so by now, i should probably explain what i have been doing. with my last entry, i just completed posting the end to my third collection of poetry. the poems are all on here in reverse order i guess, but you can still check them out. perhaps one day, i’ll finally feel the poems and collections truly finished to publish them in book format. the three collections are titled: poetic ethnography, poetic syncretism, and notions: on politics, loss, love, and self. someone asked why i had posted a bunch of old poems, well mostly to get them out there, so theywouldn’t just wither and rot on my computer’s hardware, but i also simply because i can. the internet makes it that easy.
up next, i will be posting stories i’ve written since college usually around the same character or a very similar character, which i usually call, carlos castillo. sometimes the stories make sense as a continuation of each other, butsometimes the character is new and disjointed in ways i’ve never been able to reconcile. the character was developed in my creating writing courses, but grew out of my experiences afterwards.
i started working on the second person voice after returning from living and working abroad. i was substitute teaching, and had a lot of time, usually while everyone else was working. the character remained dark, and perhaps sometimes too dark, but that’s kind of how i like it. i probably wouldn’t write some of these stories today as i’m in a very different place in my life now. there’s a reason why my old blog was titled of the lonely lost dark empty.
carlos castillo has mostly been retired as a character in my stories, but perhaps, i’ll bring him back and continue to write stories with him as a character. i still can’t promise some of the new stories won’t be as dark.
spoiler alert: the author kills off our hero in the first act.
also throughout the collection of stories, i’ll be sprinkling poems, articles, photos, and songs, which may or may not have anything to do with the collection of stories and carlos castillo.
e.e. cummings has always been quite influential in my writing as were Joel Rose, author of Kill the Poor and Kill Kill Faster Faster; Rick Moody, author of Garden State and The Ice Storm; and Chuck Palahniuk, author of Fight Club and Survivor.
hope you all continue for the ride.
yours truly,
po’ E.T.
UP!::urban po'E.Tree(s) 
Powerful shit. Good stuff.
LikeLike
Your writing is wonderful. I look forward to it… I read the first act so this comment is kind of one digital step out of place, but it was great. I want to say more, but I shouldn’t put any spoilers here, should I… I’ll just say I found it to be a great weaving tendril through the contents of our shared pool of human thought…
Michael
LikeLike
It seems we’re on a similar track. The putting our stuff out there, I mean. Only you are light years ahead. I have retired and am working through the attic of my collections. You, on the other hand, have your whole life ahead of you and the education and artistry to make a difference in this world. Keep doing what you’re doing.
LikeLike
Thank you so much, your comment(s) mean a lot.
LikeLike
Canary Row Hoe Ho
There’s a hippy girl in my class who wears Mao’s cap, dates
a long-haired boy and wrote a kick-ass environmental piece.
You’d like to poke through every long-leafed elephant-ear on
campus, stroking nature, this beautiful sub-plot, with hoe, adze,
al or clipper: chopping down in order to raise back up, involved
with earth as is intended. Some say a new time has come, White
Buffalo and all. Consequences outnumber rewards at a twenty to
one clip, as Mongolians suffer from bad air and China’s expanding
desert, even though they’ve done their part to live in a preservationist
way. But global means brutal these days: global trade = wage slave,
global warming = no food, global war = death for the multitudes,
profit for the stinking rich few. Love abounds in campus towns,
while “repo-men” reap millions, and songbirds still find seeds around
as legs spread out the leaves. Our new man is African, and that’s
so fine with me, and babies laugh, and mothers smile, here in the
land of the free. So what that free means money, instead of love
and food. When no one has a dime to spare, friendship will lift
our mood. Or will there be the occasional hijacked truck or plane?
Who cares as long as we can load up the kids, drive south to live
in a genuine, warm, Steinbeck-decorated pipe that used to be a drain.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Awesome piece, thanks for sharing this on here.
LikeLike