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Entries in Poetry (3)


Spoken word fireworks

I love Independence Day (the holiday, not the movie). I also love poetry (especially the spoken word kind). With that in mind, here are three of my favorite contemporary poets. If you're in a book club, why not add a book of poetry to the tomes of prose? They're easier to read than Tolstoy and often more thought provoking.


In other news, I'm at the midway point of what I expect will be the final rewrite of Whispers of a Thunder God. (Otherwise known as the second book that would not die). For those of you following along at home, yes, I've gone back to the original title. We'll see. Follow-ups are hard. But I think I've finally got it.

Have a lovely holiday. Don't blow off too many fingers.

(One more by Derrick Brown)

Before reality TV, there was Charles Bukowski

bukowski.jpgAnyone read Bukowski? I hadn’t until 10 years ago––when I hired him. Okay, so I didn’t hire the original Barfly himself. I hired his number one fan––a young train wreck named Marcus––a functional drunk seeking a steady paycheck as a copywriter. By his work, I knew he was gifted. By his bloodshot eyes, I also knew he had issues, but most creative-types do––I mean, who among us hasn’t wound up drunk, naked and stuck in a kiddie-swing? C’mon, show of hands?

This guy was a living, belching, stumbling, poster-child for inebriation that lived at the uncontrolled intersection of Creativity Avenue and Chaos Boulevard. His address was a VW bus. He showered at the beach and still managed to end up with attractive, though highly desperate, women. I’m not sure what they saw in him? Maybe the same thing I saw. Talent. Mingled with just enough honesty to think he could pull back on the drunk-stick before slamming the 747 into that mountain, killing everyone on board.

His Bukowski-like way with women went something like this: "I date a woman until she develops feelings for me, then I borrow money from her until she dumps me". The sad part is that it took a while––he discovered that $1500 was the scientifically-tested babe-exploitation threshold.

Marcus existed in a world hidden between the Marques of Queensbury rules set by polite society. No, he didn’t pay taxes. (He made up a social security number on his W-2). Yes, he defaulted on his student loans. Maxed out all of his credit cards eons ago, leaving those poor saps in collections to track him down in his VW bus.

But in the end––he quit, just before I was going to have to fire him. The fistfights with agency account execs, that I could forgive. Heck, it was quite fun to watch. The alcohol-fed bouts of paranoia––I’ve seen worse mood-swings. What did him in at the end was how close he came to boinking (I think that’s the scientific term) a client. I could just picture it, "we love working with your firm but we’re firing your agency because Marcus gave me Chlamydia."

We went out for drinks on his last night and he confided that "this whole day job thing," was a fine distraction, but now that he’d saved up a few month’s quid, he was ready to hit the streets again. So if you see a swerving VW bus in Southern California, with a Costco-sized bottle of vodka rattling around in the back, wave for me. And if you haven't read anything by the man who wrote "sometimes you just have to pee in the sink," dust off that library card and check him out.


Jessica Simpson plans to bare her commodious lexicon

Simpson.jpgParis City Light announced a new power generation facility built at the Père Lachaise Cemetery where Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde is interred. Engineers have hooked up a generator to his casket taking advantage of the dead poet spinning in his grave over Jessica Simpson’s planned book of poetry. The vapid vamp announced her poetic yearnings in this month’s copy of W Magazine.

In related news, MTV Productions have shelved their planned reality show Jessica & Nick: The Divorce. Instead they’ve put production weight behind the new horror-infused reality show Jessica Simpson takes the S.A.T.

(Major props to Vic Correro at Writesville for breaking this latest sign of the Apocalypse).