RITES OF THE COVID-19 SPRING chapbook.

 Now available on Scribd in document form: https://www.scribd.com/document/472173443/Rites-of-the-Covid-19-Spring

New Poem: HOLLYWOOD

in 1932, she walked into Bullocks Wilshire
bought the best she could afford
then stood by the studio gates until chosen
>
days of learning how to talk, how to stand, how to diet
posing for publicity photographs
coerced into coitus by men who say you have to say yes
dress extra, bit player, supporting actress, star
marriages to leading men who wanted other stars on the side
>
even with a support system of friends and employees,
there’s constant pain, a yearning to stop this nonsense
>
then the contract runs out—make way for others
>
one day after the war,
she’s arrested for speeding down Topanga
after that, B pictures, TV series, then retirement
>
they buried her out in the back
of the church known as
Our Lady of the Cadillacs
>
in 1989, she walked into Beverly Center

New Chapbook: HOW TO TELL TIME.

Now available in both print and e-book editions.


https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07W7S3G4W/ref=cm_sw_em_r_mt_dp_U_H2qtDbCK9G5VY

Revised Older Poem: 1% POEM

you dug a trench in the sand

filled it with swamp water,

threw in lobsters, crabs,

snakes of all sizes

and electric eels

 >

all of this prohibitive excess

to make damn sure

no unwashed

unwanted people

could share with you

> 

on your property

people eat large slices

of an endangered world

(no sustainability allowed)

while the rest of us

wonder why

you felt justified in

disfiguring a public beach

by digging a trench in the sand

Revised Poem: BURBANK ON MY MIND

extra casting agency visited to enter lottery for Golden Work Tickets

coffee shop where I felt out of step with real actors

motel where I took Traffic School seriously--unlike classmates

former network studio with tiny-in-reality TONIGHT SHOW stage

duplex where friend and I watched latter-day Marlon Brando on TV

public library branch where I read poetry to friends and strangers

>

wishing these memories

could be retroactively assembled

in an upward trajectory

instead of being random,

it-happened-then-it-was-over

episodes of life

On the subject of featured poets who leave readings early.

An interesting discussion is taking place on a Bay Area poet's Facebook feed.  She posed the issue of featured poets/writers who leave a reading early, as well as poets/writers who leave an open mic early.

First, let's hear from a literary poet, well known in California:
been on both ends. features know when the crowd is there because they want their 3 minutes of glory with the mic, not to listen to the feature. i usually stay, and like most open mics, might hear 1-3 really good poems, and a lot of really bad poetry. then i'll watch them exit with their hands in their pockets because they sure have no intention of buying a book or copy of my poetry mag. if i'm lucky, the host might give me 20 bucks for my gas and a trip to McDonald's. it's a glorious life. and the open-mic crowd wants a pieceof the action.

Another commenter:
  I think it'd very bad form to leave before the end of a reading, if you are reading yourself in any manner - unless of course circumstance compels you to leave. In which case, it's very good form to let folks know that you'll need to while you're at the mic. I generally assume that in most cases, when someone gets up to read and then leaves without mentioning that they need to, that they're only there to hear themself. Which in turn makes me disinterested in listening to their work in future, no matter what I might think of it.

Another commenter, who names Famous Names:

In the 1980s I drove some ways to Cal State Dominguez Hills to hear Robert Peters and Billy Collins, plus open mic. Pre-Mapquest, GPS, Google Maps. Found the building on-campus and was delighted by the features. They stayed for a little bit of the open mic but not the whole thing. I was sad they didn't get to hear me but not sorry I'd come. I believe Collins had been flown in for the event, and I'm sure these giants of poetry had plenty to say to each other.

Like drinking vinegar: the "I'm better than you" poem.

Here's Dian Sousa prefacing her poem by bemoaning a job that took her to Las Vegas and (oh, the horror) made her sell Hello Kitty purses:
http://youtu.be/sCclGMcuohQ

Perhaps I'm a relative failure as a poet because I don't think I'm better than others.