NIXES MATE REVIEW — NEW POEM UP

I’d like to thank Boston’s NIXES MATE REVIEW for publishing one of my new poems. See the original post here. 

We Don’t Look at Each Other

 

We came to the edge of the forest

to practice the raising of our spirits.

We drove here in reliable vehicles.

We lined them up behind us.

 

A stealth bomber slides

across the sky. I imagine

how thermals feel up

its matte black wings.

I don’t tell the others.

 

One lady raises her open hands

to the damp particles

pumping towards us

from the forest.

She feels the spirit. It’s easy to see.

She jams her hands

back in her pockets

like the rest of us.

 

We’re strangers unkennelled

by irritable attention spans,

dehydrated generosities

and a swirling boredom

with the modern world.

 

Soon we’ll be splashing

gas on the skirt

of this great forest.

Each person will pour

all they’ve got.

 

There’s no sense hurrying

hydrocarbons.

The timer’s set.

 

The headlights at our backs

make it look

like a movie.

Our silhouettes

twitch on the silver

screen of the forest.

 

It’s this last bit of waiting

that burnishes our fear.

Advertisements

PROJECT AGENT ORANGE-NEW POEM UP

I’m pleased to have a poem posted on PROJECT AGENT ORANGE: See the original post.

Arms Dislocated

A Poem by Tim Staley

I’ve read enough women poets to know
they bleed for life
and men bleed against it.
I buried the soldier in me
like a placenta that still
pulses underground.
Lynn Strongin says,
tough-minded poetry
will necessarily
be the most triumphant
in the end.

A mind isn’t tough at all,
it’s blown to shreds in a second.

HAPPY HOLLANDAISE SAUCE from Poet Staley

ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS

 

All I want for Christmas is a french kiss that lasts the rest of my life

 

All I want for Christmas is really a french kiss that lasts the rest of my life even when i’m sleeping, or grieving, or engaged in figuring out my taxes, or at the grocery store choosing avocados, pushing into them with my thumb, picking off the plug to see if they’re green inside

 

All I want for Christmas is my baby teeth in the place of my adult teeth because small, petite things are sexy

 

All I want for Christmas is to drop a hip hop album so gangsta they scrub all my cusses out

 

All I want for Christmas is to trade this guilty feeling of chicken bones poking through my intestines for anything else

 

All I want for Christmas is the Bible boiled down to a single SLAM poem, 3 minutes, no exceptions, no props, look me in the eye

 

All I want for Christmas is for love to feel the way it used to

 

All I want for Christmas is for sex to creep from the gutter like 3 tired, old raccoons

 

All I want for Christmas is for Martin Luther King to be celebrated

 

All I want for Christmas is the same Santa

 

All I want for Christmas are the lies to be true but never vice versa

 

All I want for Christmas is canned cranberry to be better than homemade

 

All I want for Christmas is this poem to reflect me and how I’m feeling, like really feeling, even though all I do is choose and follow the best I can

 

All I want for Christmas is to be smart, witty, acerbic, and adorable all in the first take like Lil Wayne in 10th grade

 

All I want for Christmas is my own prescription to anxiety pills so I can stop stealing my dog’s

 

All I want for Christmas is the ability to digest bad news and good news like a dog eats dog food

 

All I want for Christmas is Richard Branson to hug Southern New Mexico and not let go first

 

All I want for Christmas in terms of white dudes is Rip van Winkle and Mr. Clean

 

All I want for Christmas is for my internet to go down forever

 

All I want for Christmas is to be ok with it

 

All I want for Christmas won’t sit still

 

All I want for Christmas won’t come from the things adults do on film when they’re filming adult films

 

All I want for Christmas is to be there first like the hands of a clock

 

All I want for Christmas is dopamine, endorphin, serotonin, oxytocin, a shit-ton of it

 

All I want for Christmas—please, just one taste

 

MC FLASHCARD SPITS FIRE AGAIN!!!

Have you ever done time in a New Mexico public school? if so, these bars are for you. Hear MC FLASHCARD preach over a beat made by Dr. SWA, one of his finest students. Flashcard delves into the New Mexico Public Education system from both sides of the dais.

