BillyBlog

42 Days of 42: Day 1 - Forty-Two Words for Forty-Two

2009-07-03T05:20:00.000-04:00

In honor of my forty-second birthday, I will attempt to post for the next forty-two days, forty-two poems. These poems will have something to do with the number 42. I don't promise anything great, but if you like what you see, please stoke my ego and leave a comment.

Today begins the experiment.

If you're curious, you can see how I celebrated 41 on BillyBlog here.

And forty, here.

And away we go....

FORTY-TWO WORDS FOR FORTY-TWO

Twenty-one was
half a lifetime ago.
What will my life be like
at eighty-four?

The thought
harasses me
silently.

Birthdays
are like poems.
Great ones
are memorable.
But most are not.

Forty-two words
are two too few
and,
two too many,
too.

BillyBlog Plays 52-Card Pick Up: The Ten of Diamonds

2009-07-02T18:40:00.000-04:00

I found this card on 31st Street in Manhattan, between 6th and 7th Avenues, on the morning of June 1st. It only took me a month to post it.

The following cards have been found previously:

The Five of Spades (June 18, 2009)

The Eight of Spades (January 6, 2009)

The Eight of Diamonds (December 5, 2008)

The Two of Hearts and the Queen of Spades (November 1, 2008)

The King of Spades (October 26, 2008)

The Ace of Spades (September 22, 2008)

The Jack of Diamonds (September 18, 2008)

The Six of Hearts, Queen of Hearts, and Eight of Clubs (August 10, 2008)

The Six of Clubs (July 21, 2008)

The Seven of Hearts and The King of Diamonds (April 24, 2008)

The Three of Clubs (March 29, 2008)

The King of Hearts
and the Three of Spades (February 28 and March 25, 2008)

The Ace of Diamonds (July 7, 2008)

The Jack of Hearts and Five of Hearts (July 19, 2008)

View the whole set here.

And here's the scorecard with the latest additions:

Hearts: 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, J, Q, K, Ace
Diamonds: 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, J, Q, K, ~~Ace~~
Clubs: 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, J, Q, K, Ace
Spades: 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, J, Q, K, ~~Ace~~

BillyBlog, R.I.P?

2009-07-01T07:42:00.002-04:00

I just noticed that I posted a whopping singular time in June. How sad.

As one might expect, Tattoosday has been my primary focus, although the importance of BillyBlog as a cultural bastion of useless information cannot be denied.

But here it is July.

And I have some living up to do.

Forty posts on my fortieth birthday in 2007.

Forty-one posts of forty-one consecutive days (and beyond) of riding my bike in 2008.

What of this July 3, when I turn 42?

Alas, I have an idea, but it is not nearly as ambitious as 2008, but is moreso than 2007. My only concern is whether I will be able to rise to the occasion.

Stay tuned and see.....

BillyBlog Plays 52-Card Pick-Up: The Five of Spades

2009-06-18T07:05:00.001-04:00

It has certainly been a while since I've found any cards, so it made sense that a return to my bike on May 24 allowed me to find the following card on the 65th Street Pier in Bay Ridge:

The following cards have been found previously:

The Eight of Spades (January 6, 2009)

The Eight of Diamonds (December 5, 2008)

The Two of Hearts and the Queen of Spades (November 1, 2008)

The King of Spades (October 26, 2008)

The Ace of Spades (September 22, 2008)

The Jack of Diamonds (September 18, 2008)

The Six of Hearts, Queen of Hearts, and Eight of Clubs (August 10, 2008)

The Six of Clubs (July 21, 2008)

The Seven of Hearts and The King of Diamonds (April 24, 2008)

The Three of Clubs (March 29, 2008)

The King of Hearts
and the Three of Spades (February 28 and March 25, 2008)

The Ace of Diamonds (July 7, 2008)

The Jack of Hearts and Five of Hearts (July 19, 2008)

View the whole set here.

And here's the scorecard with the latest additions:

Hearts: 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, J, Q, K, Ace
Diamonds: 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, J, Q, K, ~~Ace~~
Clubs: 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, J, Q, K, Ace
Spades: 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, J, Q, K, ~~Ace~~

Train of Thought - Henri Poincare

2009-05-11T18:26:00.002-04:00

"To doubt everything or to believe everything are two equally
convenient solutions; both dispense with the need for thought."
Henri Poincare (1854-1912) "Science and Hypothesis"

First spotted on the B16 bus, 86th Street, Brooklyn, May 11, 2009

Craig Arnold, 1967-2009

2009-05-09T08:36:00.001-04:00

I'm numb today after learning that the poet Craig Arnold, whose poem was featured last month on BillyBlog here, died just a few days after my posts, just a few days after we chatted via instant message on Facebook.

