Live Nude Poems

Hi everybody. Long time no see. I had visitors for a week, I got behind on Night Train , the kids got sick all at once, and here I am, with no posts for a while except my self-puffery, which I'm trying to avoid (but no one else will do it; see my dilemma?). I've been trying to restart my poetry engine by going back and forth between new-to-me poets and standbys. I'll have a short review or commentary on Drought Resistant Strain , poetry by Mather Schneider and possibly another, on an anthology called New European Poets , up on the blog soon .  The latter will be a little slower in coming because I have to rethink my approach to 'criticizing' poetry, not just because of this book, but mostly. See, I'm ignorant of a lot of contemporary European poetry (among many other things), and it's so different in some ways from American poetry it's as if the two barely communicate--or have communicated--at all. And I want to communicate , in my own work, which is

Hey--some biggish news today. My free e-book/chapbook is available now. It's called Redneck Poems and it's part of the MiPOesias Chapbook Series . It's available for free via  Issuu and Scribd , and in print (free on iPad) for a small fee via Magcloud . It's even on Goodreads if you should find it in your heart to rate or review it: Goodreads . It's my first poetry chapbook and I hope you like it. If you do, lemme know. If not, don't harsh my buzz. Just kidding. If you tell me it sucks, though, I'll probably ball up for 15 or 16 hours and then kill something cute like a bunny. Just an FYI.

I've known Kyle's writing for some time now--and was lucky enough to publish a couple stories--and he never fails to impress me. His e-chapbook from Scars Publishing , called Avenue C ,  fits more than neatly into the subject matter I like to read about. I'm somewhat jealous of these poems, to be honest, and that doesn't happen often. Here's the first poem in the book, the title poem. Avenue C 1. She gets high on diesel dust & mute reruns of Jack Benny. This slinky white boot Barbarella has got a rubber soul that stretches into angel octave, levitates in the nightly limbo of bong & free trade called Avenue C. Claiming to be owned by 3 bipolar Kings of Funk, she breaks glass beer bottles in the backseat of my old Cougar & gives herself up at least once a month. She doesn’t even wipe the rivulets of blood spelling my name with a missing vowel. I drive my car on methamphetamine rage fill everything up on zeroes. At the club t

I've known Kyle's writing for some time now--and was lucky enough to publish a couple stories--and he never fails to impress me. His e-chapbook from Scars Publishing , called Avenue C ,  fits more than neatly into the subject matter I like to read about. I'm somewhat jealous of these poems, to be honest, and that doesn't happen often. Here's the first poem in the book, the title poem. Avenue C 1. She gets high on diesel dust & mute reruns of Jack Benny. This slinky white boot Barbarella has got a rubber soul that stretches into angel octave, levitates in the nightly limbo of bong & free trade called Avenue C. Claiming to be owned by 3 bipolar Kings of Funk, she breaks glass beer bottles in the backseat of my old Cougar & gives herself up at least once a month. She doesn’t even wipe the rivulets of blood spelling my name with a missing vowel. I drive my car on methamphetamine rage fill everything up on zeroes. At the club t