Short Stories, Poems, and Feeling Blue

I had the pleasure of publishing a brand new Rusty Barnes short story at the BEAT to a PULP webzine. Rusty is one of my favorite poets but this is the first time I've featured some of his fiction. Top notch, of course. And speaking of poetry, a colloboration of mine with writer Stephen J. Golds called "Waitin' Around To Die"  appears at Punk Noir Magazine. 

Lastly, I first became aware of Joni Mitchell’s Blue when Rolling Stone printed their instantly outmoded "Top 100 Albums of the Last 20 Years" in 1987. That her masterpiece was ranked at 46, I’d later learn, was one of the many problems with the male-dominated list, but I’m grateful they at least printed the final verse to “The Last Time I Saw Richard.”

I'm gonna blow this damn candle out
I don't want nobody comin' over to my table
I got nothing to talk to anybody about
All good dreamers pass this way some day
Hidin' behind bottles in dark cafes

Those lines hit me like a Joe Frazier right. This was dynamic poetry and I wanted to know more, hear more. Pre-internet, instant gratification was a rare commodity. I waited until pay day and then headed to Tape World where I purchased a cassette of Blue. Luckily, my car stereo had a tape player, so I could listen to my new purchase on the ride home.

To read more on Mitchell's classic, please read my full column at LitReactor.

Blue at 50

My piece over at LitReactor on Joni Mitchell's BLUE album is a bit eclectic—thoughts ramble on because I had so much to say about an album that has saved my soul on more than one occasion.

PINS at The Five-Two

PINS is based on a true crime that impacted me not just in the senseless, horror of the murder but the community’s inept social media responses. New York State describes a child under the age of 18 who does not attend school, or behaves in a way that is dangerous or out of control, or often disobeys his or her parents, guardians or other authorities, as a Person In Need of Supervision or ‘PINS’. Thanks as always to Gerald So for featuring my work at The Five-Two. Names of the damned have been altered.

No Line for a Common Thread

 "No Line for a Common Thread" is my second published poem of '21. And without Stephen J. Golds it would not have seen the light of day. Thanks to his encouragement and legend Paul D. Brazill for making it happen at his mighty indie Punk Noir Magazine. 

All the Violent Memories by J. B. Stevens

“Outgoing Tracers” is the first poem in All the Violent Memories and that harrowing recounting alone—of a soldier bargaining with The Almighty—would be worth the price of the collection. Stevens follows it with 22 more equally traumatic experiences where the human spirit finds a way to not just endure but to overcome. 

In a vein similar to Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon who wrote of World War I’s grimness, J.B. Stevens documents in stark prose the horrors inflicted during war and its aftermath.

This is the latest in the First Cut series from Close to The Bone.

History of Present Complaint by HLR

History of Present Complaint will undoubtedly, and understandably, draw references to other confessional poets—connections to Anne Sexton and Sylvia Path came to mind as I read through this in one sitting. But what makes HLR’s work stand apart is the uniqueness of her voice. She is operating on a plateau reserved for the innovative. 

HLR structures storytelling in a Kafkaesque manner that spins the reader deep into a cavernous parallax of the narrator’s discordant reality. She builds compassion through repetition and precision of her account. When she all caps the word BLACKOUT multiple times during a particularly traumatic episode, it’s followed by SLEEP, and you long for her to find a little peace from the pain, mental illness, and lack of support from an inefficient health bureaucracy.

HLR offers a vibrant voice, an unforgettable experience, a must read.

Jesus In The Ghost Room by Rusty Barnes

 Rusty Barnes pulls the curtain back on JESUS IN THE GHOST ROOM with an ominous tone. “This is the year of terrible things ...” and yet it's not just the narrator's life that's on edge, he notes that nature itself is off kilter: "the moss doesn't even grow on the right side of the tree any more." From “Annus Horribilis,” this clever MEMENTO in poem finds our guide back at a picnic the night before as “my hands swirl in the air on their way to your pockets.” What exactly happened is open to interpretation, possibly just the rush of new love, but there’s enough mystery to read in a couple different scenarios. 

Reminiscence grounds a significant portion of this collection. Mr. Barnes spirits us much farther back in his timeline to the family ties that forever haunt. It is “Summer 1974” and a father looms godlike in a young kid’s life. A sharp, familiar image from the time period is conveyed with the line “cigarette packs rolled into both sleeves,” but it’s the "like epaulets” description that delivers distinctive style. Other highlights include “Listening to Hugo Winterhalter in the Early AM” and “Fire.” 

Mr. Barnes touches on many subjects, including his mom, loss of faith, male bonding, first sexual experience, nature, and imagination. An eclectic collection of verse, yes, and very relatable.

Blogging, Publishing, and Life

I have a post up at the Western Fictioneers blog reviewing Tom Clavin's DODGE CITY. One of my favorite books on Wyatt Earp that strips away a lot of the mythologizing and reveals a even more interesting historical figure. 