I certainly did not have the level of interaction with him that many of the other people in his life, I had only really known him for a short time. But his interest and eagerness to participate in the Tattooed Poets Project brought me closer to him, I can only imagine that the sadness I feel is intensified a hundred-fold by the people that really knew him. And I am torn:

I envy their memories of Craig, their experiences with him, all the wonderful recollections of good times, yet I am saddened not just by the loss of Craig, but the heartbreak I feel oozing through the various portals of the internet.

I contacted many poets in the months leading up to April. Some were too busy to respond, or just said "thanks, but no thanks". But Craig, in my book, someone with a great excuse not to help a fellow writer out, came through despite being halfway across the planet, working on what he loved until the very end.

My thoughts and prayers go out to Craig Arnold's friends and family.

I feel blessed to have had just a sliver of time with Craig, in the form of some messages, e-mails, a poem and two tattoos.

Embrace the memories, the words, the experiences. Embrace them and treasure them. They are what sustain us. They give us strength and hope. They make it possible to go on.

New Train of Thought - Abraham Lincoln

2009-05-07T17:36:00.002-04:00

"If we could know where we are and whither we are tending, we could
better judge what to do and how to do it"
---Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865), "House Divided" Speech, 1858

First spotted on the 2 train, Brooklyn-bound, May 7, 2009

Bookpeeping on the D Train

2009-05-06T09:36:00.001-04:00

In my post-National Poetry Month haze, I did a little bookpeeping on
the subway this morning. For those of you not familiar with this
feature, it's just a list of books I see people reading at a moment in
time.

The Deadalus Book of French Horror: The 19th Century. (Being read by a
red-haired, be-spectacled, pony-tailed, wild-haired, bearded and
side-burned commuter)

Civil Rights and the Presidency by Hugh Graham.

Finishing Touches by Deanna Kizis

Box Ovens and Box Oven Cooking. Technically not a book, but an article
of undetermined origin that had been copied. The title was compelling.

Two people next to one another doing today's Sudoku in the New York Post.

2 Chinese-language newspapers.

The New York Daily News.

Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri.

The New York Times.

Chad Kultgen's The Lie

************************

--
Sent from my mobile device

Craig Arnold Needs Our Help

2009-04-30T05:33:00.000-04:00

Craig Arnold, whose poem was featured just last Friday here, has gone missing on an isolated island in Japan.

He needs our help. The Japanese authorities are close to calling off the search, and we need to do what we can by contacting our elected officials in Washington to put pressure on the Japanese government to not give up on finding Craig.

There's more info here.

Wrapping Up National Poetry Month

2009-04-30T05:15:00.002-04:00

"Alas, I've done the uninkable"
-Paul Muldoon, February 3, 2009

That was Mr. Muldoon's response to my inquiry, in January, if he was tattooed. I've been wanting to include that somewhere this month, and finally found the spot. Thank you, Mr. Muldoon.

As I wrap up National Poetry Month here on Tattoosday and BillyBlog, it all seems a bit unreal. I spent a good quarter of the year, since mid-January, assembling the host of inked poets that have blessed us with their tattoos over the last month.

And there is more to come. There's a dozen or so poets who expressed interest, but never came through with photos. I continue to receive submissions from poets who have wanted to share, acknowledging that the deadline has passed.

I invite all of you who may have just been checking in on the poets' tattoos to return and visit often. Tattoosday is dedicated to presenting the most interesting tattoos it can find on the streets of New York. Note that I say "interesting," rather than "best". For, sometimes, a simple tattoo is anything but- the story beneath the layer of skin that the ink permeates is often more fascinating than the design itself. I want to thank everyone who helped contribute to the success of the Tattooed Poets Project.

First and foremost, Stacey Harwood at the Best American Poetry blog. Stacey was enthusiastic about the concept from the get-go, and her call for submissions on the BAP blog was a sign of legitimacy that I'm sure convinced many poets that the project was worthwhile and above-board. Her inclusion of Tattoosday on the BAP blog was a blessing, and the bit of html code that Stacey taught me will continue to be helpful in the future. I thank Stacey from the bottom of my heart.

Extended from that, I also thank other poets affiliated with the BAP blog: David Lehman, who has been series editor of The Best American Poetry since it's inception in 1988, BAP correspondents Moira Egan and Jill Alexander Essbaum for their support and participation, and Dorianne Laux who, although uninked, set me on a meandering path, introducing me to tattooed
poets who, in turn, introduced me to more tattooed poets, and so forth, and so on.

And of course, I thank all of you, the readers. In the blogosphere, no one can hear you scream and the worst fear of a blogger is that his or her voice goes unheard. Your comments, e-mails, submissions, and even your votes were truly appreciated.

April was our best month ever, in terms of traffic. As of this writing, we are on pace to eclipse the 25,000 hit mark for the month. I offer my thanks to everyone who has been kind enough to stop by.

