shit quick, the bear is coming

photo (15)What’s the time? For the past ten years of my life, I couldn’t have told you. Post-graduate school, I started a career as a tenure-track professor. I had classes to prep and teach, papers to grade, students to advise, and committees, committees, committees. Then I foolishly founded a literary magazine that needed every once of my will for it to exist. Above all I had a wife that needed a husband and two small children in need of fathering and all that entailed. I would occasionally be called upon to be a son, a brother, a friend. I had a house to maintain and my chores were innumerable. I had hobbies, pastimes, pets, and for a while I combined the three into a dozen chickens. Those birds gave me the best eggs I’ve ever eaten, rich saffron yolks, but they shit a lot, too, as animals are wont to do, and that shit needed to be cleaned up regularly lest things get real. A good metaphor for life, that bit about the chickens.

To paraphrase Tolkien, I was feeling thin, stretched, like butter spread over too much bread. To paraphrase Ron Swanson, I was half-assing too much, and whole-assing too little. At forty, I see myself in the mirror. Tenured, a poetry book under my belt (whatever that’s worth), the magazine established, I have passed through both the eye of my own professional needle and through the jaws of my own snarling, selfmade noonday demon, family and health relatively intact. And while there’s always room for betterment, perhaps even for some additional kind of distinction, there’s also now this thing called time. Mostly, I just want a nap, but I’m trying to be responsible in this newfound place. I’m busy and engaged, learning a new language, teaching, writing. While I’m hardly using my sabbatical year to help eradicate Ebola or to contribute in even the smallest of ways to ending conflicts in Syria or Ukraine, while I have little in the way of contribution upon the subject of Bill Cosby, the horror show that was the American mid-term elections, or the careening clown car named the Duggars, that’s probably a silly standard to hold oneself to, isn’t it?

We live, we eat, we die, and we should all get over ourselves. I’m beginning to see this now that I have the time, finite though it may be. I’m using mine to help my family through the daily experience of living abroad. I’m using mine to scrape out a little extra space for joy or exhilaration or catharsis or something approximate where I can get it. On really good days, I’m using mine to get my 7-year-old son off to his adoptive Estonian elementary school without either of us having a panic attack. These things are accomplishments when I take the time to see them as such.Though there still be a lot of dirty laundry on the floor, though there remain many unwritten words.



say yes and see what happens

RattamaratonWebEstonians are said to be a quiet, reserved, and polite people, or so the guidebooks would have us believe. Judged from the vantage point of my own loud, obnoxious middle-American standard, I suppose there’s a scrap of truth to the quiet part, but let’s be honest, most of the world’s peoples are publicly quieter than me and my brothers and sisters in the good old USofA and by a long shot, saying nothing of northern Europeans. As for reserved and polite, that’s harder to get at. Certainly, my experience has been that Estonians are more formal than Americans in speech and dress (they observe the formal/informal “you” when they speak to strangers, for instance, and I have yet to see an Estonian publicly wearing sweatpants). I will observe, however, that for a supposedly reserved people, they sure like to sing in public a lot and celebrate every minute occasion with feasting, flowers, and yet even more singing. It strikes me that the reserved part is maybe more a holdover from the Soviet-period when being reserved might have been all that spared a person from a one-way cattle car ride to the gulag. In my personal experience, Estonians are a whole lot of loud, gregarious fun (just my kind), once they’re done with telling you how quiet, reserved, and not fun they are.

Case in point, the Tartu Rattamaraton, which is the largest mountain bike race in Estonia, and the third largest (claim the organizers) in the world. There were 8,400 cyclists across three events in this year’s event, held September 21 – a children’s race, a competitive 89K race, and a genial 40K race. I learned about the race from my wife who’d mentioned to my daughter’s homeroom teacher that I liked to bicycle, to which my daughter’s homeroom teacher exclaimed, “my husband, too!” Then the homeroom teacher went home and said to her husband something I can only imagine as, “the nice American man likes to ride bikes and so do you, do something about it,” which must have elicited both a roll of the eyes and a sigh, but did end with a very nice email informing me about the race.

