Brielle thinks I should submit to "poetry magazine."

. . . still working up to that.

just submitted a shitload (about 9 pages worth) of poems to the Northwest Playwrites Alliance first annual poetry contest. I did a reading with them in May and it went well; subsequently Bryan encouraged me to submit.

I sent a mix of Swansea Morning highlights (Ambition, Genus, Little Red Corvette) and newer stuff (That Bar You Like, Lake City, Spiderland.)

will be finishing up an edit of Penderyn Smooth to send to the Burnside Review for their "whisky issue." and send some to kate and jennifer for filter.

these are as much reminders as updates.

Catch the right bus.

With my schedule what it is, I catch my reading in forty minute sessions between bus-boardings. I've stopped trying to read things longer than poems on the buses I ride, largely due to the jostling, starts and stops and darkness. I don't get sick per se, but I get annoyed.
So I'm reading The Savage Detectives and because its a Lailey-recommendation and I started it in New York I feel somewhat like hey-- I'm still in New York! Sort of. Even when I'm sitting at the cafe at the Community College constantly checking the clock to make sure I am not late for my tutoring shift.
This morning I decided to come north before my reading session. Usually I sit for a few at Empire Coffee (pictured) in Columbia City. Timing was fortuitous because as I boarded the 41 to Lake City a dude with curly hair and a Steel Tigers of Death T-shirt boarded. Pause. That faint inner-headscratch of recognition.
Hey Arlo.
Well hello, Graham.

Been probably 7 years (last time I saw him I think I'd not yet compiled Because I Don't Play Guitar since the other founding member of the i.o.i. and I last saw eachother; as katherine would often like to reminisce, we met at 13 in a house in Shoreline where a woman who advertised herself as a "writing mentor for teens" was having a meet-up for young writers.

the rest, as they say, is history.
more to come?

"You shouldn't be so self-deprecating! You should just be awesome."-- a girl named Stephanie, on Saturday

Saturday I read at a salon-style reading at Josie Davis' house wherein there was pie and wine and ipa and Paul Nelson and Anastacia Tolbert and they were both excellent and I felt like my stuff was well-received. I read:

Little Fear of Drowning
Not Like a Gas Stove At All
Lake City
Swansea-Cardiff Blues(Bellingham Edition)
Feel the Buzz(Cardiff Edition)
Ambition is Critical(Swansea Edition)
God Delegates
Extra Wide Bathtubs
Genus, Species and Flavour

incidentally, it was the 1-year anniversary of my return to the USA; hence reading the Welsh Trilogy in complete, in order. The first time I've done that. I still love those pieces, but lately have been feeling an itch to get a more complete round up of new, post-SMCD in tip-top reading shape. Lake City tends to go over real well. At least in Seattle.

other news: Shane will have 2(!) new books out soon, which I helped in selecting/editing pieces for. Have applied for a micro-residency at Pilot Books and have a gig in Portland at the end of August. Writers group is going well. I have about four pieces on the tip of my pen, just waiting to get good.

there are other things in my life that occur, but this was gonna be an "artistic" update anyway.

after heavy editing advice from emily w and eva s:

Tunnels

in the last frame of the photostrip
its just photobooth curtains,
a mess of hair and flailing hands.

i pass out on the L train and end up in manhattan,
rubbing my eye-bags. legs gave out so someone carries
me to a doctor or a taxidermist; above the receptionist
a stuffed wolf's head, teeth sharp and straight.

the third frame is scratched out like a lotto ticket,
no hints left.

by the time i’m back to brooklyn,
the sun has turned it into a brick oven.
at the table with a wallet full of numbers
i try to remember things. the barista wears a handgun.

Second , two joke-kissed. a third lit a match,
held just inside the frame.

at the bodega they burned barrel fires,
smoke of steel and plastic choking up the room.
I thumbed a matchbook--directions to a house--
must have gone, but next thing i remember is
subways cornering, the tilt and creak,
speeding curve and sudden stop.

in the first frame of the photostrip we smiled huge,
lip-cracking smiles, our eyes shone like candy wrappers.

material referencing material.

. . . of being pure at heart

and in the video there was a girl eating elephant ears
and the band played in a basement
until it got too sunny
and it was a field then, in Scotland near a pond
and the girl was trying on blue shirts
and I could relate to the words better than the pictures
and could see how this would be something to lay me out for a while
like someone once had a similar shaped back yard they never wanted to leave.