Sincerely,

Bill Cohen

And now, the final tattooed poet for the month! Enjoy.....

The Tattooed Poet's Series, Day 30: Joy Harjo

2009-04-30T05:15:00.000-04:00

Today's poem is from Joy Harjo:

Equinox
by Joy Harjo

I must keep from breaking into the story by force for if I do I will find myself with a war club in my hand and the smoke of grief staggering toward the sun, your nation dead beside you. I keep walking away though it has been an eternity and from each drop of blood springs up sons and daughters, trees, a mountain of sorrows, of songs. I tell you this from the dusk of a small city in the north not far from the birthplace of cars and industry. Geese are returning to mate and crocuses have broken through the frozen earth. Soon they will come for me and I will make my stand before the jury of destiny. Yes, I will answer in the clatter of the new world, I have broken my addiction to war and desire. Yes, I will reply, I have buried the dead and made songs of the blood, the marrow.

Joy Harjo was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, in 1951. Her books of poetry include How We Became Human: New and Selected Poems (W.W. Norton & Co., 2002); A Map to the Next World: Poems (2000); The Woman Who Fell From the Sky (1994), which received the Oklahoma Book Arts Award; In Mad Love and War (1990), which received an American Book Award and the Delmore Schwartz Memorial Award; Secrets from the Center of the World (1989); She Had Some Horses (1983); and What Moon Drove Me to This? (1979). She also performs her poetry and plays saxophone with her band, Poetic Justice. Her many honors include The American Indian Distinguished Achievement in the Arts Award, the Josephine Miles Poetry Award, the Mountains and Plains Booksellers Award, the William Carlos Williams Award, and fellowships from the Arizona Commission on the Arts, the Witter Bynner Foundation, and the National Endowment for the Arts. She lives in Hawaii.

Thanks to Joy for participating in the Tattooed Poets Series! Check out one of her tattoos here.

The Tattooed Poet's Series, Day 29: Eileen Myles

2009-04-29T06:02:00.001-04:00

Today's poem is from Eileen Myles:

On Vine

I was looking
at the chandelier
do you
feel that
way she
asked
I was driving
through
Los Angeles
getting
some help
I didn't
know
Pema Chodrun
was a girl
People
sounded
nuts

airing my
thoughts
She had a
sign

I'm hungry
I'm homeless
with a really
pretty sun

She hadn't
asked
for anything
but I gave
her five
and that
felt great
I thought
women are
a bunch
of idiots
but that's
what I
am are U
one

I don't count
on what
I am
she
said

and that
chandelier
is more
light

than
any one
else

Eileen Myles is among the ranks of the officially restless, a poet (Sorry, Tree) who writes fiction (Chelsea Girls, Cool for You) and an essayist whose The Importance of Being Iceland, for which she received a Warhol/Creative Capital grant will come out in July, 09 from Semiotext(e)/MIT. She lives in New York.

Please head over to Tattoosday to see one of her tattoos here.

A gracious thank you to Eileen for sharing her work with us here on BillyBlog.

The Tattooed Poet's Series, Day 28 (part 2): Meredith Sugarman

2009-04-28T15:00:00.000-04:00

As I explained over on Tattoosday, we had a surplus of poems from tattooed poets, so I've doubled up and made it a "Two-for -Tattoosday". Today's second poem is from Meredith Sugarman:

Edelweiss (to my mother)

You sit in grandmother's

Oak rocking chair:

Crumpled hands resting in

well worn wooden grooves-

The sway of your light blue,

Sweat stained nightgown

Lapping at the sagging skin

Covering your calves.

The room, a cave of linoleum and

Damp musky air is dim,

The only light that gently radiates

Is from a collection of dirty worn potholders

That I thumb between

my long fingers and rough palms.

I breathe the thick air,

Taste the sickness sour on my tongue

And look back at the waves gently

Lapping against your bones.

You turn, smile slightly sweetly,

A look that signals a burst of lucidity-

I whimper a shouting whisper:

"I love you, but I cannot be your friend."

You nod, register and the air grows thick again.

I cup your sharp jawbone,

Clench a hand that once swaddled me,

Whisper into an ear once tuned to my cries:

"I forgive you"

The cave has become stagnant-

The air unbearable as

I stand behind you like

A guardian of all things unsaid:

Your mouth parts, I reach down and

Suddenly your mouth is gaping wider and wider:

Jaw unhinging and your skull opening

Like the cherished music boxes

you bought me as a child;

The stench of rotten meat fills the thick air:

I am awake.

Meredith Sugarman was raised in a small town in north Louisiana. It wasn't until she moved to New Orleans when she was 18 that she found a city to call home. After her mother disappeared due to a drug addiction, Meredith moved to New York four years ago in search of a new home. She now resides in Brooklyn with her pug, Piggy.

See a tattoo inspired by her mother over on Tattoosday here.

Thanks to Meredith for contributing to this project!

The Tattooed Poet's Series, Day 28 (part 1): Ruth Kohtz

2009-04-28T00:06:00.002-04:00

Today's poem, "Phosphorous," comes to us from Ruth Kohtz, in the form of a video:

Ruth is a writer who performs regularly in Twin Cities' poetry slams, readings, and open mics. She studied writing at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics in 2006. Her work has appeared in college literary magazines, random blogs, and in the bathroom of the Uptowner on Grand Avenue in St. Paul MN.

Thanks to Ruth for her contribution! Head over to Tattoosday to see one of her tattoos.

The Tattooed Poet's Series, Day 27: William Dickenson Cohen

2009-04-27T00:16:00.002-04:00

I'm going to be a greedy little blogger today and share one of my own poems (and one of my tattoos). The following poem takes the form of a sestina (clink link to see what makes a sestina). A hearty thank you to Doriane Laux for the advice and encouragement in publishing this here.

MAIDEN SESTINA

This is my maiden sestina, an initial attempt

At the celebrated form. Instead of pencil or ink,

I compose on a glowing screen. Two curious angels

Watch over me as I write, guiding my trembling hands

As they type. I pray for the steadiness of a tattoo

Artist, filling the flesh with a myriad of color.

Of course, my words are shaded black and white, not color,

And like any awkward apprentice’s nervous attempt

At needling a sketchy, rudimentary tattoo,

I try to keep it simple, hardly complicated ink.

My fingers blur as they strike the keyboard. I use my hands

To breathe my song, channeling the voices of the Angels.

Not that I claim to be a spokesman for the Angels.

My ego does not allow such nonsense. The bright color

Of my embarrassment flushes my face, tinges my hands

As I continue to sing my sestina, as I tempt

the words to form lines, the lines to form stanzas, the black ink

Jumping off of the page, “popping,” they say, like a tattoo

Glimmering on the flesh, hovering over skin. That, too,

Is the work of buzzing artists and guardian angels.

It takes a steady hand and an exquisite eye to ink

The skin, to fill a fleshy canvas with vibrant color.

I panic seeing my sweaty palms making an attempt

At art, transcendent. I could never trust my bumbling hands

To alter the landscape of another man. When one hands

The body over to an artist as they prepare to tattoo,

It is an intimacy, a leap of faith, as they tempt

the tingling nerves, touching skin, mating curves with angles,

no easy task when each canvas is a different color,

each shade an alternate universe absorbing the ink.

I marvel at the multitudes of passers-by with ink

Decorating arms and legs, necks and backs, breasts, feet and hands

Of the painted – residents, tourists, all races, colors.

I cannot draw a fig. I only write about tattoos-

Whether they be snakes, skulls, dragons, butterflies, or angels.

The very least that I can do is offer this attempt.

I tempt Fate with this, my maiden sestina, from thought to cursor to ink.

I may not possess the gift of the angels, or an artist’s steady hands,

But in every tattoo, I see poetry. In every poem, color.

William Dickenson Cohen, known more commonly as Bill Cohen, is a Hawaii-raised, L.A.-educated, Brooklyn-acclimated blogger and poet who feels awkward writing his own bio for his own blog.

He was most prolific poetically in the 1990's, when he had several dozen poems published in numerous small press magazines, including Atom Mind, Pudding, Lilliput Review, The Rockford Review and paperplates. One of his poems was included in the anthology Essential Love.

Please check out one of his tattoos here.

The Tattooed Poet's Series, Day 26: Claire Askew

2009-04-26T07:17:00.003-04:00

Today's poem comes to us from Scotland and the poet Claire Askew:

Proof

He asked to see some ID,
and I wondered just exactly
what he'd accept. If I offered up
my thumb-print's small maze,
or the mark left years ago

by a saw’s stray blade,

would he believe it was me?

I could shirk off a sleeve to reveal
the slim lines of my lion tattoo, or leave
a bite-mark, uniquely mine,
in the cold, hard bank of the bar.
Surely he'd know by the backs

of my knees – their sinewy curve –

or the cool, low chime of my speech?

I could easily reel off my five

favourite records (in the club
or at home) in a half-second;
hew my most loved book's synopsis

out of the air. For him, would I trip
out my blood-type, my birthplace?
The ten-digit code to my building's front door?

Turned away from his door,
I walked home through the closes –
the meaningless walls
and the mauve smoke of dusk.
I was hem-swish and footsteps,
a mind’s quiet song – more heart
than any photo-card could hold.

Claire Askew was born in 1986 and lives in Edinburgh, Scotland. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Edinburgh Review, Poetry Scotland, Textualities and The Cadaverine. She is the Editor in Chief of literary magazine Read This (www.readthismagazine.co.uk), and Read This Press (www.readthispress.com), a poetry pamphlet micropress. She also runs One Night Stanzas (www.onenightstanzas.com), an advice blog for those new to the world of poetry. She has an MA in English Literature from the University of Edinburgh and is due to complete their MSc course in Creative Writing this Fall. She is a lecturer in English at Edinburgh's Telford College, and her first pamphlet of poems is due from Red Squirrel Press this year.

Thanks to Claire for sharing her poem with us here on BillyBlog. Head over to Tattoosday to see her lovely first tattoo here.

The Tattooed Poet's Series, Day 25: Rachel McKibbens

2009-04-25T00:01:00.001-04:00

Today's poem is from Rachel McKibbens:

instead of a note, a tiny black box

I dreamt you became an airplane; miniature windows
lined the left and right side of your torso

with small heads peeking out of them.

Some of the people waved. One man blew me a kiss.
Halfway through the dream, it became our wedding.
The arms of your tuxedo removed to make room

for your wingspan. I fed you cake through your propellors.

When I woke up, I half-wished you were going to surprise me
with tickets to Costa Rica. Or news that you were being transferred
to the main offices in Decatur. I didn't expect to find

your side of the bed engulfed in flames, a herd of fire engines

circling the hole in the mattress.

I could not have imagined the tiny island

that surfaced near the headboard later that night,

the bodies of all your ex-lovers
floating off in the distance.

Rachel McKibbens resides in Rochester, NY. She has three tattoos of Ramona Quimby. Her poems have been published in Wicked Alice, Frigg Magazine, World Literature Today and The New York Quarterly. Her first full-length book of poetry, Pink Elephant, is forthcoming on Cypher Books (Fall 2009).

Thanks to Rachel for sharing her poem with us. Now go to Tattoosday and see her cool, knuckle tattoos here.

The Tattooed Poet's Series, Day 24: Craig Arnold

2009-04-24T00:09:00.001-04:00

Today's poem comes to us from Craig Arnold:

Happily Ever After

After the hot wax in the dark
dripped on the shoulder after the trials
the seeds sorted the river emptied
the Queen of the Dead’s black box opened
after the swoon the deathlike sleep
after he kisses her back to life
and they soar in perfect ecstasy
up to being gods together

now it is all and ever shall be
perfect but given an eternity
together might they not discover
that what they wanted was less each other
than want itself yearning and struggle
pursuit and failure and falling at last
into each other triumphantly

If love lasted forever
if we lost the taste of loss
what would we do for sweet or bitter
how would we give infinity a flavor
how would we spend our endless number
of second chances would we feel free
to ply our casual cruelties

They call or they don’t call
They make dates they never plan to keep
They drink they gossip they sleep their way
through a circle of friends that grows each year
smaller soon they begin to find each other
embarrassing like old school friends
or cellmates feeling awkwardly
that they have shared too much

until at last after an epic
encounter in Tangier the all-night quarrel
the tears and the accusations and the spilled
peppermint tea they give themselves
permission to lose touch

He starts a band records hit
acoustic-techno numbers that ache
with longing unspeakable and infinite
He moves in with a girl whose fridge is filled
with Dr. Pepper her apartment
papered with Dr. Pepper posters
and old tin Dr. Pepper signs

She gets into therapy at first
a full-time patient then with her own
practice she dates one of her clients
a boy who shaves his crotch and armpits
not to become a man she keeps
the keys to every place she’s ever lived
in a box she can no longer lift

It happens now and again
they are drawn at the same time
to the same place the ruined temple
the sidewalk café beside the Spanish Steps
that made the most exquisite mushroom crêpes
the park bench under the cherry trees
even the small Southwestern airport
They miss each other by a day
an hour a minute even

And as they sit and sip
glasses of water in which the ice
has long since melted as they wait
half-aware that they might be missing
something important as they signal
their servers to bring their separate checks
a cold thought passes over them
the shadow of a cloud across a lake

Perhaps this is not paradise
but the perfect punishment dreamed up
by love and death to cheat them out of both
no end no consummation but to play
over and over the feel of falling
toward each other endlessly

Craig Arnold's new book of poems, Made Flesh, is now available from Copper Canyon. He is spending this spring and summer wandering through Japan on a US-Japan Creative Artists Residency, working on a book about volcanoes. He teaches at the University of Wyoming. Follow his near-death (and near-life) experiences at http://volcanopilgrim.wordpress.com

You can read more of Craig's poems here.

Please head over to Tattoosday to see Craig's tattoos here.

The Tattooed Poet's Series, Day 23: Guy LeCharles Gonzalez

2009-04-23T00:13:00.002-04:00

Today's poem is from Guy LeCharles Gonzalez:

Breathless

When I was young
I believed that if I held my breath while crossing bridges
I’d survive the day the ground gave way
plunging me into the dark waters below.

My mother would look back at me and smile,
How long can you hold it?

My silence was her answer
as eyes teared
and pulse quickened…

When I was young
I believed that Batman
and Robin
and the rest of the Superfriends
really were on the other end of the phone
telling me it was past my bedtime
and that if I was good
and did my homework
and respected my mother
that one day I too
could be a superhero!

I never questioned Wonder Woman’s deep voice
or Superman’s gruff smoker’s growl.

When I was young
I believed the skeleton in my closet
was the monster under my bed
so I confronted him
befriended him
called him poetry
and set him free.

When I was young
I believed I would one day change the world
through sheer force of will.

Manhood introduced me to bridges
long and winding
where the ability to hold my breath
paled in comparison to the need
to hold my ground.

Bridges collapse everyday from neglect
and acts of war
or acts of God
a foolish game of semantics
no pen and ink hero could ever win.

I learned in time
to cherish my mother’s wisdom
and the true meaning of her words.

I still believe I can change the world
no matter what bridges I have to cross.

How long can you hold it? she asks.
…as long as it takes.

Guy LeCharles Gonzalez works in publishing by day, world domination by night. Over the years he’s lived in Staten Island and South Beach Miami; served in the Jehovah’s Witnesses, US Army, and Dennis Kucinich’s ‘04 Presidential Campaign; won poetry slams, founded a reading series, co-authored a book of poetry and launched the coolest online literary journal ever; prefers Pumpkin and India Pale Ales, Jim Beam, and Dona Paula Shiraz Malbec. He’s a devout Mets fan from the Bronx now living in New Jersey, and has a beautiful wife and two amazing kids.

You can get more of him over at http://loudpoet.com/.

Head over to Tattoosday and see a couple of Guy's tattoos here.

The Tattooed Poet's Series, Day 22: Cody Todd

2009-04-22T00:05:00.004-04:00

Today we have two poems from Cody Todd.

The first is called "Boba Fett" and it might be worth checking out, if you haven't already been there, Cody's post over on Tattoosday, where one of his tattoos is a Star Wars-themed back piece that features, among other things, the character of Boba Fett.

Boba Fett

Bad-Ass is as Bad-Ass does. I tilled earth

before the war and knew nothing of greed

or vanity. There once was a woman’s face

I looked forward to after my labor. Her shadow

burns in my helmet, chaffed and singed

as a dead clown’s skull. Pigs are cleaner

than humans, but all deserve to be

on the spit. Any woman can be a wife

for a night. I’ve got more weapons

than my life’s got chances. Money talks,

and the thief and priest abides.

Fire is as humble as a man’s pride

minutes before he begs: sweet hell,

sweet lion’s mouth, headfirst. Mute law

enforcement. Mute victims shot

in the back. Mute tombs kicked in half.

I’d barter light for a necklace of dried eyeballs.

Hell, I’ll trade in that hot-spurred devil himself.

Cody also sent in the following poem, as well:

Currency

Watercolor paintings on the refrigerator.

Watercolor painting of dinner on my plate.

The eyes were flashlights and black holes.

The political party with fire-eaters and acrobats

won the prize.

Mainly, laughter was swept gravel in the street drain.

You could see it the way you see it

eat its cheese: the moon

destroying two heads of glass.

My watch never stopped: spiraling

a miniature tornado atop my wrist.

The beautiful angel adorned with tattoos

from head to toe—plumes of smoke,

the neighborhoods became tears,

in and out of my windshield,

it is a currency between thought and motion.

Cody Todd is the author of To Frankenstein, My Father (2007, Proem Press). His poems have appeared in Hunger Mountain, Faultline, Bat City Review, Salt Hill, The Pedestal and are forthcoming in the Konundrum Engine Literary Review the Columbia Review and the Georgetown Review. He was born and raised in Denver and received an MFA from Western Michigan University. He currently lives in Los Angeles and is a Virginia Middleton Fellow in the PhD program in English-Literature/Creative Writing at the University of Southern California.

Thanks to Cody for sharing his work with us here on BillyBlog!

The Tattooed Poet's Series, Day 21: Dese'Rae Stage

2009-04-21T00:05:00.001-04:00

Today's poem is contributed by Dese'Rae Stage:

The Ball

I translated her into pain.
—Stephen Dunn

We met at the ball, a masquerade

in a messy apartment prone to noise complaints.

White Christmas lights, two months early,

hung from crooked nails in the walls.

Zorro was there, and Robin Hood too.

Prince Charming had prior engagements.

She held her drink, Jack and Coke,

like she wanted it to hold her;

a strong arm to hang on to.

She danced alone, despite her suitors.

I found her later on the tennis court

staring into the nightlight halo cast

upon her, into the eyes of some god.

She was missing one shoe and

swaying, as if with a breeze.

With your ear to the ground, you can feel a

train from a mile away, palms down in anticipation.

We waited, but he never came. Two bodies

parallel and then intersecting, I felt only

her lips and tears against my neck.

We lay there until the clock struck midnight.

She and I, Cinderella missing her prince

and Snow White, his understudy.

"The Ball" was originally published in The Mockingbird.

Dese'Rae Stage is a poet, photographer, and troublemaker extraordinaire. Sun-bred in Miami, she now makes her home in New York City. Her poems have appeared in The Mockingbird, Poems-for-All, and Voices. She currently spends most of her time with a camera, chasing rock stars to get the shot. Her photo work regularly appears on BrooklynVegan, PopWreckoning, Prefix, and Stereogum. You can find her portfolio at http://ifeelinfinite.net.

Dese'Rae has some incredible tattoos, one of which can be seen over on Tattoosday here.

Thanks to Dese'Rae for her participation in the Tattooed Poets Series!

The Tattooed Poet's Series, Day 20: Moira Egan

2009-04-20T00:05:00.005-04:00

Today's poem comes to us from Moira Egan, the "European Correspondent" on the Best American Poetry blog. A hearty thank you to Stacey Harwood at the BAP blog, who helped me with the formatting of the poem!

Moira explains:

This poem comes from a series called Strange Botany that I wrote last year. The poems are written in syllabics (somewhat after Marinane Moore, one of my poetry heroes) and each poem takes as its title the Latin botanical name of the plant that acts as its central metaphor.

* * *

Ficus carica

In this country

it’s a tradition

to make a wish upon

the first bite

of the season’s fruit,

the first peach, cherry, nectarine,

cachi, so as I peel this

first fig, slowly pull its skin away

like a mammalian membrane,

I make the wish

that each of our

days might have some of

that taste of reunion

after long

absence, the salty-

sweet homecoming kiss, the airport

embarrassment of laughing

and crying both into each other’s

shirts. And it seems to me the fig

is the perfect

embodiment

of all the above,

the fruit of yin and yang,

masculine

in shape, yet deeply

feminine in its opening;

how, on the one hand, it was

a tree like this under which Buddha

sat and found enlightenment, while

on the other,

these were the leaves

that Adam reached for

to clothe their humanness

when they saw

that they were naked

and learned of shame. How many fruits

acquire their musky sweetness

from the strange symbiosis of wasp

and worm? I don’t know, but I think

of the first figs

of that summer

when we met, how he

carefully peeled the fruit,

offered me

the sweet and strangely

tentacular flesh, almost too

ripe but not quite, and he kissed me

and church bells clamored out the Angelus

and he kissed me again and (yes)

I made a wish.

(The English version first appeared in The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, Winter 2008)

* * *

Ficus carica

In questo paese

è tradizione

esprimere un desiderio

al primo assaggio

di un frutto di stagione,

la prima pesca, ciliegia, albicocca,

il primo caco, così sbuccio

il primo fico, ne stacco adagio la pelle

come membrana di mammifero,

esprimo il desiderio

che ognuno dei nostri

giorni possa avere un po’

del sapore di ri-unione

dopo lunga

assenza, il dolce-salato

bacio del ritorno a casa, l’imbarazzo

all’aeroporto di ridere

e piangere entrambi sulla camicia

dell’altro. E a me il fico pare

la perfetta

incarnazione

di quelle manifestazioni,

il frutto di yin e yang,

mascolino

nella forma, ma profondamente

femminile nel suo aprirsi;

e poi, da un lato, è stato

sotto un albero del genere che Buddha

si è seduto e ha ricevuto l’Illuminazione,

dall’altro

le sue sono le foglie

cui Adamo tese la mano per

nascondere la natura umana

quando videro

che erano nudi

e conobbero vergogna. Quanti frutti

acquisiscono la loro dolcezza muscosa

dalla simbiosi arcana di vespa

e verme? Io non lo so, ma penso

ai primi fichi

di quell’estate

che ci incontrammo, alla

premura con cui sbucciò il frutto,

me ne offerse

la carne, dolce e inusitatamente

tentacolare, quasi troppo

matura, ma non proprio, e mentre

mi baciava le campane esplosero nell’Angelus

e ancora mi baciava e (sì)

espressi un desiderio.

Translated by Damiano Abeni

(The Italian version is forthcoming in an anthology entitled Poesie per anime gemelle, Newton Compton Editori, Rome, 2009)

Moira Egan lives in Rome with her husband, Damiano Abeni, who is a translator of American poetry into Italian. Their most recent collaboration is La Seta della Cravatta/The Silk of the Tie, a bi-lingual collection of Moira’s poems with Italian versions by Damiano. It is so hot off the press that it’s not even up on the publisher’s website (though keep trying; it will be there any day now!) www.edizionilobliquo.it If you’re interested in getting a copy, feel free to email Moira at moira_egan@yahoo.it and/or check it out on her website www.moiraegan.com.

Previously, Moira and Damiano also collaborated on Un mondo che non può essere migliore: Poesie scelte 1956-2007, a substantial selection of the poems of John Ashbery (Sossella Editore, 2008) which can be found here: http://www.lucasossellaeditore.it/arte_poetica/un_mondo.html

When she is not translating or writing poems, Moira teaches poetry workshops here, there, and online. She is also thrilled to check in occasionally as the “European Correspondent” on the Best American Poetry Blog.

Please check out Moira's tattoo over on Tattoosday here.

The Tattooed Poet's Series, Day 19: Adam Deutsch

2009-04-19T00:06:00.003-04:00

Today's poem comes to us from Adam Deutsch:

Natural Wonder

1972 MGB drops chunks
of rusty floor
at a parking spot above
the Grand Canyon.

Local girl brings me
a blood orange and a rose
she’s fashioned from tin foil.

There should be a dance with her,
a margarita
for thousands of years of majestic
erosion we witness,
a cataclysm honored,
glorious perpetual weather,
unhelped or stopped.

A draft of this poem previously appeared in a publication called The English Record.

Adam Deutsch is originally from New York, and has an MA from Hofstra and an MFA from the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in No Tell Motel, Coconut, Juked, Rain Taxi, and Anti- among other places. Formerly of the Ninth Letter editorial staff, he is currently the Critical Prose Editor of Barn Owl Review and is the founder/editor of Cooper Dillon Books. He lives in San Diego, CA.

Please check out a couple of his many tattoos over on Tattoosday here.

The Tattooed Poet's Series, Day 18: Rachel Mallino

2009-04-18T00:01:00.003-04:00

Today's poem is from Rachel Mallino:

An Open Poem To god

Dear god, there has always been this:
marrow inside of bone. Those retarded

cells that drive nonage to adultery. Elizabeth’s
cancerous swollen lips. I foolishly forgot

the wild dog story only to imagine
a new one: confused bees pollinating

in early spring as she watered
the waxing azaleas; a Queen’s

royalty misunderstood.
It all boils down to sex: mother’s

boney knees beneath
motel sheets as I stared off

into the bends
of brush strokes, art pinned

to tacky walls. The anonymity
of those painters, like my mother’s lovers,

became famous to me. There is forgetting
or the inability to do so. Dear god, if I believe

in anything it is this: bones
and that which runs through them.

- this poem is included in Ms. Mallino's forthcoming chapbook, Inside Bone There’s Always Marrow

Rachel Mallino lives in North Carolina with her husband, daughter and various lovable animals. Her most recent publications include Stirring, Boxcar Poetry Review, Weave Magazine and Thirteen Myna Birds. Rachel is the founding editor for Tilt Press and the dysfunctional e-journal Slant. Her chapbook, Inside Bone There’s Always Marrow, is soon forthcoming from Maverick Duck Press.

Head on over to Tattoosday to see one of Rachel's tattoos here.

The Tattooed Poet's Series, Day 17: Raffaella Ciavatta

2009-04-17T11:31:00.006-04:00

Today's poem comes from Raffaella Ciavatta:

Poem 2 (still untitled)

It is devouring me.

My eyes shyly find themselves

drawn to look up and

allow my heart rate to

skip half a beat and

so I nearly die for that

half a second, die of a

somatized heart attack

with wide open eyes,

staring at its immensity,

at its bestiality.

It is devouring me.

Instead of dying it always

makes me stronger as its

cold and refreshing

breath invade my nostrils

and fills me up with

intuition.

It is devouring me:

The devil in me.

She makes me want to go

through every dirty downtown

and every fancy uptown

corner. She,

makes me so famished

for more and more while

she carves her skyscraper-teeth

into my jugular.

She is devouring me

as I head east

her gracefulness and curves

turn to straight avenues

and solid blocks.

The devil in me as his

concrete creeps into my veins

and makes me unbeatable.

It is a never ending antropophagy,

my best friend, my mother and

father, my spirit and lover, my

home,

New York City

Raffaella Ciavatta is intense; independent; brilliant; humble; the daughter of Cosmos with Metropolis; a lover of intellectual epiphanies; artistic insights; playful heat; who feels like screaming, being in silence and talking (all at once) and is the author of poetry, short stories, thoughts and chronicles. She is originally from Brazil, Italian descendant and now makes New York City her home.

More of her work can be seen/heard here.

Please be sure to check out a few of her amazing tattoos here on Tattoosday!