A burnt offering left at the closed door of the clouds, this hymnal of no occasion poems for the bunker offers chanting, hysterical laughter, allergic reactions, uncalled for advice, misdirection, artificial intelligence, o'erweening pride, righteous sarcasm leavened with screaming pleas, clumsy attempts at innocence, a dog chorus—and a prize in every box.
Kameron Crow is a Queer, non-binary, they/them/theirs artist and poet raised in Kansas City, Missouri and currently living in Columbus, Ohio. Kameron explores the depths of self-hood and documents the lived Queer experience through multiple mediums of artistic expression as a method of coping, analyzing, and communicating emotionally. They started writing personally as a means of processing the trauma of a yet undefined teenage self throughout high-school and found a home in the KCMO poetry scene, which introduced them to many beautiful freaks and spoken-word slam-style release. Now residing in another Midwestern city – aka: CBUS – Kameron continues their pursuit of home and recovery, discovering how to love themselves through creativity, and ultimately seeking happiness through art. Kameron’s poetry is raw, dripping with duende, and advocacy for the healing power of speaking truth. In their day -to-day life, Kameron is known widely as a cat loving hopeless romantic Anime enthusiast with a huge sweet tooth.
Some people write poems in a vain attempt to look cool. Some people write poems because they have the kind of job – like Teachers, Lawyers, Doctors, and African Dictators – where they feel like they need a hobby. Dan writes poetry as if his life depended on it, and this book is his attempt to prove that he still has a heart beat, and that heart beat matters, damn't.
Tomorrow is my ninth birthday and all I want is to be enrolled in school for the fourth grade. I’m gonna call my Grandpa in the morning and ask him to take me to a new school. I don’t know where it will be, since we left Martin just after third grade was over and Mom says we can’t afford the private school now, but it will be somewhere. Grandpa will know where to take me. I’m gonna call him after Mom leaves for work. Mom won’t remember my birthday, she never really does.
You have your fruit digging in the trash cans, picking tin, glass bottles, new/old clothes, making homes out of sidewalks in the middle of red giant September. We learn early: start day drinking by noon, don’t stop until sun down, then night drink until dawn. Bellies at 8 AM begging for tobacco, vomiting all this dysfunction, but we’re ready to rip off shirts, square up, prove who’s the bigger man. Here, every morning we wake to an obituary for the latest pile of bodies NARCAN didn’t bless. What else do you expect from a garden of weeds? We’re the only thing that’ll grow at rock bottom.
truth is, making this book – the first in the series – was just an experiment to see if it could be done. a book about drinking away the pain of managing to always make the wrong decision that was written, edited, printed out and stapled together while trying to drink away the pain. each book is soaked in beer to optimize the readers experience, these twelve poems will make you think you are (back) in a cramped un-insulated apartment contemplating all the things you can do to yourself with sharp objects and just the right amount of time.
after four years clean and sober, Mark finally releases this collection about the years that almost killed him, and the woman he struck at 85 miles-an-hour on the highway after he passed out drunk behind the wheel of a stolen car. this haunting and grim look back on addiction reveals that sometimes, when you’re too far gone, you might as well pay the ransom for the sins of others.
A collection of fifteen narrative poems that touches on love and loss, cows and cars, strippers and suicide, and all the other important topics that shape life in the middle-class Midwest. the poet strives proffer pieces which are plainspoken, devoid of poetic pretension, and honest and fair to the subject matter. though the majority of the pages are dark in tone, they seem to have just the hint of a wry smile beneath the surface, the hidden humor readily available for those who can relate to... (duende).
A rollicking, beer soaked hell-ride through the winding back-roads maze of the author’s mind...
But that’s beyond the point; this is essentially a collection harvested from Jason’s wastebasket over a three year friendship. One day Ezhno just shows up and says:
“hey look, I made a book about your problems with women and drinking every day of your goddamn life.”