Moon Madness

Spring cleaning & I found these poems I started during Shirley Brewer's moon poetry workshop at the January 2013 MWA Baltimore Chapter meeting:

Rave

The music is so loud

it feels like it’s coming

from within, each bass

beat expelled

with my breath. I am

surrounded by neon soldiers

spinning, popping, rocking

nodding. They dance in dreams

fueled by ecstasy & immortality.

I am mesmerized

by the movements

of these modern

day whirling

dervishes, oblivious

to eyes

like mine.

Even the yo-yos

being spun, glowing

on fluorescent strings,

dozens of tiny moons

in awkward orbits,

beguile me.

Disconnect

Do you remember brighter days,

days  when I stayed

close, days when your extended

arms could not be wrapped

around me?

Do you recall those times

so long ago when you could climb

a mountain, and if your heart

was big enough, you could leap

from the peak & I could catch

you in my fullness?

Of course not. We were

so much closer then, back when

you worshiped me, revered me,

coveted my cheese. I loved you

then. But now? Now you have

grown up, grown old, grown

bitter & cynical.

I have become nothing

but cold rock to you.

Painting the Moon

I cried the night I realized

Gustav Klimt had painted

the moon. Before then

it was nothing more

than a ball

of rock, battered & broken,

sterile & lifeless.

And then came Yem,

a muse sent by the moon

itself--sent to show me

that its vitality lied

not in the presence of life

but in the weight

of our souls.

So, for Yem,

I went to art school.

I learned to see the life

in everything--nothing

existed in a vacuum

when I could make it all

breathe.

Like a willo’wisp

returning to woods

Yem winked out

before I could catch

her. Rumors were

she had to go

home, home

to money claiming

playtime was over.

So I mourned

for her. I climbed

to the rooftop and screamed

at the moon until I was raw.

I saw

it then, the face

was Judith’s;

tonight, she held

my severed head,

Holofernes’ rejected.

I cried.

I cried for Yem.

I cried for myself.

I cried most now knowing

everything had life,

everything

but me.

Tongue

I know it's been a while, but creativity can't be rushed. Plus, I've been, like, busy & sick & stuff. I wrote this during last week's Writing Outside the Fence session, the best free writing workshop in Baltimore. My earliest memory...

I'm four, maybe five. Mom has everything I need laid out on the bed, except for my shoes, of course, because shoes don't go on the bed. "Okay," she says, "you know what to do," before walking out of the room and closing the door behind her.

I know exactly what to do. I'm ready. Underwear first: bright blue Spiderman Underoos with red trim. No problem. The matching Spidey tee, easy peasy. The overshirt's not so easy. My head slips into my sleeve a few times before I realize it's supposed to go through the larger hole in the center. I eventually get it on with not too much effort. Pants are even harder. Somehow, I get both of my legs into the same pant leg. I fall over, wriggling like a lost  caterpillar until I can squeeze the wrong leg out. But even the pair of slacks is no match for my four-year-old thinking process, in the end.

What truly trips me up are the shoes, specifically my right shoe. I remember the way mom taught me to get socks on easily: roll them all the way to the toe, first. Each sock completes its trip over my toes, ankles and calves like magic. Not even my left shoe gives me any hassle.

The right shoe, however, puts up a fight. No matter how hard I try, it refuses to slip on. Eventually, I hear my mom's voice. "Fernando?"

I leave my room to ask my mother's advice, waddling the way we all do when we walk around with only one shoe on. "No me puedo poner el zapato," I tell mom, dejected that I've failed.

"Le sacastes la lengua?" she asks, sincerely.

I'm confused, but brighten up. I hadn't thought of that. I'm not sure how it will work, but mom's full of wise advice. I rush back into my room to try again. I sit on the floor and stick my tongue out at the shoe before trying to slip my foot in. Nothing. However ridiculing this shoe is supposed to help, it isn't. If anything, it's getting worse. Perhaps my shoe's mad at me for teasing it.

My mother walks in. "Fernando, what are you doing?" she asks curiously.

"You told me to stick my tongue out at my shoe to get it on!"

Mom laughs gently as she takes the shoe from me. "No, Fernando, sacale la lengua means to pull out the shoe's tongue, not yours," she explains as she does just that: pulls the tongue that is stuffed deep in the toe, the tongue that I had driven even deeper, right out before slipping it easily over my foot.

I get it now. Shoes have tongues. As I take mom's hand to walk to the PATH that will take us into New York, I just can't resist sticking my tongue out at my right shoe one last time, just for spite.

Ode to Joy

for Joy Lowe

Joy is dying,
lying comatose
on a hospital bed
in Franklin Square.

Joy is dying
& there’s nothing
I can say or do,
pray, perhaps,
but even that
is no guarantee.

Joy is dying
& all I can really
do is remember
the fun we had
getting ready
to go dancing
on a Sunday night:
Destinations, Chaps,
All three floors
of PT Flaggs.
Do you remember
the Powercore?

I watched her
then, so full of life,
vigor & vim in every writhe
& spin, strawberry
blonde locks of hair
grabbing at the air
the way I wished
they would want
to grab me.

Joy is dying,
I have no time
to say goodbye,
instead I will remember
the dancing, remember
a young man’s crush,
remember the flames
of her eyes.

I want Joy to live
forever
inextinguishable
in my soul.

Lilith is Covered

Original Art by Josh Collier

Today is the 16th anniversary of the day Sharon Denburg Lopatka let some dude she met on the internet choke her to death. You might not remember, but I could never forget. I just had to explore her life and her decision to die. Form that research came the seeds for my novel Killing Lilith. Now, at long last, I'm ready to release a finished version on the book. 

I have the manuscript back from the proofreader (Thanks Kris!) and the cover art. Now if I can get the text to pass Smashwords' requirements while maintaining the integrity of the manuscript, I'll be golden. Thank you to all who've waited patiently. I hope you won't be disappointed.

In the meantime, remember: There may be fifty shades of grey, but there's only ONE shade of black.

Pimp on Fire

Fall is here, and while our hemisphere is cooling, I'm burning white hot with a number of appearances coming over the next few weeks. Let's start with Baltimore Book Festival weekend!



First, I'll be reading with the sharper-than-scalpels  William P. Tandy and his incorrigible, yet megatalented Smile Hon, You're in Baltimore crew at 6PM on Friday on the City Lit Stage.

Immediately following my Smile Hon gig, I'll be jetting back uptown to read at Mind Trip, the release party for Redlines: Baltimore 2028, an anthology of speculative fiction chock full of stories that take place in my hometown during that year. It includes my tale, Dream Catcher. The party starts on 7PM, Friday, September 28, 2012 at the Living Well at 2443 N. Charles Street in Baltimore.

I'll be back in the spotlight at BookFest on Sunday when I read at Lit & Art with Eric Goodman and lots of other great writers on the City Lit stage at 2:30PM. Finally, I will be closing the City Lit stage out by emceeing MWA's Me, Myself & I: The Art of the Monologue, starring my MWAB resident President of Vice, Shirley "Princess Leia" Brewer, and a host of other great MWA writers putting their unique twists on the classic ego trip.

But wait, there's more.

There's a chance I'll be reading at RAW: Baltimore on Thursday, October 4th, at Luckie's Tavern, 10 Market Place, Baltimore, from 8:00PM - 12:00AM. That hasn't been confirmed yet, so stay tuned.

I may be in a bit over my head on Friday, October 5th, I will be part of a truly Di-vine Reading featuring uberlitgods David Eberhardt, Clarinda Harriss (editor Brick House Press), Chris Mason (the Tinklers), Constantine Pantazonis, Stephen Reichert (editor Smartish Pace), Bruce Sager, & Laura Shovan (editor Little Patuxent Review), but I'm committed to holding my own. The Di-Vine Reading takes place at the Ivy Bookshop, 6080 Falls Road, Baltimore, at 7:00PM.

And last, but by no means least, I will be descending upon Laurel for Riverfest. I will be emceeing the day's readings on the Scarecrow Hollow stage, featuring oodles of fantastic writers, including Jennifer Kieth Ciatti and Sid Gold. & yes, there will be an open mic. Riverfest takes place around Main St & Avondale St, from 9:00AM to 4:00PM on Sunday, October 7th. Scarecrow Hollow opens around 11:00AM.

Phew!!! I'm tired just thinking about it all. But there it is... Thank you to all my supporters out there who've helped make this possible. I truly believe I have the best friends anyone could ask for. I hope to see at least a few of your friendly faces over the next few weeks. 

☮& Love—The Word Pimp

Racist Republicans Strike Again, Against Their Own

Poor Zoraida Fonalledas with Prince Riebus

I'M SO DISGUSTED RIGHT NOW!

I heard about Zori Fonalledas, the Chairwoman of the Committee on Permanent Organization & a Republican delegate from Puerto Rico was shouted down as she was introduced. Some called it blatant racism. Others, Republican honchos, claimed it was a carry over from some vote about not seating some Ron Paul delegates. I decided to watch what occurred just before she was introduced, & YES there was some flak about the vote. BUT, it had died down by the time Prince Riebus began to introduce her. Almost as soon as the word Puerto Rico got out of his mouth, the chants of USA & Get them Out! began ringing throughout the floor. So the excuse that this was about sour grapes on the part of Paul supporters doesn't cut it.

It's a shame that Puerto Ricans have been citizens since 1898, have contributed the 2nd most troops of any US state or territory, and have to be greeted like this. Even after Riebus bangs his gavel to demand the appropriate respect, you can hear the chanting, albeit quieter. ...& the Republicans wonder why they have such a hard time attracting Hispanics to their ranks.

