Marcus G. Minnow School of Sorrow PTA Meeting

I remember making this sitting on my laptop while my oldest son did taekwando practice. I’m not sure what sparked the idea; perhaps it was me reflecting on the one PTA meeting I attended, which was I went to one, which was awkward and incredibly boring. 

Screenshot (9)

 I can’t insert a bigger picture, so if you can’t see it well, I’m afraid you’ll have to zoom in.

Some Events (poem)

Quite often, I write things of this nature in my journal. They make me happy.


Some Events

A cement pond, minus the water,
saw the expiration of a fragile moment.

The distant moon troubled a tooth,
which wiggled and desired freedom.

My phone rang out a rebellion,
but the timestamp was inaccurate.

A bird had a dream that it died en route
to a warmer clime and woke mute.

The circle asked the teacher “Why?”
and the teacher grew a dirty mouth.

Dust conspired with wisdom to figure
out socks but they wasted their time.

The cat edged up to a dying star
and offered a whispered prayer.

Lulu Buttonhead Tries to Flirt (poem)

The name Lulu Buttonhead has been floating around my head for a few days, and the first line of this poem came to me as I was drifting off to sleep. It made me laugh, so I married the line with Lulu Buttonhead and came up the following strange poem.

Lulu Buttonhead Tries to Flirt

“Tectonic plate action turns me on,”
said Lulu Buttonhead, thus named
because of her flat, circular cranium
and gaping eye holes connected by
a strand of moist and fleshy thread.

“Too bad I’m not a geologist,” I said.
Lulu grinned (a disturbing sight)
and replied, “Seismologist, hot stuff,”
as she hopped, skipped, and jumped
back to her dark, sideways home.

The Misfit Holds Court (poem)

Trickster figures often show up in my poems. They spin elaborate, entertaining lies which speak to conflicts within their souls (or so I imagine).

The Misfit Holds Court

An ugly burr on the side
of this impossible rhino
has prevented me from
getting sepsis of the soul…
or so the old fairy tales go.

My fairest witch, the one
who ate gold and fleshed
out the perfect revenge
fantasy, called me last night.
I hung up on the old bitch.

A small god of consequences
played out a random melody
on the bones of my fused spine,
and I kinda dug it, kinda didn’t,
but I left regret in the dust long ago.

One Night by the Fire (poem)

I might be more intrigued by Simon than the speaker.

camp fire

Image courtesy of Flickr and the Creative Commons license

One Night by the Fire

“Mister, you can have my sister,” said the man
who was more of a marsupial, if you can dig it,
as he warmed his hands over the shoddy fire
he built out of dreamy chips and woody excuses.

“I don’t want her!” said I, and it was forsooth.
His sister was a hanging offense and gap-
toothed and hadn’t had a polish in probably
a gazillion or more years, give or take a pinch.

“Simon, we don’t have a winner this time,” he said.
For his part, Simon smiled a sandy smile and ate
dust from the bottom of the world where such things
gathered, another fine mess he’d gotten himself into.

I Seem to be Taking a Break

A break from creative writing, at least, and I’m good with that. It all started a few weeks ago when I received the weekly poetry market update newsletter from Duotrope. I scanned the list half-heartedly. The idea of going through poems to see which ones would be a good fit for a particular market made me tired. When I sat down to write, nothing came. I shrugged and moved onto other things.

I’ve been shrugging and moving on since then, and I’m not worried about it. I’ve spent many years in anxious turmoil over my writing, pressing myself beyond healthy limits to produce. When I turned thirty and hadn’t published anything, I went into a tailspin of depression. Ditto that for when I turned forty. Then I got sober, went into therapy, and discovered an effective combo of meds with the help of a wonderful psychiatrist. These days, if I skip a day or two of writing, that’s just the way it goes. I’m on the hunt for a full-time job, I’m raising two young children with my wife, and I have a lovely coterie of animals I care for. I have a full life. And I’m sober, to boot.

I’ve been thanking God lately, in particular, for the ability to let a particular story line go. I don’t mean fiction; I mean the story line of my life that dictates that I have to a Writer. The capital letter is important. I’m already a writer and always will be, but I’m also other things. Robert the Writer, though, is hyper-focused on getting published to the exclusion of other things. Rober the Writer won’t rest until he’s exhausted himself mentally and spiritually, racing to beat the clock, up against self-imposed deadlines. Also, Robert the Writer is a selfish bastard. I have no more use for him, so I’m letting that story line go (for more info on story lines and attachment, check out this article by Pema Chodron).

I couldn’t have been this kind to myself without getting sober, and I also imagine that I couldn’t have done it (sober or not) in my thirties due to a stunning lack of emotional maturity. Not that I’m a paragon of emotional maturity these days, but I’m a hell of a lot easier on myself than I used to be. I accept and deal with my anxiety which springs from a variety of sources, but I no longer give myself panic attacks for missing non-existant milestones in my life. I don’t have a book deal at 43? Fine. I only publish poetry on web-based journals? Cool. I can look at other aspects of my life and celebrate them and not dwell on things I thought I needed.

Over the last few days, I’ve been thinking of myself as more than just a writer. Currently, I prefer the term “creative.” I’m a creative. I write poems, stories, and songs. I draw cartoons. No matter where my life takes me, I’ll always find ways to express creativity. Writing this blog is another way.

So I’m going to take a break from creative writing because the still, small voice inside me says it’s time to. I spent many years ignoring that voice and drowing it with alcohol. These days, I do my best to listen to it.

The Whale-Shaped Man (fiction? poetry? both? neither?!?!)

The Whale-Shaped Man

Is he in his office? asked the whale-shaped man.
Is who is his office? the woman in sparkly pants replied.
You know.
I don’t.
That doesn’t clear it up.
The whale-shaped man grimaced. I’m talking about your father.
Oh. Why do you want to see him?
To ask for your hand in marriage.
That’s stupid, the woman laughed.
Why would I marry you? You’re shaped like a whale.
But I love you.
That doesn’t change anything.

So the whale-shaped man left. Inside his office, the woman’s father sighed in relief.