Now, I’m a pretty experienced mountain biker, if I do say so myself. I’m not claiming to be particularly good at it, and I’m certainly not competitive, but I’m a shade better than the average bear, and as my home trails in Michigan’s Keweenaw Peninsula provide some of the best single-track riding anywhere in the world, I’m also decently practiced. More importantly, perhaps, I’m annoyingly fey about the whole thing. For instance, I exclusively ride a 29+ single-speed, only on a Brook’s saddle, I prefer Bern helmets and 5.10 free ride shoes, among other accouterment, and I have very strongly held opinions and prejudices regarding riding style. What does any of this mean, you ask? In terms of actual mountain biking, it means fuck all, save that I can be a precious and profoundly pompous ass about it when I choose.  And/or it means I had picky questions about the race to which I received unsatisfying answers from my sources.

Was the Tartu Rattamaraton a road race? No, a mountain bike race. But from the website I can see that it’s not really on trails?  No, a mixture of pavement, dirt roads, grassy farm lanes, and wooded two-tracks, with the occasional small knoll thrown in for interest (the highest point in the whole damn country, after all, is Suur Munamägi – literally, “Big Egg Mountain” – at only 318 metres or 1,043 feet above sea level). But everyone rides mountain bikes? No, they ride whatever. What’s whatever? Whatever is whatever, ride what you want. But all I have here in Estonia is an old jalopy of a cruiser, single speed, coaster brakes, fenders, a bell, and all I see online are pictures of people riding mountain bikes? Your bike will do fine, people use similar bikes all the time. For forty kilometers? Yes, yes, yes, some even wear costumes. Wait, costumes, what?

And so on because I couldn’t reconcile what I was being told with what I was reading with what I was seeing online with what I thought I knew about mountain biking and mountain bike races. Was my daughter’s teacher’s husband being honest with me, obtuse, merely polite, or was he yanking my chain? And there’s the crux. I can’t tell. True, Estonians are a polite people, but the way politeness combines with the reserved and quiet part comes across as something closer to cagey, not to mention they have a wickedly subtle and dry sense of humor that means you can’t ever quite tell when they’re taking the piss out of you, and also they are adept at playing every side against the middle (try being the tiny guy who endures for 10,000 years on a playground full of enormous bullies and see what kind of skills you develop). Be that as it may, politeness here can sometimes translate to dealing out all the rope someone needs to tie his own noose. Accordingly, I hemmed and hawed over it all, checked into renting a proper race bike (too expensive), and finally decided just to skip the whole damn thing and do nothing. My wife’s advice: “Say yes and see what happens.”

Twenty years ago, post college, while backpacking through Europe and North Africa, my wife and I agreed on a set of basic travel rules. Most were pretty prosaic, things like don’t try to settle a disagreement while hungry, or don’t willingly separate without a contingency plan for how to find one another again (this was pre-cellphone ubiquity). Many of those rules were administrative and forgotten over the years, but the ones rooted in cultivating adventure stuck. My favorite has always been, if a little old lady is selling food out of a five-gallon bucket at a bus station, you must buy it and eat it. Awfully wordy and literal, I’ll admit, but I stand by this particular rule as god’s own gospel truth. Those donuts or pierogis or tamales or whatever the little old lady is selling for pennies will probably be the best thing you’ve stuck in your pie hole all day, but I digress. No doubt, as a life philosophy applied injudiciously, seize the day can sometimes turn into rue the day, but while one might get the occasional burn while pursuing the moment (I’ve certainly got the scars to prove it), the burned will seldom suffer from being either bored or boring, however boorish.

So it went when Marika and I were twenty, so it goes with us, for better or worse, nigh onto middle age. I said yes, registered for the race, and on the day decided that if I was going to ride a stupid bike in a confusing race, I may as well look the part. As I don’t generally travel with costume, per se, I dressed up in a white shirt, orange tie, and black boots. Everyone else looked like they were about to embark on the Tour de France. I looked like I was headed to the local pub to catch a punk rock show. It turned out to be true, that within the sea of mountain bikes and brand plastered spandex there were, indeed, a handful of comrades in clownishness. There was one other guy in a full suit, albeit on a mountain bike. There was a woman on a bike like mine, but outfitted for an Olympic speed skating event. There was a man in a pink tutu and matching pink wig who gave me a high five as we wheeled past one another while warming up at the race start. It was immediately after that high five that I careened headlong into a racer bedecked in branded racing regalia and astride an incredibly expensive mountain bike, knocking us both to the ground.

