My poem, “The Green Lady,” will appear in Aberrant Dreams in 2008. I am thrilled to be accepted by AD again; in addition to finding my work worth publishing, they are a joy to work with, responsive to a writer’s every question or concern.

I also neglected to mention in this space that my review of Stephen Jones’ H.P. Lovecraft in Britain: A Monograph, was published in June by the SF Site.

Originally published at approximately 8,000 words. You can comment here or there.

My poem, “a 24th-century reflection on emptiness,” has been published by Aberrant Dreams. You can read it here.

I’m really pleased to be published in Aberrant Dreams. While you’re at it, check out some of the other works in their webzine.

Originally published at approximately 8,000 words. You can comment here or there.

In response to my 'sick fucks' post, the user 'Blankprofile' evidently spent the last 2 days since I posted composing a poem for me. Since it obviously took a lot of effort to compose, I thought I should share it here with you since he gave me permission to do so.

Your attempts to expand yourself
importance and ingorance [sic] here,
in your blogs, and other-wise
is wasteful and destructive.
Jeck - are you kidding me?

You are wecome to make
this private masseage [sic] public.

--BlankProfile

In honor of International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day, I am posting my poem "Junebug" which I consider to be one of my best recent works. Although I am a writer and poet (member of the Society of Voluptuaries), I am neither an SFWA member nor qualified to join (yet!). I have been published for pay, and in markets both online and off.

For more awesome free writing check out this post and ipstp.


Junebug

wings lift
and send me
whirling around your light
but my armor covers my eyes

tired of
smashing my head
against the same wall
but I don't know another way

when I
lose my balance
land on my back
legs waving frantically at you

how many
times will you
set me right again
before the game grows old?


Copyright © 2007 Kit O'Connell. All rights reserved.

Tonight we went to Revolution for their open mike. I used to read at poetry open mikes in Austin all the time, and definitely had some people who recognized me and enjoyed having me come to their venues when I was doing it regularly (this was years ago now). It was something I enjoyed for a long time but I think I got burnt out by some personal fallout involving the reading I and a lover ran so I stopped going after a while. Last week, gryphynshadow stumbled onto the open mike at Rev, and got to listen to some good poets and play a short poetry game led by the host. I had hoped to get her, eposia, and myself out there this week, but Jennifer is caught up with inventory at her job so it was just Reesa and I.

We got there a little late but that was cool because the reading started late as well. I signed up later in the show so I'd have a few people ahead of me while I prepared. We were each allowed to read two poems, and I had brought along three, inspired roughly by the very loose theme of the week's reading (aftermath): After, A poem about the past, and ghosts are spirits who died with unfinished business (writing filter links). The rules of the reading are "respect the poets," and "respect the audience," so I was unsure about doing a sexy kinky poem like "After." I decided against it when a very straight-laced parent came in with their young kid.

I got up and did "A poem about the past" and "ghosts are spirits who died with unfinished business." It was interesting that I felt more confident reading "A poem" and stumbled a little near the end of "ghosts ..." Reading aloud can be usedful for this kind of thing, so I might try looking at ghosts and seeing if I can revise it so it is less stumbly. I had felt that ghosts was mostly done but I may reexamine that now. I got polite applause for my poems but nothing spectacular. I felt like my reading skills were very rusty but for a first time back in years it was a good experience. It was also fun to give Reesa her first exposure to an open mike.

There were some good poets and some bad poets. It sucked that the only two women who read did awful rhyming fundamentalist Christian poems. It made me wish I had read "After" after all. The week before I might have done it -- the only kid was mostly playing outside, and other poets were doing edgier stuff like pro-drug use poems. We'll see if I get bolder as I get used to the venue and the crowd's tastes. Next week is the area poetry slam championships; we will probably attend that (as spectators). I was looking forward to reading again, but I can wait till the week after and will enjoy hearing some good slam-style poetry. I am curious if any of the poets will do sex-based poems along the lines of Ernest Cline's Nerd Porn Auteur; it would be nice if the only(?) open mike venue in town was open to that sort of thing.


Got some decidedly mixed feedback from my mom on "Borrowed Time." I'm hoping some other people on my writing filter will give me their honest feedback about the story soon so I can see how common her reaction is.

I think I drank too much caffeine before leaving the house and at Revolution, and then we shopped at Walmart while they were using the floor waxer. For some reason that is the sort of sound (along with the vent hood on the stove to a lesser extent) that makes me feel edgy, so that with the caffeine made me feel stressed out and brainfried. We came home and ate some food and now writing this entry has helped calm me down.

