"The Oyez Review"

I recently received a call from my former grad studies advisor and we got to talking about the university lit journal I helped to edit and publicize during my last year in the program. The journal is called the Oyez Review and is published annually, usually in either late December or early January. The university usually holds one to two public readings and distributes it throughout the Chicagoland area. They do not currently have a distributor per se, so it is a task the editorial staff (which was me) takes on themselves. Currently, interested people in Chicago can find the journal at: Oyez

1. Both the downtown and Schaumburg Roosevelt U. bookstores
2. Both the Oak Park and Wells locations of Barbara's Bookstores
3. Both the Chicago and Evanston locations of City News
4. Quimby's
5. The Armadillo's Pillow
6. The Heartland Cafe
7. Women and Children First

I also helped publicize the journal at this year's AWP conference, which was held at the Palmer House Hotel. What a fantastic experience for anyone interested or involved in small press publishing. I had the opportunity to see and meet the editors behind many of the lit journals I have read about but hadn't been able to find locally. There were additionally many panels on all things concerning writers, writing programs, and publishing. I would encourage anyone interested to go to future conferences. The AWP also publishes the quarterly magazine The Writer's Chronicle. You can find out more information at their website: AWP

Anyway, the Oyez Review is comprised of fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry, and fine art. The breakdown is roughly 60% fiction, 30% poetry, 5% creative nonfiction, and 5% art. You can check out the latest issue, review former issues, and find out how to order or submit to a future issue at the following link: Oyez Review

Keep writing!

"Friends"

No, not that sappy TV show. Sorry to any fans of the long running sitcom but I was never a fan of it. What I'm thinking about this morning are the genuine article. Over the past couple of weeks, I've had to rely on my own group of friends as I tried to deal with the pain and confusion of an unstable relationship. I've been thinking about how when we first become involved with someone on an intimate level, we tend (of course, this is not an inclusive idea) to pull away from our friends. I believe we (or I) do it as a defensive measure. In the beginning of a relationship it would be too much pressure to have your friends sizing up your potential mate before you've had a chance to do that for yourself. However, if the budding relationship should crumble, I have to say you really understand the importance of your friends and who they truely are as you try to cope with the volatile situation. Anyway, the following prose poem, though the title and content may lead readers to think it is about one thing, it is more importantly about one's friends.

stoned poem

Once we had
had what was waiting behind us. We were like peace babies, stoned all the time. Lisa leaned forward and made lipstick before the smoke, as if there were gaps as they never occurred in life. At least to me, a measly of the stuff and then space. Yeah. We drove because it seemed longer, and I knew I might. I remember looking down as we sauntered oddly a block, then pulled the lipstick case. A hand gesture as if what would be a more interesting world. We were leaving, and returned felt, and had hoped it had been longer. Still, it was. Yeah. Smiles and laughs taking the place of the who we would be. My sight failed before me and she, as if everything had turned in two. Hands against the wall to relieve some, alone, and almost as suddenly the whole nothing. I heard nothing. I became nothing. I laid their faces down and faded as dots clouded, appearing happily stoned. Looking up, a head haloed by the streetlight, and a voice with the feeling that it cared. Giggles, just so. The others were avidly against the wall, sitting next to me, and everyone laughed, thinking. The wall, the ground, the air, up just this much. Yeah. To feel better I looked at my watch. Jim said it was Lisa's. She unwrapped something and said, "What this boy needs is some sugar." So I had
and I really began.

~Michael Staples

"Prose Poems"

During my last year of poetry studies, while working toward an MFA, I began exploring the continually evolving area of prose poetry. Even though this style of creative expression has been in existence for many decades, there is still a lot of controversy over its validity. Is it, in fact, poetry or prose? It actually seems like a mute point to me, but I read countless essays from both poets and literary academics alike who posed theories on whichever side of the issue they stood upon. However, what my research did for me was to open up my own writing practice in ways I never thought my poetry could really ever go. It afforded me the ability to break through previous constraints that, perhaps, I shouldn't have put upon myself to begin with. I suppose I needed something new, a new perspective, to give myself, my writing, a new boost. A few entries back you can find my prose poem "The White Ghost and the Red Devil." Here is another prosy:

A poem to ponder

Once upon a time there was a spiteful child who got lost in the woods and was eaten by a wolf. The child is you and the woods are the world and the wolf is life. What do you want to do now? To care is to have direction. To change your direction is to have passion. To let your passions rule your life to to be romantic. To be romantic is to have imagination. How odd it all is when you stop to think about it. Everything leads and everything follows like neither either neither nor. Therefore, nothing is new and no one is normal and death is.

