Happenings in the works

Posted by Unknown | Posted in , , , , , , , , , | Posted on Monday, April 18, 2011

0

Submitting work, writing new work and getting involved in a new and exciting happening in the Scranton area. The first ever Scranton Zine Fest will be taking place in June and I've been invited to read some of my work at Anthology, now a part of Pages and Places.

What is a "Zine Fest" you may ask? Well, I asked the same question. This is what the site has to say:


The Scranton Zine Fest will be a celebration of zinesters, zine distros, artistic press publications, crafters, workshops, and live entertainment under one roof for the community to enjoy.
The festival will be a great place to learn something new, get inspired, discuss, interact, meet friends, connect with local writers, and get involved with accessible media.
 Jessica Meoni and Dana Marie Bloom are the brains behind the operation.

Joining me at the reading are fellow writers and poets Rachael Goetzke, Charlotte Lewis, Amye Archer, Alexis Czencz Belluzi and Brian Fanelli. I'll be sure to post more about this event as the time draws near. For now, visit the links provided to find out more about the Zine Fest. 


http://scrantonzinefest.com/
Facebook Event Page for the Reading

Heart in a foxhole

Posted by Unknown | Posted in , , , , , | Posted on Friday, April 08, 2011

0

Heart in a foxhole
-------------------------

there are times when I can't
feel my heart beating inside my chest.
it seems that the blood in my veins
backs up like a city-wide traffic jam
filled with blaring horns and red-faced
motorists in a rush to get
nowhere.
I listen, but there is no sound of the
constant thump thump...
it's one thing to lose your keys.
not even a reason to panic when you
lose your mind. you can go on perfectly
content being crazy.
but this dead feeling between my ribs
sends me searching. I pull myself apart
like a Cronenberg scene spilling a
cluttered mess of me to the floor.
I have a lot more guts than I thought.
        but where the hell is that fickle,
               bastard heart of mine?
                        maybe it is my mind I've lost.
I begin rummaging through the inside of
my whiskey-soaked shell until finally,
tucked away between the aching
bones of my spine, I find that
barely beating mass of muscle.
hiding like a chicken-shit 
from the battlefields of 
everything.
but it's about time it started pulling
its weight around here.
my liver has handled sorrow for too long.
and my dick is tired of dealing with love.
so I pull its cowardly, beating ass from
the foxhole of my spine and
throw him to the frontline.
face the blitzkrieg.
     take a few bullets and
     shards of shrapnel.
                    collect scars.
      lose fights.
women.

lose it all and
die bleeding with a smile on
your face knowing you
lived.



~Dale Wilsey Jr. 2011


"Heart in a Foxhole" was recently published on the Young American Poets blog (link).

The first ride and published work

Posted by Unknown | Posted in , , , , , , , , , , , | Posted on Monday, April 04, 2011

0

 
The first ride
-----
 Dust-covered chrome, 
a lazy blanket remains
from a Winter's rest.

Two hours, patience,
two bottles and a cut-up
t-shirt.

Stubborn to wake.
Starved for pulses of 
electricity.

Force-fed juice from
gasoline-guzzling,
steel-cranking mass.

Roars to rumbling life.
Breathe in Spring day
and kiss with flame.

Cowhide jacket, gloved
hands gripping. 
Cradled in saddle.

Grab reins and 
twist spurs.
Twin horses gallop.

Snaking road along
muddy river gorged
on mountain springs.

Wind comes rushing
with double-yellow
veins on asphalt.

Taste of sun and
bursting life, waking
to the thaw.

Echoes of throaty roar
bouncing from rock-face
through valley.

Taking in, with every
mile, forgotten, roaming
freedom of cowhands.

Journeys of travellers
seeking new sights.
Expanses of life.

Mile after mile,
along a wandering path.
Riding on.

----

April is National Poetry month. You've probably been made aware of this by hundreds of other blog postings and Facebook updates containing snippets torn from Shakespeare, Poe, Angelou and Frost (I had enough of that through winter). Not surprising since setting aside a single month dedicated to poetry caters mostly to those who, in their daily life, think little, if not nothing, about poetry. To save you the trouble of being bludgeoned with the same spiel from another writer who will tell you that every month, day and hour is somehow related to poetry (and writing as a whole), I'll end my rant now.

The warm weather has finally set in and the above piece was inspired by my first ride of the year. It's always an incredible feeling to jump on the bike and head on down the road, but that first ride after a long, cold and miserable winter is always a bit more special.

Today, the Young American Poets blog published one of my pieces entitled "Heart in a foxhole". You can read it here. The YAP blog publishes work from American poets born in 1972 and later. There are some great writers being showcased over there so, after you finish reading my piece, browse around. There should be something there for everyone. Also, check out their sister site, Young British Poets.

Bluesmen and a bottle of bourbon

Posted by Unknown | Posted in , , , , , , , , , , | Posted on Friday, March 25, 2011

0

There are some nights where the only thing you can do is sip on bourbon and listen to voices like Junior Kimbrough and T-Model Ford stomp and pluck, wail and moan about much harder times than you've ever experienced. Lots of musicians play the Blues, but there's something about the Blues that enables a listener to decipher the truth from the bullshit.