Like any place with a high proportion of outsiders to locals, there are two distinct Estonias. There is the small, well-curated one for tourists, and the larger messier one for Estonians themselves. What makes the separation so incredibly striking here is the intensity of the language barrier between the two. Often, in situations where the Estonian language is assumed, it is also assumed that there simply won’t be anyone but Estonian speakers present. Not that foreigners from further afield aren’t welcome, far from it. Estonians always seem genuinely pleased that you’re there, that you’re trying to speak their language, however badly, that you’re participating in Estonian culture, that you like Estonia and them (who isn’t pleased by this?), they just seem perpetually surprised by it, it apparently happens so seldom. Which is to say I was not expected at this race to begin with, let alone dressed absurdly, riding an absurd bicycle, and then crashing into Estonians and knocking them to the ground. As I apologized in English, my victim, the man on the mountain bike, looked upon me like I were an evil phantom, picked himself up cussing, gave my bike a little kick for good measure, and rode away fuming. Not two minutes later, a colleague from Tartu University was pointing me out to her boyfriend who was also riding in the race. “Look at that guy dressed up on the funny bike,” she was saying, then “wait, I know that guy,” then, to me, “what on earth are you doing here?” What, indeed.

The race itself was fun, though there isn’t really much more to tell. I had a bent front rim from my prerace collision, which while not a deal breaker, added a distinct wobble to my ride, thus completing the Benny Hill effect I was apparently going for. Otherwise, it was a beautiful, sunny day on a course that took me past green fields, adorable peasant farmsteads, and through rolling autumnal forests. I finished in two hours and seventeen minutes, well ahead of most, if not all, of the children and old ladies who made up the field. And at the end, I got to have a sauna where I stood naked in line (small sauna, big race) to get in. While I queued up, I couldn’t help but notice that we men were in direct line of sight down a short open hall from a café that occupied the same building. Spectators from the race, men, women, and children, were lined up to buy a cup of coffee or bottle of water. Some of them watched us naked men. Some did not. No one really seemed to care. Two women drinking coffee were talking together matter-of-factly, pointing to us occasionally, conferring, nodding, bored. As no one else in the sauna line seemed to mind this, I decided I probably shouldn’t either. I’m not a shy man. The guy standing next to me, also belly and balls to the breeze, turned to me and asked me something in Estonian. I’m sorry, I replied, but I don’t speak very much Estonian. He was so delighted by my not understanding very much Estonian in Estonian and asked in English why I was there. I raced, I replied. “Of course,” he said, “you must have been our American, welcome to Estonia.” Yes, I replied in Estonian, thank you, I love it here.” He smiled warmly at this, visibly pleased, and we both returned amiably to our silence, arms crossed across our chests, bare assed come whatever, come what may.

how is the sausage occupied?

My wife’s 95-year-old Estonian grandfather, Edgar, likes to tell me how stupid and ugly English is, particularly the kind of American English I speak. This topic is usually capped by the proclamation that Estonian once came in second only to Italian as the world’s most beautiful language. I’ve never been able to substantiate the whole language world championship thing (not that I’ve tried very hard), but I’m not denying that such a contest once took place, nor that Estonian came in second to Italian in the final race. I simply don’t know. All I’m saying is I can easily imagine finding old men the world over who would make similarly cranky claims for their own languages.