The issue of defining poetry is a thorny one to be sure. It's tempting to borrow the line about art and say simply I know poetry when I see it. It's fundamentally NOT inserting random carriage returns throughout your writing. So what is it then? A somewhat over-simplified definition might be that poetry is using words in a rhythmic way to convey emotion.

A somewhat deeper definition I have come up with has to do with the concept of hacking, in the older (original?) meaning of the word. A hacker is someone who takes a system, most commonly computers or other high technology, and puts it to a use for which it was never intended, greatly extending its purpose; also, it is someone who uses a machine for its intended purpose, but in an incredibly elegant way, to its utmost efficiency.

To me, a poet is someone who hacks words. Language is a wonderful tool, a system of incredible versatility, but there are some nuances and subtle meanings which are not easily expressed in your language of choice (or perhaps in any language). For example, language seems particularly limited when it comes to speaking of the many gradations of emotion. Poetry then, is taking words and using them in ways which they are unintended by their everyday users. Poetry is a hack extends the tool of language beyond its normal limitations.

That's not to say I succeed at this every time I write a poem, by any means. But I think that's the goal.


On a related thought provoking topic, skzbrust told us that he feels a poem is not a poem if you can rewrite it as a regular prose without losing anything. I think I might agree in some ways and not in others. It is definitely thought provoking.

What do you think of all this?

Haven't done this in a while but I haven't been reading as much. Probably forgetting a few things because it's been a while.

Goodbye Chunky Rice by Craig Thompson

Funny, adorable, touching, sad comic about a turtle (Chunky Rice) who loves a mouse (Dandel) but realizes he's destined for bigger things than the small town where they live and has to seek out life elsewhere. A really touching reflection on friendship, loss, and love. Made me cry multiple times.

The art is really wonderful along with the story. The characters are incredibly expressive and some of the panel layout is just genius. This comic has a huge reputation, winning a major industry award and being nominated for multiple others, but I had not read it until recently. It was just reprinted for Del Rey, who sent it to me in their regular shipments of stuff. I might actually review this one it was so good.

( several more books )

A nifty Salvia poem

Cate IM'd me to let me know she's going to publish my poem "Herbs / Dirt" in the Fall 2001 issue of Atomic Petals. Awesome! I can't wait to see my words in print there.

I'll be sure to post here when it's up. I'll add it to my website after it's been up on Petals for a while.

A conversation with mielikki brought up this old favorite poem of mine. I figured I'd post it here, in addition to sending it to me.

( stalk my lips )

tall clouds
dark and pregnant with rain
ozone smells like anticipation

the storm begins,
I dance in its puddles
soaking the cold into my body

(so long
since I felt
this chill)

i am buzzing with energy
shivering
singing,

"drink this water, Momma
draw it into your skin
heal your exhausted soil

thank you, Momma,
for this beautiful rain..."




(constructive criticism is welcomed, as always)

carnival
painted masks and
naked minds
dropping inhibition
like confetti to the street

somewhere, in the
parade
fingers touch

a motley man
turns cards over
one by one

a slight touch
like butterfly's wings
changes emotional
stormfronts
diverts rain to the desert

intoxicating
the smell of ozone
in the air

(constructive criticism, positive or negative, welcomed as always)

I've actually been up for quite a while now. When moonrose kissed me goodbye this morning before going to work, I found I couldn't fall back asleep like I usually would. I lay awake for a while, then decided I might as well get up. I feel fairly well rested. I actually was able to sleep last night, although not before I caught one of the largest roaches I've ever seen and saw that it found its way out of the house. It was so large it inspired haiku.

Today is Sushi Wednesday, in which my fellow "Goons" from SomethingAwful get together over.. yeah, sushi, at Ichiban, which is kind of a sucky restaurant but its still fun. And if you miss sushi wednesday, and die before the next one you go to sushi hell, and who wants that?

I feel pretty good today. Just been reading my birthday Charles de Lint collection (Triskell Tales), and listing to one or another of Digitally Imported's channel -- I listend to the classical station until it started to make me sleepy. :)

I'm going to shower and get ready for lunch.

exoskeleton
hides prehistoric nerves and wiring
your kind is eternal

breeding in the walls
your life, endless procreation
more honest than the humans

your spiny legs run
your little eyes gaze upon me
what do you see, bug?

I went to my P.O. box tonight before poetry. I hadn't been in a month or more, and the post office employee seemed to disapprove. I'm so happy though. There was tons of nifty stuff there waiting for me. My SomethingAwful t-shirt, my cd-rom of gamemaster stuff that I won in the Sluggy raffle, but best of all my Jansport backpack returned to me. I've been using moonrose's backpack forever now, since mine had a ripped zipper. I finally sent it back to them for a repair (lifetime warranty :) and now I have it back and I'm so happy. Her backpack was a free gift, and not designed for the heavy use I give it. This one has a ton of pouches and pockets and things, including nifty insulated side pockets for holding cold drinks!

