the INLAID EAR

A playful series of short poems titled with the single words the poems are about.  Spontannuity An Elvis impersonator I once interviewed used this localism more than twice. You can understand it to mean a specified income payable at stated intervals for a fixed or a contingent period, such as a lifetime, in consideration of a gargantuan pompadoured banana skating across frozen bacon grease.

This was the first, or one of the first, in this playful series of short poems titled with the single words the poems are about. Detail As I played with a tiny toy horse, my mom noticed and commented on the way its crafting included “every little detail.” I said, “No, it's an h -tail.”

Question: is blogging still a thing? Effective for purposes of what? And then? But anyhow, here is this project I'm thinking on, and maybe if I start to post the pieces here, they will appear to coalesce (I love the word coalesce) into something besides coal in lumps. The Words Thing: short poems titled with the single words the poems are about. Favorites. Least favorites. Fascinations. Miscellaneous. Embouchure. Heliofranticulating.  Ah, the spell check doesn't like old coins. All the better. So:  Rote This , written, is set unchanging in place. Still this, literally this, set. I may change my mind but these words, these this-es, repeated, are rote.

My attention in grad school divided. Some stayed on my declaration to be a master of poetry. Comedy, on the other hand, was an equally attractive mistress-muse and one I'd loved almost as long—and I loved me on stage. To rage or parody or flat out goof or pratfall or streak naked—I was free, and on that stage, I needed no more proof. The undersexed (thus socially awkward) protopoet, who was never aloof but seemed to be so, found his misfit tribe acting out his angst in blood-red self-spoof. Ruttish sex, deviant sex, vibrators, weed, nitrous oxide, mushrooms, LSD— all in play—while in poems I circumscribed subterranean fires like some chaste scribe.

In a place where people expect their dreams to come true, I’m China street glucose, and you’re endless grass and a huge, flat moon. In plaster and wood on the other side, I’m the cardturner, and you’re writing in my sun room. In a Rocky Mountain city, Denver or Salt Lake, I’m naked in the street, and you’re gazing into a green valley from a peak. In the arms of my love, I’m gloriously broken, and you’re a nap to Fremont and back. In my favorite bakeries and places to hike I’m Nebraska, and you’re sprout palm welcome. In invitation, in difference, in membership, in suffering, I’m mother, diamonds, life, and you’re home. In this studio, part monster, I’m petite fours made into a city, and you’re silver curls like a crown. In wabi sabi dance party, I’m golden lush shrouded jewel, and you’re black lava blue water brown. In the most expensive, beautiful, confuzzled place on the planet, I’m $6 Great American, and you’re the same…. In a particular spot I’m ears like cabbage leav...

My second attempt to list " Poetry Review Reading Comment Feedback Evaluation on Your Poem by Published Poet " on eBay was a lot more mutually fruitful than the first. Upping the ante from one cent to one dollar weeded out eBayers who just wanted to exchange positive feedback, a crucial element in the eBay culture of trust. Instead, I connected with one Peter Rocha who paid 99c (66c after PayPal's cut) for what turned out to be 1,000 words of feedback on his poem — and my utter pleasure. It was amazing to engage in the sincere creative output of a complete stranger, to find it in the gem of personal truth and to reply with honest feedback including what grabbed me and what I wasn't as excited about. Overall the poem pleased me, and the exchange between us even more so. He said he was leaving university soon and worried he might not find such a ready source of creative sharing as he has enjoyed in school. Maybe that's why he turned to eBay. And that's fin...

Lipogram day! Lipo- in this case means lacking or leaving though the spelling is the same as lipo- meaning fat . It's fascinating how the prefix in liposuction works two ways at once! Lipograms are writings in which one more more letters of the alphabet are consciously omitted. This morning I began to recast "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" as a lipogram series. My warm up was omitting the letter B , an uncommon  letter, but significant as it begins boat and but . The B lipogram: Row, row, row your raft gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily Life: it is a dream. Leaving out W was also pretty easy as it only appears in row and down . But replaying row is a little tricky. As an ancient monosyllable, it doesn't have many monosyllabic synonyms. Using paddle destroys the meters. I fell back on a somewhat uncommon verb: Punt, punt, punt your boat gently on the stream... The rest is the same. M is also uncommon, but has a big impact here...