Thanks to a handy C-SPAN feature that let's you make your own clip, I've provided what I looked at so you can judge for yourself. 

Tonight, Luis   Fortuño , Republican Governor of Puerto Rico gets his turn on the dais. I'm sure by then, all the thugs will finally be in lockstep, and yesterday's debacle will be all but forgotten. But don't be surprised if anti-Hispanic hatred spills over, yet again.

Peer Review

I've had plenty of people that have read Killing Lilith in various stages of its evolution. While a few have been taken aback at its content, everyone who's read it has, at least, found a profound appreciation for the quality of the work. Many have given it very high praise.

David Kirschner, who you may recognize as the creator of Chucky from the Child's Play movies, as well as the producer behind An American Tail, Hocus Pocus,  & Miss Potter, got his hands on it and enjoyed it so much he was supposed to help me find representation at CAA. Sadly, I lost DK to divorce. But still, I had a thirty minute conversation with one of the most powerful men in Hollywood, and most of it was about how he could not put down my novel. He began reading it one night, discovered his file was corrupted, and called his assistants to immediately get an uncorrupted version. I wish I had something in writing to share, but our emails were used, purely, to set up the phone call. Had I the foresight, I would've found a way to record the call.

Most recently, I received feedback from Tracy Byrnes. Tracy is part of my writing crit group. The only reason you may not have heard her is because she hasn't really shared her writing with the world, yet. She will, when she's ready, and you'll love it. I know I'd be willing to host a blog to showcase her writing!

I love Tracey's writing. More than that, I'm in love with Tracy's writing. She's like a contemporary Erma Bombeck with the sharp wit of Dorothy Parker. It's the Erma Bombeck part, however, that is of interest in relation to Lilith.

You see, while Lilith can be quite graphic, albeit not gratuitously so, it can't stand on that alone. It has to appeal to the average reader on a level that they can enjoy the rest of the novel. Gratuitous or not, if reader's think it's gratuitous, they will be less willing to explore Lilith's deeper themes.

In a sense, Tracy is the most important part of my target audience, that stalwart, middle-class girl next door, but smarter, who reads. As such, I was delighted to hear that Tracy truly enjoyed reading Killing Lilith. Rather than summarize her thoughts, I got permission to share her words with you:

I’m impressed. I think you’ve written a well-constructed story that proceeds beautifully from one chapter to the next. There were no wild jumps, nowhere I felt confused in time or space. The writing, as usual for you, is elegant and often eloquent.

You’re very successful, I think, in drawing the world of the chat room. It’s not an arena I know well, or even have much interest in, but you make it relatable, reasonable (an outlet, is all, a stage, of course everyone needs that) and fill it with moody suspense. Characters, chatters, take shape through just a few lines. And they are memorable. I’m thinking of Bill who wanted to talk about his dead son – a desperate question unanswered…I thought, I get it, I get it!

I can’t decide about Lilith – do I understand or not? Like her or not? She’s not that crazy, that’s the part that kills me. She seems to have extraordinary insights into her own life, failures, family. She’s smart. She knows what she did/does wrong. It’s completely sane to be depressed. Sane to fantasize about death, disappearance. I personally identify with the inability to DO…or the talking yourself out of doing. And that guilt/frustration.  To get off the lazy river inner tube, finally, and swim!  But – she means to DESTROY her children, in a way. I read advice chats online and they dip into darkness more often than you might guess, so I know that parents don’t always love their children. I can believe it. Still, I don’t exactly like her for not leaving them with something, anything better than Just Jack.

I liked the title “Forever , Lilith” better. As in the note she leaves– the whole idea of a punchy sign-off, making a mark on everyone’s psyche that will last. Somebody made you change it?

Slo, I like. God help me. Your details, once we meet him in the flesh, are just perfect. Trailer with Bargain Couch – a still life.  I love the clean bedroom (that he cleaned his bedroom!), the tiny shower, the croissant egg sandwich. And the tears. Your story, it’s almost a romance. Maybe is one.

You make the right choice with the ending, I think, although I have to say that I’m a sucker for neat, wrapped up The-Ends like the kind in children’s books. So I’ll have to suffer not knowing, exactly, or feeling quite finished.

I know I’m way late in sending you Official Thoughts. But I wouldn’t advise much change anyway. It’s time to let this one go, and see. It’s a page-turner. It’s disturbing. I felt uncomfortable reading it at times, and also comfortable, and understood. Which is to say, well done. I’m wishing you the BEST of the best with the next step in the process, and the next.

Well, there you have it. High praise from a most valued reader. Now let's hope I can pull in some of those Fifty Shades of Sh— You know what, if you can't say anything nice...

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