Back when I was a wee high schooler, and when Soft Skull Press has a brick and mortar, I picked up a small poetry chapbook at random and immediately became enamored. I always loved reading, but poetry, I thought, this would be my thing. Continue reading musculus
Carbon, nitrogen . . . there was an explosion, and now you have to pay attention
to everything. At the party, everyone was talking about the crappy TV series
that’s so popular, and you didn’t say you wanted better, wanted more.
I must have still been in high school when I found this piggy bank in a thrift store way out in Berlin, NJ — a city not nearly as exciting as its name would suggest. For some reason, I’ve been oddly attached to it for as long as I could remember, even making some efforts to “restore” it way back when I wanted to go into art restoration as a career path. Continue reading Scraps
It’s no secret that Allen Ginsberg is my spirit poet. (Yes, I’m making up that phrase.) I first came across his poetry as a teenager and quickly fell in love with the Beat Generation.
In high school, I used to carry a picture of Allen Ginsberg around with me, until my dog ate it. I spent hours trying to memorize all of Howl and later got more than one tattoo commemorating my love for this poem, and others, written by my favorite New Jerseyan. Continue reading Sunflower Sutra
Do you ever walk down the street on a sunny day and hear a phrase of music and feel your sternum crack open just a tiny bit? Do you know what I mean when I say that? It’s a feeling. It’s not a theory. It can’t be pinned. It’s what I want to capture every time I write a poem and I keep writing poems because I never think I’ve captured it.
The day didn’t start well. I woke up too early. And despite encountering a beautiful young buck during my run, I moved crankily through my morning routine.
Then I was late. The light on my car was shouting at me that my tires needed air, but someone at the gas station was blocking the pump. I forgot to check EZPass and didn’t have enough cash to pay the toll through the Lincoln Tunnel. Continue reading A Day of Words: Poets Forum, 2013