I think I may have been Channeling Stewey Griffin.

Carpet
by Rachel Pinkstone

I can see it in front of me: yellow and mocking. I don’t remember leaving it there.
But it’s there.
The carpet itches my palms, however, it’s much better than the kitchen: cold and tiled. 
Where is that duck?

Yes, there it is in front of me. Maybe if I rock to the left—no—right. Where is she now?
This time I truly need her.

I don’t remember if she prefers mother or mommy. Mama, get off the phone with Sue.
That duck, further still, in front of me.
No matter where I lurch I only move backwards, just a wiggle with my pampered tush.
Now what it I was looking for?

There he is: orange bill and yellow plumage. Why must you tease from across the room?
Don’t mock me, Duck! 
Mama! MAMA! Can’t you see the 
duck and I belong together?

This one, I plan to fight for...

CHRISTINE SCHUTT

Christine Schutt is a novelist and short story writer who received her undergraduate degree from the University of Wisconsin-Madison and then, later, her MFA from Colombia University. Currently, Schutt lives in New York City where she is an English teacher at the Nightengale-Bamford School, an all girl prep-school. I suppose I find this so interesting because most of us only get to study under our writing idols once we've already labored through High School and most of college, but not these girls, OH NO, they get it that luxury even before they get their lisences. 

Schutt is also the senior editor of the annual literary periodical published by Diane Williams, NOON.

Her published works include:

Nightwork (1996)

Florida (2004)

A Day, A Night, Another Day, Summer (2005)

All Souls (2008)

Schutt is a Pushcart and O'Henry Prize winning author and was a finalist for the 2004 National Book Award for Fiction, and Nightwork, a collection of  short stories was chosen by poet John Ashbery as the best book of 1996 for the Times Literary Supplement. Her writing is raw, inviting and familiar, the kind of writing where you want to look away because it has gotten to you from within, but when you try to put it down, you simply cannot. You just won't.

"Another boy, another car, she used to let him feel her up just so long as she could sleep. 'The night shift,' she said to her father, 'is such a bitch. You're always tired. I can't talk,' she said, and she kissed her father. She opened her mouth to him and worried her hand inside his coat and felt the warm damp of his shirt, the hard back and heat of her father." ~You Drive

REVIEWS:

"In the opening piece, 'You Drive,' a grown daughter and her father cross the boundaries of any usual parent-child relationship as they sit in a car, sharing secrets, kissing and memorizing the smell and texture of one another's skin."

~Kirkus Reviews

"Shor through with [Virginia] Woolf's lyrical, restless spirit...A bold, sharp story about teenage girls, class and illness, about those moments when we achieve the miracle of human condition--and those when we don't."

~Maud Casey, New York Times Book Review

"Schutt's writing is sharp as ever, with a keen eye for life's everyday grotesqueries...Schutt continues to capture the messiness and confusions particular to adolescence, but in All Souls, new terrain refreshes this writer's astringent voice."

~Christopher Schmidt, Time Out New York

The Hermit: Gary Lutz

Gary Lutz
Gary Lutz is a fiction writer and a poet who has had pieces published in The Anchor Book of New American Short Stories, New York Tyrant, The Quarterly, Conjunctions, Unsaid, Fence, StoryQuarterly, Slate Magazine, , Noon, The Apocalypse Reader PP/FF: An Anthology, The Random House Treasury of Light Verse and several others that I am sure I have forgotten. Besides writing, Gary Lutz fills his time as a Professor of Composition and English at the University of Pittsburgh at Greenburg.
Gary Lutz has a writing style the sounds, more often than not, that you are right inside the mind of the characters, analyzing not only the world around them, but all the internal nonsense we tend to forget we are thinking, making us realize how similarly odd we all are.

Lutz has a few collections published, including:

Stories in the Worst Way (1996, republished in 2002)
I Looked Alive (2003)
Partial List of People to Bleach (chapbook, 2007)


 “Then I did a dumb thing. I moved into an apartment house and grew concerned that the person living in the unit above mine was following me, upstairs, from room to room. For much of the day, my life would be down to just this one concern. I would walk from the living room to the bedroom, or from the kitchen to the bathroom--I had just those four rooms, in that order--and there this person would be, right overhead, the footfalls clumpy but companionate, solicitous . . . Sooner or later it dawned on me that this person had divined how things were laid out in my rooms . . .” ~ “Devotions,” Stories in the Worst Way 
“Did I ever worry about the smell when I was passing out handouts in class? Because all I did was pass out handouts and read them out loud, then collect them and dismiss the class. None of it would be on the test. There were no tests—just papers. Not essays, themes, reviews, reports, compositions, critiques, research projects—but papers, sheets of paper, stapled together. I’d lightly pencil a grade in the upper right-hand corner, and that would be it—no comments or appraisals subjoined in authoritative swipes of a felt-tip pen. I made sure no telltale signs—spilled coffee, dog-ears, creases, crumples, crimps, fingerprint grime—would lead students to believe that their papers had ever been read. “~Slops,” Stories in the Worst Way

REVIEWS:
”His characters spend their time enduring the weight of everyday life, dwelling on the minutiae of their own neuroses. In a story titled “Slops,” a college professor with colitis maps out all the campus bathrooms in a small notebook. In another, a man passes out pamphlets and gives forty-five-minute presentations (with charts) in search of a prospective wife. Lutz labors at each meticulous sentence, word by word, to create a language of striking insight, peripheral emotions, and reinvented vocabulary.”
—Ross Simonini, The Believer
Gary Lutz is the best writer you've never heard of. To certain stylists, he's a kind of prose god. Lutz belongs to a category of sentence geniuses that includes Ben Marcus, Aleksandar Hemon, and David Foster Wallace. 
--Christopher Frizzelle, The Stranger

Influence driven Poetry.

"Superheroes"

by Rachel Pinkstone

He emptied his pockets to show
me what he was Worth.
A dirty Quarter from 1978, the year 
his mother was born.
Used tissues, slightly sticky, bloodied,
wadded into a ball.
A Rock, thought an arrowhead,
still enveloped in dirt.
A Note to the nurse, a claim
his dosage had changed.
A Spider-Man tattoo, temporary,
but perpetually his hero.

“I like Spider-Man too. Can’t say
I’m a fan of Mary-Jane.”
He eyed me first, amassed his wealth
and laughed. Turned away, then left 
the classroom, 
Smiling, coughing 
hard on the way out.

The Stretch from California: Joe Wenderoth

  

Joe Wenderoth.
        It is really only right to begin a discussion of Joe Wenderoth with a quote from Letters to Wendy’s. When I was first introduced to those work, I had never seen anything quite like it, and with each new reading I find something new and inconceivable to explore.

“February 8, 1997
Wendy will you not even poke me? Not even a slow poke? I wonder why you treat me so. Am I a wooden board? Am I to be thought of as a simple wooden board? Come on, just give me a slow poke. I’m not a wooden board, honey. Come on, just poke me like you used to. Just a slow poke. Look into my eyes—are these the eyes of a wooden board?” ~Letters to Wendy’s.
 
         Wenderoth hails originally from Baltimore Maryland and is currently an Associate Professor of English and teaches in the MFA Creative Writing Program at the University of California. (I site him with the hope that he has family still living in Maryland, and he could possibly use a trip to TCNJ as an excuse to visit family on this coast as well!)

Wenderoth has made a name for himself in many anthologies and has been called “one of the ten best writers under 35.”
 
          Author and literary critic, Calvin Bedient claims that “Joe Wenderoth's brave new poetic talent is like nothing so much as a live wire writing its own epitaph in sparks. [His poems] throb brilliantly with a sense of the 'too much.' . . . But in Wenderoth's case the too much is the too little or the too ordinary-a very remarkable discovery to have made so late in the history of poetry. Philip Larkin and a few American poets have approached it, but Wenderoth's instrument is sharper than theirs; he makes quick cuts in the meat of the ordinary, which is the meat of the impossible."
Besides my own personal fascination, Letters to Wendy’s (2000), Wenderoth has published several other works:
Disfortune (1995)
It Is If I Speak (2000)
The Holy Spirit: Essays Written for John Ashcroft’s Secret Self (2005)
No Real Light (2007)

An interesting tidbit: In 2007, Wenderoth performed in collaboration with Gibby Haynes (butthole surfers) in Brooklyn at the Issue Project Room.



“April 19, 1997

It is rare for a baby to be so bad that it is sentenced to be hanged, and even rarer for the sentence to be carried out, and yet, when a baby is hung, what a pleasant surprise it is for the passersby.” ~Letters to Wendy’s.

*Youtube.com (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5zTwb-F7Mtc)

The Gibby Haynes sessions are a litle muttled on youtube, the music is a little low (but the one with the glasses is Gibby) and the blonde man reading, looking like he came in after a night on the street,  is Wenderoth.

*Here, I am including another video by Joe Wenderoth, from a collaboration he has made with several artists, including Gibby Haynes, where they are known as the House Crackers in their Jame sessions.*

"She asked me if I liked Tattoos..."

This is my second workshop poem, written in response to an ill-informed poem about tattoos.

[Untitled]


The pen pierced into my soil, planting 
her favorite flower.
“African Violets,”
 I demanded.

They tried to sell me just a rose.

My blood pooled upon the petals; these 
flowers had no thorns. The air
filled with bees.
Stingers. Buzzing 
down into my bones.

When the flowers fully blossomed, 
 fruits of his labor meticulously 
drawn: She criticized my choices 
but kissed me, 
sweetly,
for the blooms.

Just keep reading, Rachel...just keep reading...

"Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema goes walking and when she passes, each one she passes goes, "A-a-ah." -  "Girl from Ipanema" -English lyrics written by Norman Gimbel.

D.A. POWELL

If you aren't caught off guard by the obvious need to turn your book sideways in order to take part in some of D.A. Powell's poetry, his use of catchy, and often ironic pop songs will definitely give you a little kick in the pants.

I seem to be drawn most passionately to the poets who are hiding personal pain(of the speaker) or experience right out in the open. Powell's poem, "[tall and thin and young and lovely the michael with kaposi's sarcoma goes walking]" uses a play on this popular song about a beautiful young woman to heighten the power and beauty of living with disease.  The Bossa Nova song, fits perfectly, crooning about a landscape so different from the one provided in the poem; however, the speaker seems to walk with content along the cold beach displaying the battle scars of his disease and little power he still holds in his "final stages." The power of the song, and the movement, and the hope.

Wow. That felt deep.

Anywho, it's D.A. Powell's ability to mold the music that keeps together the frail world that the characters of his poems live in, with the harsh words of the reality that they exist in.