That said, as an American poet working exclusively in the language, I don’t entirely disagree with Edgar’s takedown of English. It has a lot going for it, true. It’s flexible, nimble, and like a good toilet paper, it’s exceedingly resilient and absorbent. But it’s also messy, chaotic, and oftentimes cumbersome, and though English can certainly turn on the charm when it wants to, I don’t think we can amass more than a handful of people who might call it particularly pretty. Estonian, on the other hand, has a lot of cheerleaders, about 1.1 million, or basically every single Estonian speaker in the world, because with the exception of sauna and giant wooden swings, there is nothing Estonians are more militantly enthusiastic about as their language. No, I’m going to agree with Edgar and the rest of his countrymen and women, Estonian is a beautiful language, maybe even the second most beautiful language in the world, especially when spoken fluently by beautiful Estonian women, of whom there are many. Hoist the blue, black, and white and cue the 30,000-person choir.

But while we’re at it, Estonia, there’s one other thing about your language besides its beauty I’d like to point out. It’s horrifically frustrating to try to learn as a 40-year-old American, which is to say, it’s an ancient Finno-Ugric language with virtually no similarities to English. It’s a language in which there is no gender or future tense, but fourteen noun cases with hundreds of different spelling groups, and instead of prepositional phrases, all the nouns change in weird, irregular ways, and then all the adjectives have to change along with them. True, all languages have their eccentricities, and learning any new language is a struggle, and I’m getting awfully old for this kind of knowledge acquisition at any level of complexity. All I’m saying is that to travel to the land of fluent Estonian, one must cross a bridge gaurded by evil philologists. But I married in, so what’s a guy to do?

photo (13)The first time I tried to pick up some Estonian was in 2009 when I took a two-week summer intensive course at Tartu University. It was something of a failure, I’ll confess, but in my defense, no one learns more than a smattering of any language in two weeks, no matter how intense the course. Also, I returned to the United States immediately after finishing the class and—I don’t know if you realize this—there isn’t a great deal of Estonian spoken in the good old USofA. And do you want to practice something you’re bad at with your spouse, mother-in-law, or an old man who holds nothing in higher regard than the language you’re about to butcher alive? Right. So I walked away from my first attempt with what you might expect: My name is Matt, my favorite shirt is blue, and thank you for the delicious hand pies. In the interim I’ve retained exactly that, plus please, thank you, damn it, and my favorite, “mine perse,” which is kind of like f-off, but literally means “go up an ass.” Beautiful, no?

Now, five years later, I’m at it again because I’m living in Estonia for a year this time, going to the market every day, and pointing and grunting my way through transactions with the market ladies is quickly loosing its charm. No delusions of grandeur, mind you. I would simply like, for the first time in my life, to be something other than the stereotypical monolingual American that I am, the kind of person who might buy carrots without resorting to “please, orange things” in a bad accent and a lot of hysterical smiling thrown on top for goodwill. If, by the end of my stay, I can answer my Estonian teacher’s daily inquiry into my wellbeing by saying, reliably, “I’m well, thanks for asking,” instead of,  “I’m well, thanks for pissing” (a mistake by just one umlaut in Estonian), I’ll count myself a success of sorts, a winner in the game of radically lowered expectations.

photo (14)In the meantime, my lovely Estonian-American wife, Marika, mocks me daily, slowly and painstakingly asking me dumb questions over drinks or on my Facebook wall, things like, “how is the sausage occupied?” Well, perseauk (that means asshole, one of our terms of endearment, so you see how we roll), I’d be happy to tell you all about this sausage’s occupation, so long as I can do so in the simplest declarative sentences possible and you don’t rush me. This sausage name Matt. This sausage favorite shirt blue. This sausage love the hand pie, very good. Big thanks for pissing.

I come to you this week to report that I’m writing almost every day. I can’t say as anything particularly good is coming of it, but I’m putting words on paper, and submitting a few things here and there in the process. Though I never have any great hope for any one particular submission, I’ve also been around the block enough to know that the odds of success rise dramatically when one does something more than nothing. Hard earned wisdom, there. Thus, I believe, I’ve effectively resaddled the pony. Let’s ride.

