The Man I Wish

Pawtucket falls

If I could find the man I wish I’d be
By the river where the water flows
I’m sure you’d love me more than he
I’m sure if I were him and he were me

If I could find the man I wish I’d be
before the river finds the weeping sea 
and learns what I hope no one knows
I’m sure you’d love me more than he

How could any disagree
from heaven’s mouth to hell’s sweet lows
If I could find the man I wish I’d be
– a soul worthy of my family tree?

If I were he & he me, all would see
how much you’d love me more than he
— we’ll never know, that’s how it goes
but I’ll keep searching just for show

but If I could find the man I wish I’d be
I’m sure you’d love me more than he

Find me at AWP

War is HellSaturday March 9, 2013 — I’ll be at AWP in Boston all day. If you find me, and ask nicely, I’ll post a poem about the meeting here on my blog. Whether that’s good or bad, who knows, but I’ll do it if you’re interested. The key is, you have to find me there and ask there.

A Discussion of Blindness

They blessed me,
in unison, she with her eyes to me
him turned away – both
with a smile. “Thank you.”

“That was a little one,
much smaller than usual
much smaller than the one
that blew out my carotid artery,”
I told them.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. Yes I am.”

He turned, she furrowed her brow
and let her glasses slip down
just a bit, “What happened?
How could a sneeze …”

“I Held it in. The pressure burst my carotid artery.
the ensuing blood clot went to my eye
and my retina was destroyed.”

“The lesson,” I told them, “is don’t hold it in.
Never hold it in.”

They nodded politely.

As they got up and walked by me on the left
they didn’t realize I couldn’t see them.

“Bye.” they said.

I relaxed into a sigh
and tried to forget what the world used to be.

Everyone is baggage

She wears 4 inch heels
And young men watch her move

She adjusts her glasses
And intimates the details of her favorite
Shows — or the tunes that ache
In her heart like a divorce
Too recent to let go

She is simple to love
But difficult
To carry up the stairs at night.

Issues fit into her
Like clean socks
Rolled up and ready to travel

The facade of peace
Folded up
Leaves her
Bulging

Everyone watches her
Wondering

When will she burst?

20130305-140348.jpg

I will be reading at the Worthen House in Lowell on Thursday, 7 March 2013.

This show, “A Streetcar Named Desire,” aims to  bring the French Quarter to Lowell, and connect them with poetry. This will be a showcase of Merrimack Valley and Mississippi Delta poets, and I’m excited to be part of an event that features local musicians and performing artists. Please come down and join me for the launch of an exciting new collaboration between Lowell and New Orleans, one that is soon sure to make a ride on Desire from Lowell to New Orleans possible for local writers and artists.

Now here’s the problem, I’m not sure what poems I should read. I’ve got 5-6 minutes to fill and 10,000 poems to fill it with. Anyone read any of my work and have a suggestion?


This AWP offsite event is free. 21+

Featuring many local poets and acts + Delta poets: Cellucci, Guthrie, Shipman

Vincent A. Cellucci is the College of Art + Design’s Communication across the Curriculum Studio Coordinator at Louisiana State University; he specializes in digital documentation, portfolio development, and teaching and writing in the art and design disciplines. Vincent received his MFA from Louisiana State University and went to Loyola University New Orleans. Last year he collaborated with the Louisiana Division of the Arts to develop and host several Artist Communication Workshops. He has a background in creative writing and the studio arts and he has been published in Exquisite Corpse, moria, New Delta Review, The Pedestal, and Presa. An Easy Place / To Die is his first book of poetry; he also contributed, edited and produced a collaborative (including Andrei Codrescu) audio novel, The Katrina Decameron, which was released on iTunes in late 2010; and he is the founder of River Writers, a downtown Baton Rouge reading series.

A native of Athens, Ohio, and graduate of Ohio University and Louisiana State University, Brock Guthrie has taught at the University of Alabama for five years. He’s a poet whose work has appeared in such places as Cimarron Review, Iron Horse, Los Angeles Review, New Ohio Review, Southern Review, and elsewhere. His first book, Contemplative Man, is forthcoming from Sibling Rivalry Press.