Big news for me that, as I said on Twitter, has me floating on cloud nine: Close To The Bone has announced they will publish my poetry chapbook Dead Burying the Dead Under a Quaking Aspen. 

And on the homefront we are still socially distancing and trying to get by the best we can. I'm fortunate to be gainfully employed (outside of writing) and have faith, though shaky, that this country can reach a plateau of stability sooner than later. Hope you are all doing well too. 

Sandpiper

Some good news around here that I could definitely use. My 14th poem, "Sandpiper," will be published by Live Nude Poems in the near future. Thanks to exceptional editors Rusty Barnes and Heather Sullivan for having me back. My last poem to appear on their site was "The Inconsiderate."

Close To The Bone

Four new poems, of mine, are published at the Close To The Bone webzine. Many thanks to this outstanding publishing team, and, especially, poetry editor Stephen J. Golds. 

Wanderer above the Sea of Fog

“Wanderer above the Sea of Fog" (c. 1818) by Caspar David Friedrich. One of my favorite oil paintings. From Wikipedia: “He looks down on an almost impenetrable sea of fog in the midst of a rocky landscape - a metaphor for life as an ominous journey into the unknown.” This iconic image is one of the inspirations for the latest series of poems that I’ve written, that will be appearing at the Close to The Bone webzine October 31st.

Close to The Bone

The Inconsiderate

Latest...

I've been busy editing a book of poetry, having fun being dad which is the best job, right?, and continuing my trek to the Dark Tower. Here's my latest re-read at Macmillan's Criminal Element blog. As always, thank you.

Notes: Writing Prose in Pleasure of the Park

I’m hoping to get Notes: Writing Prose in Pleasure of the Park out in early December. Kyle was working on it just before his death in 2013, and it contains a new batch of poems with strong, and strange, imagery as well as several humorous short stories. Spending time on this project and hearing his unique voice is a wonderful, personal Christmas present.

Ugly Beauty

All Those Hungry Mouths by Keith Rawson has been described as "ugly beauty" and "apocalyptic portraits."

Three for Bukowski

I'm not sure what initially sparked my interest in reading Charles Bukowski, but once that tap opened, I went on a steady diet of Buk's work for quite some time. I became such a fan, that I got Kyle Knapp hooked on the candid writer when Kyle was searching for some inspiration of his own. I had lent him Women and several others (Post Office, Notes from a Dirty Old Man), and we had lengthy discussions on the raw material.

January 16, 2013. Kyle sent an email with the header 'ode to Bukowski' and attached was a poem titled Women in Acrostics with a note, "Do you remember this scene in "Women?" It was very funny." -Kyle

So, on this 20th anniversary on Bukowski's death, I thought we'd honor his remembrance with not just Kyle's poem but two other amazing tributes from Gerald So and Adrian Manning (via Silver Birch Press) in the appropriately titled "Another Round for Bukowski" (thanks, Gerald!).

Scream Coy At Wandering Walls (A Gift That Lasts)

Let us celebrate the occasion with wine and sweet words. --Plautus

It’s Valentine’s Day, and three years ago on this holiday, I got the greatest gift a person can ever get ... a wonderful baby girl. This past week as my wife and I picked out several gifts for our daughter, everything seemed to fall short. Sure when she opened her presents, she was amused by the toy and loved the book and looked adorable in the new outfit, but what’s really memorable about any of it? (I’m being philosophical here because, of course, she’s still too young to remember—or really appreciate—it anyway.) It’s just something that has been on my mind, brought forward by the gift that my nephew Kyle Knapp had sent to Ava on her birthday last year ... a poem. A very special poem.

“For Ava” arrived in an email with a pithy note that offered no glimpse into the lasting lines that followed. In a very humble and almost apologetic tone, he wrote, “Hey David, I'm broke as shit, but I wrote Ava a poem. Tried to call you guys. –Kyle”

For Ava

Holiday!
And of course, hooray!
Held for us in somber halls
With seldom cheer
In horrid weather,
Still, and so, we’re unimaginably happy!

We can break down to dance
We can scream coy at wandering walls
(Like the impression of you I cherish the most)

The tables are kicked out
And the joy is all around,
Smeared with everything in the universe that’s colored in crayons

And we’re all so wrapped in wonder, or bliss
That life ponders,
And wonders why
The asterisk of the bower
Doesn’t spell out your name
In crude italics
Ava!
AVA!

I think we’ll be friends
In fact, I’ve seen it...
If crazy old men can sometimes imagine the future
We’ll go swimming, and share our dreams at breakfast
And reframe the pictures,
That first cast me and your father.

I’m poor!
And strangled and held still!
But I hope that on your birthday,
Since I can’t offer you a real present
You’ll remember my words.

Love you kiddo,
--Kyle

I look back at my response that now seems so … ordinary. I wrote: AWESOME! Denise said "how sweet!" Means a lot, Kyle. Thank you. That was special. ~David

I’m glad I capped “awesome” and added my wife’s heartfelt sentiment but it was written by a tired traveler who was once again on the road for another job assignment. I would probably network on the Internet for an hour after dinner and then go to bed. So the full weight of his gift—in the moment—remained largely unrecognized. His email arrived at 7:14 pm that night and I’m grateful at least I spotted it right away and sent that thank you eleven minutes later. When you have lost someone, sobering experience has taught me, the tiniest of details can bring the largest amount of comfort.