Matt bike raceWhich I did on Sunday, ride that is, after a fashion, as part of the Tartu Rattamaraton, the largest mountain bike race in Estonia (and one of the largest in the world). The event clocked in at over 8000 riders over two events, an 89- and a shorter 40-kilometer course. It was more of what we call a cyclocross race in the US than a mountain bike one, with the majority of the route covering gently rolling forest two tracks and gravel roads through farmland. Though the vast majority of riders were on mountain bikes, I road an old Norwegian single-speed bike with coaster brakes (the kind you have to pedal backward to brake) in the shorter race, and though I was a danger to myself and everyone around me, I finished the shorter race in two hours and seventeen minutes unscathed, and capped the experience off with a sauna in the woods of Elva, a little village just south of Tartu, where the race ended. I’ve much more to say about this little adventure, but I’ve got a little essay about it submitted and pending at a magazine that doesn’t take kindly to previous publication of any kind. So you’ll have to wait for that to move forward, or for it to get rejected and end up here. So it goes.

This I can share, though. After coming home from the race Sunday night, I put on my pjs and then gave a poetry reading as part of Transatlantic Poetry‘s online reading. I read a few poems from my book, THIS IS WHAT THEY SAY (Typecast Publishing, 2012) and I got to do it from my living room while drinking a beer. In retrospect I didn’t even have to wear pants, though I did.  Check it out below if you’re interested in such things, or go here.

It was a good day. More soon…

10606456_10152238777417257_18371475616253337_nIt’s foggy this morning in Tartu, Estonia, where I am living at the moment, having moved here three weeks ago with my wife and kids. We’ll be here until next summer. Marika and I are both on sabbatical from Michigan Tech for the year, she has strong family ties with the little country (she and the kids are dual citizens, actually), we want the kids to speak Estonian, we were able to make connections with Tartu University… More on this later, I’m sure, but right now, suffice it to say, it’s just a relief to be away from an America I find increasingly difficult to handle: the insane fundamentalist religiosity, the insane love affair with guns and the overwhelming number of mass shootings that are its spawn, the undercurrent of racism, sexism, and xenophobia, the public disavowal of information and knowledge and perspective and the dismantling of intellectualism of all stripes, the insistence upon total and perennial war… It’s a big list befitting a big dysfunctional country. True, all times, places, and peoples have their problems. Yet for all that is right with the States, and for all the reasons I love it and will gladly return to it when this sabbatical year ends, I’ve been ready for a trial separation for a good long while. We need some time apart.

Next week I turn 40. To be honest, while I find neither aging nor mortality particularly thrilling, neither am I scared of nor even particularly interested in either. Not yet, anyway. Besides, I’m better now than I’ve ever been in my life previously, so what’s to groan over? Not to mention, growing older is an inescapable fact, and much like the  weather, I find dwelling upon the subject to be mildly boring. Yes, Captain Obvious, there is weather; yes, we age. On the other hand, lingering overlong upon mortality has always struck me as futile at best and weak minded at worst, a malignant tumor sized failure of the human imagination. My money is on a particularly similar nothing at the end apropos to the eternity preceding our births. Not much to get jacked out of shape about. But let’s agree to disagree these points if it makes us get along better, and agree, instead, that I am happy to be alive, that I am happy you are alive here with me, that neither of us are what we once were, anymore than either of us is likely to remain as we are now. Then, let’s talk about music or food or poetry or sex or bicycles or birthday plans. This next one of mine will be spent with my family at a little Russian place down the street. I’ll be the big hairy dude eating blinis and caviar and getting drunk out on the patio. Everything else, my friends, is pointless noise.

It seems a good time, too, to mark a return to public writing. I’ve been absent from it for more than a year now. So much for my writing life! A friend once told me that in the absence of writing there is no such thing as being a Writer, that previous publications are no indication of present occupational status, that a person is only the thing when actively engaged in the doing of it. Unnecessarily pedantic, sure. I mean, one can still be a tennis player when they leave the court to take a shower, they can still be a lawyer when they leave the office to have dinner with their husband, right? But insofar as my friend’s claim hyper-privileges the place of process in the life of the artist… I guess I’m down with that, process trumping product and all. I suppose this is why writers always discuss current rather than past projects with one another. “What are you working on?” being more gang sign than project query. Are you one of us still, we are asking? Are you still in process? No, has been my answer to these queries these past months, at least in my head. No, I published my book of poems, I went on my little tour, and silence I was ill prepared for descended around me. No, I got tenure and checked the fuck out, broke my arm in a bicycling accident and checked the fuck out. No, I had a personal meltdown, was diagnosed with an obsessive anxiety disorder, and spent some very difficult , but fruitful months checking the fuck back in, as it were, pardon my language, and pushing my nastier demons out from the driver’s seat of my careening bus. No, I haven’t been working on much more than emails, texts, journal scribbles, the occasional rough sketchs of poems quickly miscarried. But I’d like to get back to it now, if for no other reason than to say I’m currently an American writer living abroad, something I’ve always kind of wanted to say about myself. How about you, what are you working on? More blinis, caviar, and vodka anyone?



