Well it has been a crazy year here for us with the passing of Brant and the launch of this new and exciting press it really has been an emotional rollercoaster ride of sunshine and clouds. As you may have heard the title of the anthology is "It's animal but merciful" which is a line from a Brant Lyon poem in his book by three rooms press called "you are white inside". This new anthology is great and we can't wait for you to get your hands on it. It's a cute little pink stuffed elephant being torn apart by an alligator with a mohawk. That is the best way of describing this book. It should be out within a month and we have a whole slew of readings coming up with a whole slew of poets showing their chops by breaking your teeth with their poetry. And please don't forget about our open mic that happens every Sunday at the Jujo Mokti Tea Lounge located on 4th st and Ave B from 6-8. Well that is all for now my lovelies we have a lot planned and in store for the next few months so please stay tuned and please be safe........
my balls wait for it to vibrate
My name is Thomas Fucaloro. I am 35. I live in the suburb of Staten Island. I am a Capricorn. I just got a cell phone. They are very odd little instruments of communication. For some reason I don't like being able to communicate with someone all the time. It's the things left unsaid that I cherish most. So far the only thing a cell phone has taught me is that other people are late a lot. You see when I didn't have a cell phone and I had to meet someone somewhere they knew because I not having one meant they were never late. Now with the cell phone in place I get constant text messages about having to be late because of crotch itch or whatever lame excuse is being offered up for sacrifice that day. So I am official plugged in and part of the problem. I smile. The cell phone just stares back at me. I put it in my pocket. My balls wait for it to vibrate.
heart-felt stories need popular actors to sell not hearts
Went to see Wes Anderson's "Moonlight Kingdom" the other night. It was a great, sweet and endearing film starring Bill Murray, Bruce Willis, Frances McDermott, Edward Norton and a whole lot of children. The movie takes place in the 60's in some made up world that only can be found in the head of Wes Anderson and that made up world is New England. It's about two young kids who find each other and grow in each other's love. The setting has a boy scout flavor to it which really adds to the story but I have a problem with the cast. Usually Wes Anderson movies have an ensemble cast, each having their own significant stamp on the story but here anyone of the adult leads could have been played by lesser known actors because they were not in developement the children were. They were there to add scenery and sell the movie. It's a shame, heart-felt stories need popular actors to sell not just hearts. But hey what do I know, I'm just a 35-year-old unemployed poet living in his mom's house, sounds like there's a Wes Anderson movie in there, somewhere too.
the pores of the dead
So I started reading the book House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski and I've got to tell you this book is freaking me out a little. All this book is about is a family who move in to a new house on Ash Tree Lane but there are mysteries surrounding the house. After the family's 2 children go missing this book gets real intense. Is it fiction or poetry or prose or is it its own brand of literature and chaos? I've never seen a book formatted in such a way that the form is as jarring as the story. I thought I had goosebumps but realized they were the pores of the dead. It's a very jolly book. I haven't even made a dent in this 650 page opus but I am trying. As I keep reading the more uncomfortable I get which seems to be the design of the book. I predict once I am done with this book I will need some psychiatric care and medication and a good Dr. Seuss novel. To quote a small line from the book, "This terror that hunts." When it comes to this book I can't help but feel like one of the hunted.
wilting flowers always dance in the moonlight to the beat of each other's poetry
So it's been a little rough lately for Great Weather as we had to say goodbye to our great friend and editor Brant Lyon. We'd like to thank everyone for their support during all this and your kindness. Brant will be missed. I've been reading his book lately "you are white inside" and there is so much more clarity in it for me since Brant's passing. It's almost like he knew this would be his final statement to the world in print. The more I read it the more it wrenches out my heart and sends it straight into my stomach and then the tears come. Well from this point on we shall continue our commitment to you as artists to keep this press going and helping you all to shine. Brant would have wanted that. If you take the time to listen to the trees, you can hear him. This was the poem that I wrote in his honor: wilting flowers always dance in the moonlight to the beat of each other’s poetry
So I remember this one night Bob Hart featured at Otto’s Shrunken Head
and he tore the roof off the place.
Anyone who was there had their poetic talents heightened
and learned how to write and perform poetry.
We were all in awe.
Bob Hart showed us the way and we walk it every day.
Then Bob told us he had written it just for that feature
and threw the poem away. It was only for one use
like life
like this body.
Brant recovered it from the trash.
He had discussed turning it into a little Bob Hart chapbook.
Either way Brant understood the beauty of true art
and he always wanted to share in that by sharing just that.
I loved taking word baths in Brant’s myriad of phrases that opened parameters
around doors that never understood the word, closed.
Something about his way of thinking will always remain close to the heart
by filling the veins
with ideas
turning them into poems
that matter.
So it looks like no Brant word baths in my immediate future
but there is this body
that I consume
only to be used once
like life
like wilting flowers dancing in the moonlight
like a Bob Hart poem.
thomas fucaloro