Since I can’t offer you a real present

Words meant a great deal to my nephew, bordering on the spiritual. As a writer, I can’t think of a better present to offer. Words. Distinctive. Sharp. Memorable. Of all the Christmas, birthday, and other gifts I have received and given over the years, what really stands out? I can think of a handful: the prayer my dad had handwritten on the occasion of, I believe, my 8th birthday, the entire set of Hardy Boys books for Christmas in 1980 that skyrocketed my interest in reading (and that Kyle would borrow twenty plus years later and contribute to his own tutelage); the home shared from my in-laws after the loss of ours; and this past Christmas, the sweatshirts adorned with Kyle’s verses.

This is not to say gifts purchased with careful affection aren’t or can’t be special. It just seems too easy to forget that often the best gifts are those crafted from the hands and heart of another—the ones that don’t have the sticky remnants of a once-attached price tag. Kyle’s poem—a “rhythmical creation of beauty in words” as defined by Poe—to Ava, well, it will be remembered long past any present he could have bought. A very real present, and I’m sure in time, Ava will come to appreciate his words just as I do.

***

Smeared with everything in the universe that’s colored in crayons

Aside from our contribution in keeping Walt Disney solvent with our purchases for Ava’s birthday this year, I pulled out a piece of construction paper, and with her mom’s help we drew a picture of our house and happy family. Denise sketched the home because she’s pretty good at that, and I took care of the sun with beaming rays and trees, which I’m not so good at, but I can make it resemble the intended. Artists we’re not! The drawing’s not much, but, then again, it’s everything. And Ava loved it, deciding which stick figure is Daddy, which one is Mommy, and which one is her. And knowing her great ability in using childhood imagination, later she will take that drawing, place her little toy people on it, and have them playing with our stick figure family in the yard under the trees.

Kyle would have been endeared by Ava’s imagination. When he had replied to my email, he'd certainly made use of his … I smile at his offbeat sense of humor and give him the last word:

I'm glad that you guys liked the poem, it’s all I could think of to do. It’s definitely a bit rough drafty. I want to discuss this novel I'm writing at some point. I'm on chapter 4 and I'm pretty confident that I can get through a full length piece this time. Maybe you can sell the s--- out of it and we can both retire, dig a moat around the property and fill it with exotic sea-dangers (like an octopus or something).

Best thoughts,
Kyle

The Fall Creek Review

The Fall Creek Review is the beginning of something I think will be very special. A new webzine devoted to poetry, stories, art, and opinion edited by Cole Montegue. A very spare site at the moment, but I’m aware of what lies ahead and I think you are going to want to bookmark this page. By that first poem, well, maybe just me, but I feel The Fall Creek Review is off to an inspired start. Please stop by and drop a comment. It will be appreciated.

Dave King Commemorative at BTAP

In September, Dave King wrote me an email saying, “Much thanks for all your past encouragement.” I replied by asking for his address to send a book of poetry his way. At the time, his generous remark didn’t sink in of how he was so close to life’s edge. You see, back on August 15, Dave posted on his blog that he had prostate cancer. Yet he continued putting up poems with his courageous view of the future, and it had me hopeful that more time lay ahead. Sadly, though, Dave’s son Gavin informed his father’s online friends that Dave passed away on October 4.

I recommend you take a minute to read “Why can only the living mourn?” And “How do I prepare for death?” These two recent posts reveal what a brave, compassionate, and caring man Dave King was. And what an extraordinary talent. Good lord, he wrote a poem a day for most of the time I knew him, and on more than one occasion, I had commented along the lines of, “Dave, when are you going to put a book out!” I was in awe of the quality and output.

Like most social networking friends, I can’t remember who came to whose blog first. One day he was there. After reading "I am the man who swallowed the boy" in February 2010, I asked Dave if he would write a poem—in story—for BEAT to a PULP. A few months later, he sent “Collision” and then in 2011 the delightfully titled “Angel Bitch.”

When my nephew died this past June, Dave said in part, “A tragic story that puts my present troubles in perspective.” What a beautiful human being! Doing what class acts of his stature does, put others and their problems above his own.

A further testament to Dave’s courage, I had asked him for another poem for the webzine, and he responded, “It may take me a while to write the poem -- I'm not quite as quick as I was -- have to wait for the next energy burst like a surfer waiting for his wave.” I love this imagery, and how his reply captures the magnificence of a great poet still carrying on with what he loves.

Dave, I never heard your voice, shook your hand, or had an English cup of tea with you. But know I miss you dearly, friend. Thank you for your past encouragement and support. May your poetry continue to soar long after your passing. I know it will with me. And I am rerunning both your BEAT to a PULP contributions this week in your honor.

Rest in peace.