I'm auctioning a poem-readiing-and-feedback correspondence on eBay . As of this writing, the value is cash American is six hundredths of a dollar. But I know from recent exchanges with a talented but relatively new poet that being earnestly read and commented on is a considerable heart value. This experiment is also one of marketing: how do I make the eBay listing more alluring and more expressive of the intangible value it represents? Can I begin to accumulate testimonials over time? The truth is, I do this sort of thing for free when I'm in the mood. I think it will be a good learning. And perhaps I will ask permission to post poems and my feedback and correspondence here. But it will be the poet's perogative.

Thrilling post today: got my copy of 2015 Poet's Market starring me! So cool to see my name in print, even on the thin paper of this seminal directory. My essay is on creative techniques—somersaults— for editing poetry on a level beyond the typical checklist about excising cliches and converting to active voice. No, my essay is about mind-space, creative oil to get the word libido as juiced as it is in the drafting or conception of poems. How to recapture that fervor for the focused and slow process of weighing and retasting each word? I feel my essay in the book takes its own space and says something that hasn't been said before in this way. *** Also piqued to see an essay about rhyme, one of my favorite subjects, that treats, to my surprise only in true rhyme: true blue lou and actually disparages off rhyme! What?! Emily Dickinson and I William Blake and I William Carlos Williams and I A gillion poets, music makers and hearers of sounds str...

I'm on vaca. Back from a full and relaxing week on "the ridge," a rural, forested area north of Nevada City, California. We swam in the Yuba river nearly every day. A poem about that below. And in two days we head south to see family in So. Cal. But I'm happy to take a minute to link onward to Janice Sandeen . Janice is one of my favorite contemporary thinkers, collaborators, and artists. What I love about her blog tour post is the perspective she brings to the creative process. She is someone for whom art is simply a process of allowing. As a creative and caring lens for inspirations beyond her own ken or control, Janice simply and willingly channels. I have always admired how natural her process seems, whether pouring with passion or soaring with cognition, it always simply comes as it is through her open expression. Check out her philosophical, introspective and, in my opinion, stunning take on blog touring, writing, poetry, photography, art and living as an ...

Where does that hallway lead? The architecture of my dreams: hallways in red velvet, broad as betting parlors, spaces that signal transition—always— and sometimes I come to a subtle door that opens into a dark earthen maze. It’s familiar but not particular. I begin squeezing down the labyrinth until it’s wide as I am. Yellow earth. Unease rises. I crouch. Ahead: the depth. I know the secret—I’ve known all my days! I backtrack from the anonymous earth, shut the basement door, return to the hall. Hors d’oeuvres. The opera. No way to assert what was, where I went. Must wake to recall the dark, the door, the secret I forget. Through that grave, I wonder if there’s a caul a curtain drawn like nothing before all. ***   Jerad's website is certainly worth a visit!

Let your mind slip and slide down the linguistic pathways it loves. Let it fall into new alcoves to discover ghost harpists igniting juniper knishes. Get distracted, found, lost. Get silly. PLAY CATEGORIES  This is a word game where you think of words that fit in certain categories and start with certain letters. Here is How to play. Draw your grid, four cells by four cells. Your categories across the tops of your four columns are: Words related                  Embellishments                Synonyms              Made-up words to show biz                      (up to you to define)         for "fix" ...

Beezo says, "Relax!" De Jackson, RJ Clarken and Phil Fleischmann all took prizes in rannygazoo round #2. The gem that really stuck with me was RJ's R-entry for "obscure words." Spending the weekend in Vegas with friends from college, I had many opportunities to use the word rannygazoo , though nobody knew what I was talking about.   If you'd like to join me in reviving the old rannygazoo , it means about the same as shenanigans .   What? You want another round? Of course you do! I do, too! ROUND THREE! (Here's how to play ). For round three the categories are: 1. Someone you would like to hug 2. Objects smaller than a kernel of corn 3. Synonyms for "sexy" 4. A complete sentence beginning with the cue letter wherein that letter is used more often than any other single letter. The 4-letter word: MELD Points will be awarded capriciously and arbitrarily based on (or in spite of) these rules: 1 point per cell fille...

It's Beezo, the Categories Game Rabbit! Congratulations to Pamela (PCS) and Patricia who both took prizes in round one. The prize, a signed copy of "Monster Poems" by Daniel Ari, illustrated by Lauren Ari. Now, let's start round 2!If you don't know how to play, here are the simple directions . The categories are: 1. Fictional places 2. Two names of cities 3. Synonyms of "sound" 4. Obscure words The 4-letter word: HORN Points will be awarded as capriciously and arbitrarily as before according to (or in spite of) these rules: 1 point per cell filled + 1 point for each pair of cities in category 2 that are connected by roads (i.e., you can drive from one to the other). + 5 points for the single pair of cities among all entries that have the greatest driving distance between them. + 1 point for each obscure word in category 4 that includes a definition + 1-3 bonus points for LOLs + 10 bonus points if you also submit a poem or flash fic...

