I am happy to announce a new contest for a book length collection of poetry.
The contest is now closed. Good luck to all entrants!
To honor Jack Micheline The Guild of Outsider Writers is sponsoring The Jack Micheline Memorial, a contest for a book length collection of poems.
The winner will receive publication of her book by Tainted Coffee Press, copies of the book, an introduction written by S.A. Griffin, and the use of Jack Micheline's artwork for a cover design.
This contest is free and open to anyone who wishes to submit 35 to 65 pages of poetry.
Previously published poems may be included if the author has retained rights and gives proper credit to the original publisher.
Manuscripts may be submitted as a single document attached to an e-mail. Please confine name and contact info (snail and e-mail please) to the uppermost portion of the manuscript. All entries will be judged blind.
My first short story, Indy, has been published in the premier edition of Debris Magazine.
Three poems have been published in July. Ritual has been published at the website of Silenced Press, A Little Change in Your Life has been published in the summer issue of Blue Root, and King of the Off Season has been published in Stimulus-Respond.
A fourth new poem titled This Is Not A Poem appears in the maiden issue of Motherkisser, which rolled out early in August.
Last night, the sixth of July, The Bean Seller had their grand opening and ribbon cutting ceremony. They hosted an open mic, attracting a nice handful of local musicians and poets to perform. And these talents played to a packed house. It was an all ages crowd from toddlers to great-grandparents.
Their coffee is great, the wi-fi is free, they have delicious food and the prices are reasonable. Decor is trendy, think "Friends" with overstuffed couches and a faux fireplace at the center. More than worth a try.
The premier issue of The Quirk is now available. All proceeds from this literary journal will benefit charity. The proceeds from issue one are supporting Unicef.
Contributors to issue one include justin.barrett, Miles J. Bell, Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, David Blaine, J.J. Campbell, Alan Catlin, Glenn W. Cooper, christopher cunningham, Jim Daniels, Diane Di Prima, John Dorsey, Michael Estabrook, Lisa Glatt, Nathan Graziano, S.A. Griffin, Raymond Hammond, Steve Henn, Lori Jakiela, Michael Lee Johnson, Debbie Kirk, Karl Koweski, Michael Kriesel, Lyn Lifshin, Ellaraine Lockie, Hosho McCreesh, Brian McGettrick, Louis McKee, Suchoon Mo, Todd Moore, Brian Morrisey, J.D. Nelson, David Newman, Amanda Oaks, Kathleen Paul-Flanagan, Robert Plath, Misti Rainwater-Lites, C. Allen Rearick, Charles P. Ries, Alberto Rìos, T. Kilgore Splake, John Sweet, William Taylor Jr., David J. Thompson, Joseph Veronneau, Oren Wagner, Kelley Jean White, A.D. Winans, Don Winter, and Mark Wisniewski.
A independent print publication, Calliope Nerve, has used my poems in their two latest issues. Copies are available at no cost, while supplies last. For details visit the publication's website at White Rabbit-*BLACK HOLE* Request issue 9 to read "Violated Expectations" and issue 10 for "The Curveball"
You ask your wife, "Why must it always be about perceptions?” “Well," she replies, "they say perception is nine tenths of the law.”
“No,” you correct her, “That’s possession. Possession is nine tenths of the law.” “You must be right,” she sighs. “You always have to be right.”
This week you wrote villanelles so that at tonight's party you could pass yourself off as a lyricist. “A song writer? That explains the black turtleneck.” chortled your host. “Thank God, I thought you might be a poet.”
That’s how others think.
But you are lying on your bed now, comparing your life to an obscure French movie, one where the English comes only in subtitles.
You resolve to write an epic narrative about the whole sordid thing.
Next weekend you will wear a crew neck, and pass yourself off as a film critic.
You are always passing; it’s forever about perceptions
Sunbeam bullion greets ivy covered brick. New day’s dew freshens night weary life. This was a promise yesterday broken but believed anew each dawn. A finch sings melodious chirps to her mate, notes that are noticed
by the cat on the corner. The butcher’s wife hoses off her sidewalk, speaks Italian to the grocer next door while Dominicans stop to buy jerk chicken from the Jamaican vendor in the park. Their children play on swings with a Korean couple’s son, singing
songs from Sesame Street. Two blocks down a crew is raising steel to build a new tower, a testament to great people making a great country
and a better world. A teamster drives his garbage truck down a snarled avenue. Horns blare and fumes spew while a policeman’s whistle screams. Tired yellow taxis with worn shocks
bob like ducks as they swim downstream. A tugboat is guiding a ship out to sea, the horn moans like a disagreeable ghost. Gulls squawk and cry, chastising escorts, never satisfied,
never making their desires known. Now the sun has warmed the air beyond comfort and the morning dew has become humidity. The garbage truck grows ripe, flies buzz around filthy bundles. Freshness has been replaced by eye searing smog. This is a promise again today broken. But a promise to hope for tomorrow.