Chris Shipman’s poems have been included in journals such as Cimarron Review, Exquisite Corpse, La Fovea, Pedestal, and Salt Hill, among others. His is the author of Human-Carrying Flight Technology (Blaze VOX Books) and co-author with DeWitt Brinson of Super Poems (Kattywompus Press). Shipman has been featured on Verse Daily and has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He is poetry editor for DIG Magazine of Baton Rouge and teaches Creative Writing and English Lit at St. Martin’s Episcopal High School in Metairie.

A Serious Poem Admitting One of My Major Failings

Poetry Magazine has officially rejected me
eleventy one times. I am vaguely aware
this means something, but I can’t answer
what. I know it means something.

Twelve of the poems Poetry Magazine rejected
because my middle name was too loose.
I can understand that.

Nine of the poems Poetry Magazine rejected
where dedicated to mortal men unworthy
of a poem, even from a bad poet writing
bad poetry.

Seven of the poems Poetry Magazine rejected
were in regards of short greedy men
in heavy metal underwear, drunk on heavy beer.
I can live with that.

Three of the poems Poetry Magazine rejected
because they didn’t ring true. They had an air
of pomposity, or a flamingly stupid premise
awash in the me-ness of me.

The last poem that Poetry Magazine rejected
was mostly white
space – and clearly racist
since only humans were represented
(even though one was dressed up as a dragon)

I have to learn to live with that.

I am not good enough for Poetry Magazine
possibly because I am too fat or too old or
too human or too broken
or too broke

Who knows? Maybe someone with an MFA
or a pet monkey named Elizabeth
in a diaper covered in little monkeys
not named Elizabeth.

Leanne might know. Frankly, I’m sure she does,
but I don’t actually care that I’ve been rejected
so it never occurs to me to ask her.

Current Projects

I’ve got a lot going on right now.

  • Editing pictures for Walt and Ali.
  • 8’x4′ Group project starts March 2nd
  • Installing Joomla on ShakespearesMonkeys.com
  • design new online magazine
  • Painting “Reaching for the Point”
  • Final Edits to essay for “Without Reason Only Love”
  • 5 more pieces of art for “Without Reason Only Love”
  • Website for Old Court Irish Pub
  • Profiles for artists at Western Ave
  • Promotion & Marketing for Anstey Studios
  • creating Resin Art Magnets
  • 250poems done of 2013 poems planned for 2013 – working title “One Less I Than I” (Dale at Neopoeisis has dibs if she wants it, but other publishers are welcome to contact me.
  • Submitting 365 poems in 2013.
  • Finish “Apocalypse and a Passing Flea Circus” novel.
  • Preparing Board for next painting.
  • Drawings using models provided by Michael Viera at the Whistler House
  • daily haiku
  • daily blog post.

For SI Upon the Advent of the 26th Anniversary of his 21st Birthday

unicorn-farting

The world would not be so mad rotund and cool
without my friend to love and laugh aloud
The galaxy of course would not notice (it’s a fool)
too full of pride to know it is too proud

Alas, the unicorns will fart for him and then
the faeries, belching in unison, will call
for each a friend as wondrous as him. Again,
without’m the world wouldn’t be mad rotund at all.

I remind each of you of that night you never knew,
a pint slammed back with gusto in a room, dark
and ready for chicanery. Now, understand, you
will miss the grins intentioned or not in that lark

perpetrated by my friend’s eld, nascent palsy’s spread
from bone to bone, flesh to flesh, and still — he’s not quite dead.

imagining my hair in another color

long red hair – like an lava flow
becomes the warm insanity
of burning alive

my name?

I’m sorry, I forget the details,
you’ll have to ask me
later

when i can breathe.

reality reflects
through my spectacles
into the stony chambers
of my almost beating heart

my hands run
through the strands

could this be fabric?
is this me – woven
or braided – no
this is not me

my hair is gray
and white,

my name?

Perhaps another trip
up the Zambezi – to visit a crocodile
with my foot in his mouth?

regarding love

if the cover to the pot of soup falls in
a hundred times – take it out
a hundred times

if you drop a dollar on the ground
a hundred times – pick it up
a hundred times

if the sun rises
a hundred times – get up
a hundred times.