Yes, I am not wearing a shirt in a lot of my pictures. It's too damn hot in Texas and our A/C sucks.

The poetry reading was pretty good. We haven't been in ages, and it was good to see some of our friends and favorite poets. P.J. was there, one of my favorite people. He is one of the few true Christians (as in actual followers of Christ's teachings) that I have met. He's a friendly, open-minded, non-judgemental hippie cowboy poet, and I love him. He runs the Poet's Pantry, which collects money and canned goods for the poor and homeless in the name of charity. He works hard at it, too -- he told us about one time when he was suddenly presented with a few hundred cooked, hot, ready to eat hot dogs. He knew right where to go -- he drove them down to the local Goodwill and presented them to the hungry there, with all the fixings. Tonight, the Pantry made a donation of $500 to House the Homeless. Through the "Heart and Sole" program, this will provide 100 new pairs of sneakers for the homeless. It is so uplifting to realize that I helped make a difference, with just a dollar here and there, to make such a real, tangible difference in so many lives. Poets may not have a lot of money, but together we can do anything.

I read 4 poems -- red string, the bicycle poem (which was very popular), a poem I call "herbs/dirt" (which I'll try to type in later), and my newest poem, Dueling Webcams (see below).The Webcams poem, and especially the bicycle poem were extremely well-received. Most of the poets were good, except for a few people like the guy who read an endless semi-rhyming, rambling "poem" entitled "why I don't dig white chicks." Oy.

Afterwards, we ran by Book People. I bought the 2001 Writer's Market, the latest issue of Bike magazine, and Red Mars by Kim Stanley Robinson. Moonrose got some I-Ching books and yummy pomegranite lip balm. We came home afterwards, I cleaned some dishes, and Sam made grilled cheese and heated some Amy's Tomato Soup.

moonrose makes the best grilled cheese on the planet! I could love her just for her grilled cheese. I had a wonderful night with her. It's not that we did anything especially exciting, I was just very happy to have her company and her love.

The second picture is a picture of her cat, Cappucino, and me.

I signed up for an account with Illuminati Online, my old shell ISP and former employers. Blackhat.net has sucked ass ever since they were bought out by si3.net -- they are down too much, we get busy signals on dialup, and you have to yell at them to get any useful response out of technical support. I hate to see a good ISP go to seed, but what can you do?

I'm finally taking care of my tax issues. I am in touch with the 2 employers (including IO) that I never got my W2s from -- probably not their fault, I probably didn't give them an up to date address. Anyway, maybe I'm due for a refund...

I'm off to HEB to get some fixings for dinner tonight, and then I think we're going to Ruta Maya for poetry.

Check out my new user icon! Hooray for Kiki & Tombo!

So very late.

I tried to sleep, but my brain could not. Thoughts came unbidden to me. Not bad ones like sometimes hit me when I'm depressed (I don't feel particularly depressed anymore, I think moonrose was right and it was just caused by not eating). Now, having had my only meal late in the day I'm not tired now. I should get my schedule more normal.

I've had an interesting breakthrough about my roleplaying games, all of which run in a shared world (or worlds?). Some ideas and thoughts on where it's "all going" have been bouncing around my head for some time now, and I think they've finally germinated. I don't dare say much here since so many of my players read this journal, but I will say this: In my version of the WoD, the Ascension War is still very much on, and about to become a whole lot hotter.

Unrelated, I think I will try to get to the poetry open mike at Ruta Maya Coffee Company. I haven't been in a dog's age. Maybe Moon will go, but I'll try to go on my own. Need to check my P.O. Box (the real, physical one) too. Maybe my Jansport backpack is back!

Ok, hopefully I've exorcised these demons now. I'm going to bed. I hope.

Hentai epic poetry from Doug:

'And mighty Tentaculysseus, strong-brow'd and hard-thewn / Stood forth
on the rocky crags of Demon-Earth / And gazed at the golden City of
Lust below ...'

Humanity i love you
because you would rather black the boots of
success than enquire whose soul dangles from his
watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both

parties and because you
unflinchingly applaud all
songs containing the words country home and
mother when sung at the old howard

Humanity i love you because when you're hard up you pawn your
intelligence to buy a drink and when you're flush pride keeps

you from the pawn shop and
because you are continually committing
nuisances but more
especially in your own house

Humanity i love you because you
are perpetually putting the secret of
life in your pants and forgetting
it's there and sitting down

on it
and because you are
forever making poems in the lap
of death Humanity

i hate you

--E. E. Cummings