photo-1It has been a year of readings, lectures, classroom visits, book festivals, fairs, and signings: Seattle, Washington; Portland, Oregon; Boston, Massachusetts; Iowa City, Iowa; New York City; State College, Pennsylvania; Albany, New York; Minneapolis and St. Paul, Minnesota; Dayton, Ohio; Ann Arbor and Grand Rapids, Michigan; Chicago and Rock Island, Illinois; Indianapolis, Indiana; and Louisville, Kentucky; among others. I’ve read in the basements of punk rock bars and community arts centers, in book stores and libraries, brewpubs and coffee shops, in university lecture halls, on stumps, in alleyways and old movie theaters, and in at least two boutique clothing stores. There have been mics and no mics. There has been money, but mostly no money. Sometimes I sold books, sometimes I didn’t. I once read to an audience of two, mostly to audiences in the teens and twenties, and twice I’ve read to audiences of almost two hundred. Sometimes those audiences have come of their own free will while others have been conscripted. Sometimes I’m the draw while other times I am a happy hanger on. I’ve traveled by plane and train, but mostly thousands of miles in cars. I prefer the trains, hate planes with a passion, but as it is America, cars are simply the path of least resistance. I hate cars, too. Cars, it’s said, are coffins. I’m almost at the end of it. Three Twin Cities events yet in front of me. I’ve smoked too many cigarettes. I’m tired. I’ve learned a lot, much of which concerns the fact that I am most certainly no longer twenty and being almost famous as a poet is about the equivalent of being a hobo. I’ve always liked hobos.

Continue reading

There is this, from the New York Times, about teaching creative writing to non majors. It is a little bit about love and magic, two concepts I find sorely missing in academia.

tumblr_lluj394jFL1qkb2g8o1_400As a lowly MFA in a tenure-track line, I always feel a little bit like Gorey’s Doubtful Guest, stealing things from the swells and dropping them into the pond or tearing pages from their valued books. In my paranoia, I’ve become hyper conscious of Stanford literary critic Mark McGurl’s accusation that academic departments dabbling in literature have become so locked in battle over who’s the failed writer and who’s the anti-intellectual, they’ve lost site of the prize, starved rats fighting over crumbs. Only the poet/scholar will be saved, McGurl predicted. Every time someone asks the question, why do the humanities fail, I always have to choke back the urge to invite the speaker to look in the mirror. The humanities are alive and kicking, I think, looks at this, look at that, you’ve just wandered away from the party and are pissy no one came with you.

Should elephants teach? Emphatically, yes. Besides, no one else is doing it, so why shouldn’t we?

In other news, did you know there is new [PANK] in the world? It’s true. My heart bursts. Our March online issue and a new print issue are alive. They’re alive! And both are chockablock with both magic and love – brimming, bursting, overflowing magic and love. I hope you’ll dive in and take a swim. No. I hope you’ll fly.

58285-ANTIQUE-MACHINERY_viewThe Things Happened Machine got me. I bent over to pick up a shiney. My hair got caught in the gears. It pulled me in. Now my shoes hurt, lacerations, and I’ve a lump on my head. Who are you? Where am I? Last thing I knew it was the middle of February. Now it’s the end of March?