~Michael Staples

"Margaritas, Madness, and Redemption"

If you've read my previous post, then you'll know my state of mind recently was whacked! I had an emotionally charged realization that this guy I'd been interested in and thought was interested in me, has, perhaps, been seeing everything very differently. Lost in translation, Sophia might say. Anyway, in a fit of desperation (all mine) I called my friend Tamara for an emergency cocktail(s) and banter. Because it was all very last minute and she really didn't have the time, I made every concession to pull our meeting off. I drove the forty minutes to her neck of the woods and arranged to meet at this quaint little Mexican place we both liked. However, as is typical of our meetings, there's always an element of error involved. I told her I'd meet her at the place that we liked that also has an upscale location closer to me. It's called That Little Mexican Cafe. However, I didn't say the name. I assumed she knew what I was talking about since we had been to the other locale before. Anyway, in her neck of the woods (such fine and wealthy woods), where I was seated, waiting, in the window seats of our meeting place, sipping (okay, drinking) a maragrita on the rocks (light rocks, please), I realized something was amiss because she wasn't there. I, of course, tried her cell phone, which is almost always off or in the car. I also tried her home phone to no avail. I finished my margarita and glanced out the window, across the street, to another Mexican restaurant called Las Palmas and who should be standing out front. I went out front and told the hostess my party was at Las Palmas across the street. We waved, Tamara waved back. I pointed into the place I was at. She pointed into Las Palmas. I turned around and walked back into the place I was at and that was that. She would come.

We went on to have another mega margarita and down some quesadillas. Mmmmm! She also lent that objective ear that only a true friend can provide. She told me my misunderstanding was not entirely my fault (Good girl, I thought). She said that he, this bastard guy who claims to be so sensitive and caring, has not been living up to his own account of himself.

Oh, I suppose some back story is in order. Essentially, I spoke with shit face the previous Monday and specifically asked him when he was going to be off from work again. He works this very erratic schedule and is very difficult to track down. Anyway, he said he would be around on the weekend. The weekend! That has never happened since I met him. I was very excited. I told the bastard from hell that I wanted to see him and asked what he'd be up for. He said, and I quote "let's play it by ear." Okay. I translated that as I'm not sure what I want to do but we'll do something. However, what he was really saying was I'm going to invite another "friend" in for the weekend so I don't have to see you at all. I found this out late Saturday via a voice-mail message.

So back to margaritaville. Tamara lent me her perfect ear and consoled my wounded heart. We laughed, we ate, we stumbled around Borders. Later, on the way home, I thought I heard an escaping hubcap go spinning off my car into the night. However, when I got home I realized it was the grill of my car that was thrown like a projectile never to be seen again. My poor car. She runs great but is literally falling apart.

The following morning, nursing a slight hangover, I took myself to the movies for a little escapism. I saw A Home at the End of the World. It was charming and, of course, Colin Farrell and Sissy Spacek were the stand out actors. There's nothing like the fantasy of getting stoned with your mother (well, step-mother). For those of you who have lived this, kudos to you! Then, after the film, I made my way across town to Chicago's Market Days Fest. This is a fabulous annual event celebrating the merchants along Halsted Street and the LGBT community. While in that throng of scantilly clad boys, I caught a very cool musical trio called Ember Swift. Well, Ember Swift is actually the lead singer's name too. She and her bandmates performed such music as I have never heard before. It was a magical blend of folk, rock, and global rythmns. Then, right after, the Chicago ROTC twirled their guns and I had a front row seat. The event, for me, culminated with a kiss from one of the twirlers because I was so close during his performance and managed not to cringe once as his gun was swung right before my extra wide eyes. Truthfully, I was both enthralled and expecting incoming bruises. By the time I got to bed Sunday evening, I had fogotten all about what's his name and his dastardly deeds. That is until I woke up Monday morning and began thinking about him again. Bastard!

"I hate being the stupid one!"

I've done it again. Somehow I've managed to delude myself into a situation that seems to be completely of my own imagination. What is with me? What's in my head, other than a whole lotta air. I have to wonder sometimes. Sometimes often, truth be told, I think I'm too trusting or I want to believe in people too much. Maybe I'm just lonely and I hate it, because I feel so pathetic. Goddamn it! I've always been very independent. I escaped an abusive home. I put myself through college and 30 hours of grad study. Got bored, couldn't finish. But still, came to the Midwest (first mistake) with nothing and now I have a great apartment in the ghetto filled with an assortment of really cool bohemian nick-nacks and awesome art. I've done fairly well for myself. Unfortunately, there's one area in my goddamn life that I continually fuck up. Relationships.