 Had trouble finding the right title. Something about how experience is so concentrated here, or in any city. Maybe you have an idea of a different title that could work for this poem? Texture & Discovery A man shares my bench, lowers his shades, flirts with me; but having lunch is why I’m here. I must keep this custard off my shirt. In the city, look and it appears: toothy skyline, transit or dessert. I’ve been a tourist nearly twenty years, still looking up at the tops of towers— still amazed at all the sounds to hear— conversing, saxophones, ambulance howls— not commonplace, the cities of earth. I could wander or I could sit for hours lost in this chaotic summer dream. A woman in a sunflower cowl turns my head right around and then steam billows up from a grate—smells of beer, moving bodies, iron and chlorine— Gotta get back to work. It’s 1:15

"Categories” or “The Grid Game” is something my family played on car trips or at home. As an adult, I have found it to be a lot of laughs at parties or writing jams. It’s also a good way to stir up creative energy. At the last writing jam at my place, Jud, Maria, Janice, Rachel, Lauren, Jason, Ajua and I played. Sharing our results inspired belly laughs as well as a-ha moments. Then we used the answers we came up with as a wordlist for free writing. So here’s the game and how you can participate now in this blog-based tourney. Three sections follow: HOW TO PLAY SCORING PLAY NOW! HOW TO PLAY Create a 4x4 grid on a piece of paper. You could do this by folding a paper into 16ths, or just draw lines. Here’s mine. You’ll notice I left a little space above and to the left, which is not a bad idea. Above each column, we'll write our categories. When I was a kid, we used categories like animals, foods, girl’s names, and colors.  As an adult, I have foun...

With Gretchen Wegner at InterPlay. My shirt says "Writer" :) Go see!  It's me! Cara Holman's Prose Posies is one of the many great sites linked from here.

Continuing with this story. I have to warn you though... I only got as far as chapter five plus a general concept of where I might go. Read part one , if you haven't already. 2 Three hours later, I’m three sheets to the wind, camped out in the bar booth, which even now that I’m familiar with it, is as eerie as a swamp from an old horror movie. Since it remains that type of setting and I have made it my home, then I am the creature from the dismal swamp. Truth be known, I’m hoping Charles will come in. He’s been scarce since I told him to fuck off, which is typical. He takes things so personally, asshole that he is, ghost of an asshole that he is.             Night is thinking about taking this ludicrous whore of a town to bed. I can hardly wait. Because with both of them distracted by each other, I might try to sneak home unspotted. To while away the last light, I signal to Enright—that’s the barkeep—for another....

Welcome again, friends. We may return to prose, the ghost of Charles Bukowski and other first chapters later this month, but for now I want to share this poem inspired by 5Rhythms dance, specifically a class I took from Kathy Altman of The Moving Center School .  This is in anticipation of an interview with Lori Saltzman , Kathy's partner, on creativity at the crossroads of movement and writing. What's unique about this poem is the process through which I found it. But first, here's the poem:  "I'll believe it when I relent." I topple to rise up, and I tower to fall; both a yen to start and an urge to surrender. At whose bidding do I cross and re-cross the hall? "I push backwards…I go forwards." —Larry Eigner. "Nothing is true that isn't paradoxical." Kathy Altman says this. I hear it in my gyre. "In a field / I am the absence / of field." —Mark Strand. This cool hardwood floor is t...

At the end of my freshman year in college, a professor loaned by Love Is a Dog From Hell by Charles Bukowski. The 300+ page book of poetry about horseracing, prostitutes, drunkenness, despair and the rare moment of transcendence makes a strange source for an epiphany, I warrant. But as a 19-year-old who had been carrying a poetry journal for the two years or so prior, that book offered one brilliant illumination and made me forever indebted to the misanthrope poet of Los Angeles. Bukowski just wrote. He didn't wait for a subject; he didn't edit himself or circumscribe his thoughts; he didn't sweat line breaks or unpleasant odors. He wrote what he wanted. That's what Dog from Hell said to me: write what you want. Ever since then, I've thought about my relationship to Bukowski's work, and have dabbled with imaginings about his ghost. I include one of these poems in " Monster Poems ." Recently, I also uncovered a novel concept and first few chapters ...