Atlanta Pride Festival:
Congressman John Lewis spoke on Saturday. Lewis gave a passionate speach that moved me to tears. He told festival participants that the GLBT community will always have his support while he’s in office. He stressed we can’t accept things because “they are.” We must demand and fight for change!
Deborah Gibson (formerly known as Debbie Gibson) performed on Saturday. I was on my way to enjoy VIP seating to take better pictures than the one above, but I lost my 2-way radio in route. I never made it to the VIP seating because I started the search for the radio, hoping I wouldn’t have to tell the powers that be that I lost it.
I didn’t find my radio, but I did find the leather people.
I wanted to buy this for Montgomery, but I gave up when I found out
it was filled with air instead of lube.
It is finally up: www.dustinbrookshire.com
Since ToasterMag is ending I’m going to do my own thing. I bought the domain www.limpwristmag.com. Here’s to hoping it is a success.
Poetry Submission Guidelines:
(1) Submit a MAX of five poems. We can’t handle anything bigger than five! All submissions should be a final version ready for publication—it is not the responsibility of Limp Wrist staff to correct your errors or revise submissions. Again, we will NOT make any changes to your submissions, not even if you ask nicely with sugar or Brad Pitt on top.
(2) All submissions may be sent in the body of an email, via snail mail, telegraph, or carrier pigeon. At Limp Wrist, we view attachments like unprotected sex; since we prefer not to catch anything,so we won’t open attachments. Email submissions should be sent to firstname.lastname@example.org. Snail mail submissions should be sent to:
Limp Wrist Magazine
Attn: Poetry Editor
PO Box 47891,
Atlanta, GA 30362.
OK. We were joking about sending submissions via telegraph and carrier pigeon. It seemed funny; indulge us and laugh at our humor.
(3) All submissions must include two forms of contact information.
(4) Please include the following statement (and mean it!) with your submissions: “The poems submitted are my own original work and have not been previously published.”
(5) If your work is chosen for publication, you give Limp Wrist the right to republish the work at a later date, whether it be online or in print.
(6) Please note, if your work is selected for publication (and even if it isn’t) you will receive a response from Limp Wrist. We strive to reply to all submissions within one month; please note the max response time is two months. If you send a follow-up message before two months, we’ll reply via our deluxe carrier pigeon!
Today, while I was mulling over the rejection from KO, it hit me that I never posted the news about the Kew West Literary Seminar. I received a scholarship that will enable me to attend the 26th Annual Seminar: NEW VOICES- Where are We Going? Where Have Been?, participate in a workshop lead by Dara Wier, and stay at Eden House (home of the seminar & pictures to the right). I’m thrilled to be able to attend the seminar and have the chance to experience Key West for the first time.
The Bad News:
Thanks for submitting. Unfortunately, the poems you sent aren’t quite right for Knockout. I did like the last five lines of “Gay Poetry” quite a lot. I wish you the best of luck in placing the poems elsewhere. You’re more than welcome to send more poems for consideration.
Oh well. Chin up. Pen up. Keep on.
The Good News:
Yesterday, I received a new phone– thanks mom and dad. I’m the proud owner of a Samsung Blackjack. A few months ago I accidentally destroyed my phone, and I’ve been using a cheap to-go phone. Now, I have the luxury of unlimited internet access and 1500 text messages. Spiffy.
The last issue of ToasterMag will be updated in a few weeks. I’m still disappointed that it is coming to an end, but it’s like Jessica Tandy’s character in FRIED GREEN TOMATOES says, “God doesn’t close a door without opening a window.”
If you haven’t already, take a few minutes to read the work of Beth Gylys and Theresa Davis; both are featured in the Freehand Department in Volume 2, Issue 5. Reading their poems is time well spent!
I am excited to announce that the last issue will contain work by Kate Evans, Jessica Hand, Montgomery Maxton, Megan Volpert, and of course, yours truly. The last issue is going to be fierce from the poetry stand point.
you dump the old beef stew down the toilet
and flush it thinking, good, watching
gravy splatter on the shiny white tiles.
Where the chicken spread-eagled on the butcher block
could be anyone and you don’t even bother to say
thanks for your life, chicken, or regret the way
the little legs remind you of just that.
Where the bay leaves aren’t eased in but thrown
voila into sizzling olive oil which
burns the poulet nicely along with the onions
alerting the fire alarm and still you think,
good, let the landlord worry I’ll burn this bitch down.
It’s the kind of cooking that gives your family
agita, big Italian-style pain, even if it’s only
fricasee the way your Nana used to make it.
She was so pissed she painted her kitchen ceiling red!
Remember the Irish soda-break chicken and all those
green veggies in heavy cream your poor mother
yelled so loud about, oh, the calories! Furious
cooking, the kind where hacking the pollo
to bits with no names, you look up to see the windows
steamed like a hothouse. In fact, it’s so hot
you strip to bare skin and now you’re cooking mad
and naked in just that bartender’s smock with the screw
you’d like to stick into some big cork right now.
Cooking everyone can smell from the street. What
the fuck, they say, and hurry home to safe food, yours
a rank hint of ablution and sacrifice, although
no one recognizes the danger. I used to wonder
about the Portuguese woman on the first floor,
what that odor was that drifted up on Saturdays
into my own savory kitchen. How it permeated
Sunday and Monday as well, all that lethal food left
to boil on her big stove from the old country.
Now I know she was just furious cooking, that aroma was
no recipe you’d find in any country, a cross between
organs and feathers and spinal fluid and two eyes,
not to mention the last song in that chicken’s throat
before it kicked the bucket in the snow in the prime
of life when all of it ever wanted you could etch on a dime
and spin blithely into a crack in the kitchen table.
~ Maureen Seaton
from FURIOUS COOKING, University of Iowa Press