The guys who've actually lived through seeing family or friends lynched. Who have been to jail. Who have lost everything (if they ever had anything to lose). Or, in the case of T-Model, who have killed a man. These true Bluesmen reach out and slap you in the face. They say, "Look, son. You ain't seen nor been through shit. But, even if you seen a bit a trouble in your life, I know what you're feelin'."

And they play it. They take every bit of heartache and string it across their guitars like sinew. Grab death by the throat and stretch him across a snare drum to beat him down before he beats them. They stomp with heavy heels into pine floorboards in a smokey juke joint on a soggy Mississippi Summer night. Keeping time with every beat of their heart closer to the last.

It's more than music. The Blues feeds off of human sorrow. Devours it. It will suck every bit of heartache and pain out of the listener, chew it up and spit it back out in the form of hypnotizing rhythm. There's been more than one occasion where I've caught myself moving to its sound. Letting it roll down over me like river water, brushing every bit of grime and grit from my day.

Tonight is just one of those nights. A bottle of Maker's Mark, a few Blues albums and myself. I only wish I could be somewhere deep in Mississippi or Georgia. Down some forgotten back road that the tourists don't know about. Sitting at a bar sipping Southern whiskey. Watching bodies dance like hypnotized snakes in the low light of a juke joint on a hot Summer night. Sit and sip the burn while a true Bluesman sweats blood, pouring his life out onto the stage.





My heart as an inkwell

Posted by Unknown | Posted in , , , , , , | Posted on Tuesday, March 22, 2011

1

"More than kisses, letters mingle souls..." ~John Donne


Opening the mailbox to find a letter or a package addressed to me still ranks high in my top ten best ways to be surprised. This is why I find it extremely disheartening to know that letter writing has all but died off except in certain cases of writing soldiers or prisoners. E-mail is instantaneous and has made it possible for us to communicate, to anyone in the world, what used to take days or weeks. That's great if you need to send memos or other types of official correspondence (Did you get the TPS reports?). But what of deep, human connection? Who can hold an E-mail? Who can cherish it?

A letter is scattered with bits of the person who creates it. As if the composer carefully folds pages of their memories stained with ink from the well of their heart and seals it with the heat of their fingertips. E-mails come to your inbox while letters are received in the palms of your waiting hands. You can almost feel the letter pulsing within the envelope as you hold it before you, carefully pealing back its paper mouth. 

Never, in this day in age, did I think I'd experience this until I found another who treasured such simple pleasures. It was last year, in the heat of the summer, that Stephanie and I began what has become the most unbreakable and loving bond I have ever known. And how could it not have turned out so? Among so many things that attracted me to her, she spoke of names like Gibran and Nietzsche. Most people can't even pronounce Nietzsche. She introduced me to Rilke. She quoted Kerouac and I was hooked. As though Hemingway had fished me out of the lake and landed me upon Stephanie's dock. So, what would be more natural than two lovers of writers writing one another? 

E-mails would certainly not do, however. Try picturing Keats composing E-mails to Fanny Brawne on his iMac and you'll understand exactly where I'm coming from. If we wanted to share pieces of one another with each other, only ink and pulp would do. 

Every time the tip of my pen glides over the face of a page, I know that some bit of my being is contained within the curves and lines of my words. And, as I fold the pages of my letter evenly and seal them within the envelope, I know that they will be opened and looked upon as though it were my own eyes she were looking into. My own lips speaking the words recorded upon the paper.

I sit here tonight, opening and unfolding letters she has crafted and composed for me, and I feel as though the gentle loops of her handwriting spill out onto the bed next to me and construct her curves. The smell of her perfume still lingers upon the pages and fills my senses. And Stephanie is here next to me, speaking of memories, dreams, hopes and happiness. Before I fold it back into its envelope, I press my lips to hers and inhale that which she has sent over distances for me to hold.

These folded memories will stay with me forever. Never lost to the voids of cyber trash. Tucked neatly and safely away within an Oak box only after the scent of perfume fades and the beating heart of the writer remains.

Sifting through my family's moments

Posted by Unknown | Posted in , , , , , , , | Posted on Tuesday, March 15, 2011

1


Names and places elude myself and my immediate family,
but this moment in time belongs to my bloodline. 
It falls somewhere between the late 30's and early 40's,
though I'm too late to remember either of these times.

Yet, I can still imagine bouncing around off camera as a young boy
marveling at the delicate white folds of satin and lace.
Pretending to be a cowboy roaming on horseback, pistol at my side,
happening upon some fair-skinned farm girl running from everything
her family wants her to be.

I can't help wondering where this yard may be.
If that Oak still stands.
And if I can view this moment of time
recorded in its branches.

Give me a saddle to ride upon and a stallion with
sweating shanks that gallops across sunsets
and over miles of ticking clocks 
to bring me to this
moment.

..

Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)