Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Three Poems at Kill Author

Take a listen to three prose poems I published a while back in one of my favorite lit journals, Kill Author (sadly now defunct).



Let’s posit you are a whale—a narwhal, say—who suddenly finds himself bound by surprisingly strong cordage, an unwilling participant of a whale fight—that is, a tourada.  Let’s assume a cause for this.  We’ll accept as a given that some virus, some parasite has weakened the native bull population so that they lack the strength to lash at a man dashing for their horns.  Since no large land animals exist on this island, the men and women seek a solution in the sea.  And since they are good Catholics, the leviathan (logically) bears the burden.  Whole villages are needed.  Festivals are organized.  Religious texts are altered.  It is all done to music and dancing.  Given this, could you be the one to angrily dive before they could cut their ropes, their naked little feet no match for your massive tail fins: a sequin here and there, a bit of brightly colored fabric making its way to the surface?  For although the whale is (by tradition) always allowed to live, the toreadors, on the other hand, work without the safety net since the danger has to be real, the deep truly deep, or the jokes in the shade trees will miss their marks. And if not, could you sleep knowing what you had done? 

--From Counting Sheep Till Doomsday

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Sunday, February 10, 2013

Come Enjoy a Night of Mystery and Poetry

Chicago Poetry Bordello

A historic night of mischief and disguise awaits you.

Join the Chicago Poetry Bordello for Lundi Gras!
Monday, Feb. 11, 2013
8pm to Midnight
Chopin Theatre, 1543 W Division, Chicago

$5 if dressed Victorian. $10 if not.
Chopin has a CASH ONLY bar.

Live music by the White City Rippers & Jeff Levin on piano!
Burlesque beauties Baile Nouveau!
Plus hand cut silhouettes by Nina Nightingale!
AND AS ALWAYS, Chicago’s best Poetry Whores!

Thursday, February 7, 2013

Story at Roadside Fiction

Check out my story, "Potholes/Pot Shots," about burritos and brawls at Roadside Fiction


All he wanted was a burrito. It looked like a road crew had managed to squeeze in just before him. And everyone knew what that meant. Each one came bearing a grubby list for every Joe who was carving up the road for some mysterious and arcane reason no one could ever seem to figure out. It clearly had nothing to do with potholes because those seemed impervious to all attempts at eradication. There was a kind of fatalism surrounding the pothole.

A glazed dead look would steal into their eyes if you tried to complain to a road worker about the condition of your street, how much you’ve spent on tires, the costly realignments. Of course, to be fair, they had nothing to do with what jobs got done. They were merely following orders like the rest of us. But what if there was, somewhere, a rogue road crew, who for the greater good of humanity, ignored their orders and went around filling in every pothole in sight?