilada (blue corn from El Azteco).

My idea is to use this space to discuss background, backstory, and bacteria relating to my published and unpublished writings. I'll flesh out topics that perhaps necessitated being passed over a bit lightly in their original form (whether poem or prose piece). And I'll try to answer any questions that anyone may have regarding my work -- or anything else for that matter (I can B.S. like a PhD and PDQ, too. OK?)

What writing works are these, you may be asking? (Imaginary audiences are great: you can make them ask all the right questions. Plato knew that better than anyone, that's why he sounded so damn smart all the time.)

Anyway here's what's been published (feel free to give them a browse before continuing, and by all means, order a copy or two):

The Moon Cracks Open: A Field Guide to the Birds (Poetry)
A Handful of Dust (Novel)
Jihad bil Qalam: To Strive by Means of the Pen (Anti-War Anthology; Editor)
and three poetry chapbooks: Saginaw Songs, The Lost Writings of Miscellaneous Jones, and When God Was a Child.

There have also been several plays produced/performed at the 303 Collective, CAGE, and Bedlam Studios. You can learn more about them here.

I'm hoping that this blog proves helpful and entertaining to my readers (and helps new readers find my work). So spread the word, pour a strong cup of Josef, or open a bottle of red wine -- preferable a San Giovese (the "Blood of Jove",) or crack a cold one -- preferably PBR (the Drool of Joad), and put on your reading goggles: Here comes the CrowVoice Journal.