LYRICS:

New Mexico C

(verse 1 MC FLASHCARD)

Crusty, musty our budget’s real low

Trust me, in the LC that’s how it goes

Grease up the grades like a mechanic

cars broke down, I feel kinda manic

All through high school the microscope’s on you

The adults round here got no follow through

And what exactly are you graduating to

Suicide hotline’s got a waiting room

(chorus)

Skiree skiree

Which one of ya’ll ever thinks about me?

I think I’ll grade ya’ll a New Mexico C

deserrrrrrrve it

 

(verse 2 MC FLASHCARD)

I sling the hammock up between your ears

Focus on your breath, now, never fear

All the trash card haters writin’ a  diss track

I best ghost write it so it’s worth a crap  

Now listen to me once, never to me twice

I’m not gonna ride you like a little tighty white

Now I never meant to do ya’ll a disservice

Half the time I feel my lessons are worthless

(chorus)

Skiree skiree

Which one of ya’ll ever thinks about me?

I think I’ll grade ya’ll New Mexico C

deserrrrrrrve it

(verse 3 MC FLASHCARD)

Some say I should shave, get a haircut

Buzz cut my B-Ballz, that won’t shut me up

Caramelized onions and chile relleno

Sure my life’s all wrapped up like a burrito

Don’t quit your cell phone cause i tell you to

My clothes get faded grading you

If only I was casually observing you

If only I was casually observing you

songwriters: MC FLASHCARD, DR. SWA

DRYLAND’S POETRY PARTY LINE

Our friends over at DRYLAND, the literary journal out of South Central Los Angeles, have opened up a Poetry Party Line. I adore this concept! Alls you got to do is call (213)297-8088, introduce yourself/where you are calling from, and read your poem (2 minute max). Then send your 50 word bio to submissions@dryland.org

They just accepted my new poem Con Brio, you can hear it here. THANKS DRYLAND!!!!

You can read it here:
Con Brio

Don’t answer the alarm clock. If you do, don’t get up. If you do, don’t shower. If you do, don’t deodorize. If you do, don’t antiperspirize. If you do, don’t do the oatmeal. If you do, don’t wear clean clothes. If you do, don’t wear socks. If you do, don’t wear shoes. If you do, don’t tie them. If you do, don’t do some cliché-ass knot. If you do, don’t walk anywhere. If you do, don’t leave home. If you do, don’t go to work. If you do, don’t go sober. If you do, don’t actually work. If you do, don’t do it well. If you do, don’t be modest. If you do, don’t rush to break eye contact with your crush. If you do, don’t be afraid to touch your crush’s arm. If you do, don’t smash. If you do, never stop. If you do, don’t answer your spouse’s call. If you do, don’t tell the truth. If you do, don’t go home. If you do, go home swinging.

 

 

 

THANK YOU CACTI FUR

Thanks to Jim Thompson over at Cacti Fur for publishing these 13 new haiku. Cacti Fur is the only poetry journal in America that would accept these. These 13 haiku got rejected 72 times. Here’s a brief retelling of those rejections:

For rejections 0-10 I remained giddy.

For rejections 11-26 I ate corn dogs or thought that maybe I should find some corn dogs to eat.

For rejections 27-32, which came in the winter, I felt cold on the inside and the out.

For rejection 33, this one never came, I’m guessing the editors were so knocked out by my haiku they just tossed in the towel completely and turned to stone like that one soldier in Clash of the Titans.

For rejections 34-58 I thought maybe all the publishers of poetry in America must clearly be idiots who only publish their white friends. This feelings lasted 46 days and 26 minutes.

For rejections 59-62 I thought maybe I would have better luck being published if my name was Suzy Hiro or Hilario Bustamontes or Mads Kellaway.

For rejections 63-70 I thought maybe I’m a terrible poet and then I told myself that writing is like therapy and then I washed my mouth out with Ivory soap.

Rejection 71 came from the New Yorker, oh Kevin Young, what good are you? You’re a better color than the last dude, but c’mon.

Rejection 72 never came. Rejection 72 was an acceptance letter from Jim Thompson of Cacti Fur. I love you for loving me! But I hate myself for being this needy. Jim, if you are reading this, when can I submit more poems to you, and only you, for rest of my life?

Click here for 13 new haiku by Tim Staley

Here is a picture of me pretending to talk about my 13 new haiku to Kevin Young from the New Yorker: