It’s Like The ‘Watch The Throne’ Of Tender Punk Poems is a split chapbook, written by myself and Misha Bee Speck. It contains poems both short and long–16 poems by Misha, 12 by me. It is the first official release put out by Bone & Ink Press, my new small press that will be publishing chapbooks of poetry, non-fiction, and experimental genres.
These tender punk poems are about gender and sex, about blood and heat, about dreams and anger and aching. They’re about what it means to live in a body and build a life as the world burns around you.
36 pages, ½ legal. Printed on white paper and staple-bound, then adorned with sparkly cardstock (you can choose gold or silver) and ribbon.
I haven't posted here in a while, but I have had a lot of stuff going on. So here is some information about recent poems & zines & interviews, upcoming events, and more.
The biggest news is that in October I finally, finally finished Reckless Chants #23. It took me four months, and it was a challenge the whole time, but I'm pretty proud of the result.
Reckless Chants #23 is a long-form personal essay about loss, grief, violence, trauma, and mental illness, and also strength and healing–all tied together with thoughts on tears, crying, and sadness. It is one of the hardest things I have ever written, and one of the most important things I have ever written.
This summer was relentless. From June through mid-September, I was pretty much always manic or depressed or anxious, or some combination thereof. I felt completely rubbed raw. I couldn’t distance myself from the news of the world (and it’s been a hell of a year for bad news, hasn’t it?), or from my own personal sufferings. Most days, I’d wake up in the morning feeling like I was gonna kick the day’s ass, but by afternoon I’d feel like the day had kicked my ass and I’d wind up lying in bed, crying. And I drank a little too much this summer, to try and anesthetize myself, even though I know from experience that never does work. A drink or two takes the edges off my anxiety, but if I’m already feeling overemotional and I over-drink, all that happens is that I have an even harder time reigning my emotions in. And then I wind up doing things like locking myself in the bathroom at the bar or a friend’s house to cry.
I was all "I'm going to update this site on a regular basis" and "I'm going to do my serious blogging on this site," and yes, I'm still planning on staying on top of both of those things, but I've been busy! I moved to a new house, and then immediately had to get started on writing pieces for upcoming events and working on a new issue of Reckless Chants, plus doing more book-release preparation and recording my spoken word album, as well as trying to enjoy life by wandering and reading and cooking lots of delicious food. So here are some things to tide you over:
A lot of big news here at Reckless Chants HQ - the biggest news being that I've recently been crowned 2015-17 Poet Laureate of Racine, Wisconsin! I have big plans for the next two years, so stay tuned.
I'm working on a chapbook called The Girl With the Most Cake: poems about Courtney Love. You can read one of the poems here.
And this Saturday (November 14th) is Milwaukee Zine Fest. I'll be there selling my zines (including the brand-new Major Arcana of the Punk Rock Tarot), and also leading a perzine workshop. If you're going to be in the Milwaukee area, you should come on out!
The snow hushed the city sounds and from far far off came a chorus
of howls and yelps. Mama, I hear wolves, she said. Hush, my dear.
There are no wolves near. It’s only the wind in the dried old cornstalks,
only the whine of the furnace turning on, said Mama. But the girl knew
no furnace yelped so high and wild, no wind howled so savage and
lonesome. She dreamt of dark fur speckled with glints of light like a
winter night sky, of a pool of warm red that spread across the fresh snow.
I can’t find the beginning, so I begin with the music. I put the records on and I listen to the voices of these women, and as they sing they appear before me, flickering like footage from an old film. There is Billie Holiday, Lady Day singing the blues with flowers in her hair and veins full of opiates. With her golden reed of a voice, she sings her own pain – good morning, heartache – and the deeper pain of topics no one else will touch: Blood on th...
The Ramones are the sonic version of my worn-in leather jacket. Comfortable, as familiar to me as my own skin, but putting it on still makes me feel more badass, and more like myself, than almost anything else. I have heard their music practically every day for what feels like my whole fucking life, and there’s still nothing else like it. I hear that 1-2-3-4, I hear those simple, pounding drumbeats, that chugging bass, the grind and whine of the guitar and the spaced-out nasal throaty voice, hey ho, and I am ready to change my name to Jessie Ramone and declare I will love Joey and Dee Dee and Tommy and Johnny until the end of time.
He said he wouldn’t have sex with me if I wasn’t on The Pill.
I hate wearing condoms, and I don’t want you to get pregnant. You’d be
the same kind of mom that Sylvia Plath was.
The girl-poet mom. To be a girl poet means...