Gossip [&] the Devil

"Greetings from H.B." - The self-addressed stamped postcard I made for this submission, using old medical dictionaries and Vogue magazine.

I’ve successfully used an entire cartridge of black ink for submissions. For a bit of back story, following a particularly dark period, I went and bought a brand new ink cartridge last summer. I’d decided enough was enough and couldn’t go around telling certain people to write and “get back to what’s important” (xxoo) when I was sitting on my ass and breaking down. It’s appropriate that last night, as I attempted to print out the first manuscript/submission of this new year, that the ink was dry. There was nothing left.

I’d spent all of last year printing nothing but hand-made chapbooks, manuscripts and submissions. (And maybe a few itineraries for last-minute trips to L.A. and my beloved Chicago.) So a trip to Staples, and $24.72 later, I am once again the proud owner of a shiny, new cartridge. It’s now installed, the manuscript printed and submission is on it’s way to New York.

Once again we begin a new year in this woman’s journey towards a book of her own.

For this round I’ve sent a ten-page manuscript to the “Discovery” / Boston Review contest. The contest, by design, is aimed at attracting a large audience to poets who have not yet published a book. According to the rules and guidelines, upon “winning” 4 poets get a chance to read at the 92nd Street Y and receive $500 apiece.  Now, I’ve submitted to, and been rejected by, the Boston Review before. In the grand scheme of things it’s a bit of a daunting undertaking for such a relatively “young” poet, since the Boston Review is far from a fledgling press, but I’ve always been of the mind that even if the goal seems out-of-reach, you’ll never know unless you polish your moxie and go for it. I cleaned up the poems, added a few new ones [plus a couple I've sent to the Colulmbia Poetry Review for consideration] and sent it right back. I feel hopeful.

Click the cut for an excerpt from the manuscript.

Bi-Polar Romance

This pomegranate is rotten.
It sits slumped in mush
on a clean counter top.
Like our love,
almost out of frame
on this still-life.
(Half in.)
(No, half out.)

I watch you waltz
among seasonal fruit:
cherries intact and waiting
on efflorescent trees,
tame in comparison
to the stout aroma
of the orb you carry
in a tired basket.
(You say, acidic.)
(I am alkaline.)

You misalign yourself
over and over,
in accordance with bipolar law:
In. Out.
Hello. Goodbye.
(I do.)
(Well I don’t, anymore.)

…

Stay tuned and, as always, thank you. Part 2 of [x] in my adolescent Billy Corgan saga has yet to be posted, but what do I spy open and begging for editing in another window…?

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