Who doesn't, hasn't, you might say. It's just that I've got EVERYTHING ELSE under control. Why is this area so fucking nightmarish? Why are people (okay, fucked up gay men, boys) so goddamn insincere? Why do they say one thing when they really mean something else? How can they lie to my goddamn face? When someone says I'm working on cleaning up my life and working on my spirit and becoming a better person (okay, okay, so there's a lot of red flags here), it doesn't seem unreasonable to believe it. However, it is. You should never take what anyone (especially fucked gay boys) says on face value because they can't be trusted. Insincerity is in their genes. It's part of the genetic makeup. When the gods made gays, they said "okay, they can sleep with eachother but they will never tell the truth."

Look, this rant (and it is a rant) is coming out of my rather feeble heart which has recently (today) been crushed by mounds of insincerity. This guy I've been seeing has taken me for a goddamn ride. Who are these shisters? Why did I believe all the bullshit? I should have known something wasn't right when I found out he was hooked on crystal. I'm an idiot. I just wanted to believe in him. I really like him. However, it seems I'm something like a diversion for a rainy day for him. Bastard! What is the point of putting ourselves out there if the people we put ourselves out to are assholes disquised as sincere people. It's like I have blinders on. I can't see their lechery because of the smokescreen they envelope themselves in (literally, Marlboro smoke). It's enough to make a man straight or bi at least. Although, no, that's just not the same.

What's the answer? Live and learn? I've been living for almost 37 years and have learned nothing. When does the learning kick in? I hate being the stupid one!

"Favorite Websites & Blogs for Turbulent Times"

The following are some websites & blogs I've come across recently that help fuel my political fires and satiate my liberal soul.
Check em out:

1. John Kerry
2. Feedster Politics
3. Michael Moore
4. Bob Mould

"Has America Gone Crazy?"

This morning I read an article in the Associated Press about how the citizens of Missouri have passed an amendment to their state constitution banning gay marriage. What they have also done through this action is to destroy previous provisions already in place that at least recognized same-sex relationships in that state. I was so relived last week when the Bush Administration's attempt to get a similar vote into the US Constitution failed miserably but even to have it pass in one state seems like a huge let down. I've said it before and I'll say it again, "what is the threat here?" This isn't really about the sanctity of marriage at all. It's about power. You would think the conservative groups in this country would have learned something from past preducial mistakes. Hm? American Indians, African Americans, Women to name a few. We're all Americans! We all deserve EQUAL protection under the law! Why can't they just let us love who we want to love? Are they so used to hating that they prefer that emotion to love? How would recognizing same-sex unions do anything to the sanctity of marriage that the divorces, adulterers, and priests haven't done already? Can someone explain this to me?

Here is a link to an organization that is fighting these state constitutional amendments through grassroots education. Check it out: Constitution Defense League

The white ghost and the red devil

haunt me like a recurring dream where each time the party is more sumptuous and in the end I’m dead. The white ghost taps his cane in a trancelike tune of wanting and need. It’s a song I can’t escape, its saccharin melody inside my head where desires hide, crouching on my tongue. Each time he comes, he brings a present to them wrapped as a sweet precursor to the bitterness germinating in my gut. He sleeps with the red devil that bitch of bistro banter and scurrilous wit. She seduces like a literary succubus leaving one dull and hungry. I’ve found it doesn’t matter how much I pay, her services are the same and the same could be said for her lover. They’re both classless contrivances from the state of mind. I’m addicted to the swoon of her selfishness, as I sleep unrestful in a stuporous tomb. The white ghost feeds me a lecherous rhyme where I think he’s saying, “Isn’t the living great,” but actually he’s saying, “I’m fucking your goddamn face!” They both drown me in languorous laughter every time I fall for this and I fall every time.

~Michael Staples

"Trying to Find My Voice"

And who isn't? So, you may have noticed I've changed the name of the blog. Well, the original name (Little-Michael's Rants and Raves), besides being too long, wasn't really speaking to the ideas I've been writing about on this blog so far and it didn't feel like the right name for it anymore. The name little-michael is a pen name my friend Dan bestowed on me while we were in a poetry workshop together. He thought I seemed like a member of a group of traveling circus performers, you know, featuring the heroic feats of "little-michael" as he swings from the flying trapeze! Whoo-hoo! I don't know about that but the name kind of stuck, at least as far as Dan and our friend Connie was concerned. To this day, they still call me little-michael or some variation of it. So, when I started this blog it seemed like the perfect title for it. Maybe it was the Rants & Raves part that didn't really sit right with me. I don't really rant or rave about anything. I think I tend to think about things and attempt to write out my thoughts. Anyway, that's how the new title came about. Also, you'll find my poetry runs in a similar vein. Thinking outloud that is. You'll see.