I seem to remember something about AWP, something about Boston. Things are fuzzy. There was a slush storm. North easterners panicked. Silly north easterners. A tavern named after a famous drunk, a famous writer, a famous drunk writer, filled with almost famous drunk writers. Panels of mouth holes were speaking, speaking, speaking. I remember piles of unsolicited manuscripts and sure I’ll read your thing, why not, but no, I don’t want to trade, and sure I’ll answer some questions in front of your camera, but not now, not now. Dinners with good friends too far away, didn’t we? And too many faces I didn’t kiss? During the first few hours of AWP, there was desperation in the air, a miasma, cloying and sticky. What a bunch of sad bastards you are. And that bitch from that one journal, fuck her. Then people started drinking, I think, and everyone calmed down. By the end, PANK sold out of all its merch and there was much back slapping and elbow nudging and on our insides we were all doing the fuck you thrust and flipping our birds and we were thinking “ugh, yeah, suck it, swells.” But really we just wanted to be liked. And we wanted to like you. And we were. And we did. And it all felt really, exhaustively good. Thanks, AWP. Thanks, liver. Thanks smoke bummers and haven’t seen you in a long time huggers and all the other kindly faces. Somehow I got home.

March snow storms.

The reward for good work, you know, is more work. Websites to be redesigned. Funds drives to be organized. Shipping and distribution to be managed. A post-AWP swell in submissions to be waded through. And I have students, too, I think. I think I’m teaching two classes this semester. I’m not winning any teaching awards this semester. They suffer the most, the wee children. Easily misplaced on the battlefield. Between the tenure process this year, the service load, the magazine, the grubbing for money and time and space, life (kids need to eat? I have kids? they have lessons?)… And don’t get me started on the state of my own writing; your Facebook gloating and self-congratulation, writers, makes me want to punch you in your stupid faces. It’s just jealousy. You’ve your own crosses, I know. I love you. I’ll get over it. Chin up. Chin up. Tomorrow is a new day.

March snowstorms.

Read and strongly recommend the following books, in no particular order: The Death of Bees by Lisa O’Donnell; The Writing Life by Marie Arana; issue 4 of The Common; Homage to Homage to Homage to Creeley by Joshua Ware; The Explosions by Mathias Svalina; Modern Manners for Your Inner Demons by Tara Laskowski; Dear, Companion by A.W. Watkins; Cloudfang::Cakedirt by Daniela Olszewska; If You Won’t Read, Then Why Should I Write by Jarett Kobek; The Romances and Other Poems by Micah Cavaleri; Other Kinds by Dylan Nice; Imperial Bender by Amanda Smeltz; Man Vs. Sky by Corey Zeller; Scuffletown by Chris Mattingly; The Illusion of Seperateness by Simon Van Booy; 23 Cheeseburgers + 39 Years by Mark Lamoureux; Book of Rhymes by Adam Bradley. Write your own damn reviews. Or better yet, just read these books like I’ve told you to and make up your own mind. I loved them. You think you know better than me? You don’t.

The to-read pile is now taller than I am. I am a very tall man.

March snow storms.

And last, but not least, I finally finished watching Battlestar Galactica. Meh. It was OK. Way too religious for its own damn good. Does space really need god talk and divine intervention to affect wonder? That’s kind of sad for people. But for infinite space, that’s really fucking sad. Shame on you, Battlestar (but I kind of loved you anyway, late to the party though I may have been).

Stop nagging me, voices! Up yours, Heikki Lunta! Onward!

Happy Valentine’s Day. Here’s one of my favorite love poems. I’m giving it to you because I love you so much.

A Poem to the Freaks by Jack Micheline

To live as I have done is surely absurd
In cheap hotels and furnished rooms
To walk up side streets and down back alleys
Talking to oneself
And screaming to the sky obscenities
That the arts is a rotten business indeed
That mediocrity and the rage of fashion rules
My poems and paintings piled on the floor
To be one with himself
A Saint
A Prince
To persevere
Through storms and hardons
Through dusk and dawns
To kick death in the ass
To be passed over like a bad penny
A midget
An Ant
A roach
A freak
A Hot Piece
An Outlaw
Raise your cup and drink my friend
Drink for those who walk alone in the night
To the crippled and the blind
To the lost and the damned
To the lone bird flying in the sky
Drink to wonder
Drink to me
Drink to pussy and dreams
Drink to madness and all the stars
I hear the birds singing