Aji readers, it is my pleasure to introduce you to  Ty’Sean Judd, poet, educator, and agent for positive change through his platform Solid Initiative at solidinitiative.org.
  
We are proud to be publishing a feature interview of Judd in our fall 2021 issue, which should come out in early November.  You will learn more about him, his writing, and Solid Initiative then. 

On June 8th, Ty lost his cousin Najee to the senseless violence that seems to be gripping our nation at the current moment.  Najee was only twenty years old, and was much loved by family and friends, who are grieving their terrible and unexpected loss.  

 This posting is meant as a tribute to Najee, to his talent, to his energy, to his life, and to everything he was and might have become.  He will not be forgotten.   

The poem and foreword were written by Ty’Sean Judd; the audio file is of Judd reading one of his poems. I hope you will take a few moments to read Judd’s poem and foreword and to listen to his poem.  
 
Let me say here, it has been a true pleasure and an honor to work with Ty this year.  I have so much faith in his talent, in his integrity, and in his efforts to support disenfranchised kids in his community.  I have learned so much from my collaboration with him.  My life has been enriched.  I only wish I could have met his cousin, too.   


If Freedom Was Free 
by Ty’Sean Judd

Power wouldn’t be abused 
or misconstrued as holiness and 
we wouldn’t allow ourselves  
to be controlled by the more 
than fortunate.  
 
It’s torture for a lion 
watching measly scraps 
of food dangle from the 
hands of a man he’s more 
dangerous than, 
while wishing to hunt. 
Just to limit his tenacity, 
the zookeeper savagely 
files down the sharpness 
of his teeth in order to 
further ensure the cat is 
beneath, subordinate. 
 
In reality the lion’s coordinates 
lock him into inferiority. 
If freedom was free, 
the 1 percent’s superiority 
wouldn’t be locked in 
wealth hoarding. 
 
Truly, if Freedom 
was free, there would be 
no limits and everything 
wouldn’t come with a fee. 
 
I’ve observed freedom. 
Life’s matrix helped me see 
it’s something we won’t 
ever achieve unless we 
create more, while having 
patience with the ones 
who have not yet 
awakened.   

Foreword from Golden Handcuffs 
 
We are all incarcerated by vices and they are all connected. 
 
How can we help our brothers and sisters in oppression while suppressing 
our own effectiveness? 
 
There is no respect for the neglectful, seeing 
As the blind make for the best targets. 
It’s expected of us to never break free. 
 
As we move along the sea of confinement 
We must decide between being caged 
Fools, rebels, or revolutionaries 
While confiding in one another, 
 
Which is the hardest.   
 
Listen to the audio recording of Ty reading his poem “Unarmed.” 

Erin O’Neill Armendarez (EOA): Please share a bit of background information about yourself. 
Anthony Seidman (AS): With pleasure. I was born in Los Angeles in 1973 to a 16-year-old biological mother of Polish Catholic background and a biological father, slightly older, who was of Irish background on his mother’s side but whose father was full-blooded Ute. (These are the bare facts, among a few others, I gleaned from the adoption papers that my father showed me when I was an adolescent.) I was adopted and raised in the San Fernando Valley by a New York-born Jewish Ashkenazi father and a mother whose family hailed from Morocco, all Sephardic Jews… a weird type of cultural stew, with British passports, as my grandfather was born in Gibraltar, and yet with roots in Cuenca, Spain. Hence, my maternal last-name, Conquy, a francophone reinvention of the original place. I was informed that I was adopted early on—a healthy choice on the part of my parents—and I believe that that helped nourish my sense of reaching out to different languages and, thereby, different cultures, as I grew up hearing French, Ladino, English, and Yiddish as a boy, and then went on to become a Bar Mitzvah and read or pronounce Hebrew. As my family was middle class, there were no aspirations to enroll me in prep schools. I am a product of the Los Angeles Unified School District, and during the 1980s and early ’90s, the campuses were lively dens of heteroglossia. I remember being in 4th grade and a friend gifting me a crisp bill of 5 Córdobas while we waited in the cafeteria line for square slices of Wednesday pizza; I now realize that he was a refugee from civil war in Nicaragua. In my classrooms, the majority of the students were of color, and if they were white, that may have meant Armenian and Iranian, or they were Jewish, and many of those Jewish students were Levantine, with families originally from Iraq, Syria, etc. That was my linguistic and cultural reality. How could one not end up being a translator in such a mix? And who knows how the dice tumble and settle….Many of my high school friends were second-generation Mexican, Central American, or South American. I was eating meals at friends’ homes where the parents would simply address me in Spanish. (And with these friends, I was sharing poems, and we were reading not only Pound, Whitman, Williams, Eliot, and Shelley, but also García Lorca, Nicolás Guillén, and Paz.) Some particularly fond memories involve a friend’s father and mother suggesting I be the chambelán for their daughter’s quinceañera. There I was, giving confession in broken Spanish, taking communion, and dancing the waltz, followed by a beautiful party in the patio of bungalows that once dotted the hills outside downtown, now all razed in the cause of gentrification. Upon graduating high school, I attended Syracuse University, from which I graduated with a BA in Spanish and English. I was lucky enough to take classes from and experience a friendship with Pedro Cuperman, an Argentine-Jewish professor of Poetics and Semiotics, and also to have as a roommate a Dominican by the name of Amaury Terrero, proudly from Las Matas de Farfán. And that taught me how vast the Latin American experience is…. the differences between Mexican culture, Argentine culture, the Afro-Caribbean realities. From there, I went on to do an MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Texas at El Paso. It was a bilingual program, in the desert, on the border. I opted to live on the Mexican side of the border.

EOA: How did you become interested in translating poetry from Spanish into English?
AS: By necessity. When I found myself living in Ciudad Juárez during the latter half of the 1990s, I wished to read the best of contemporary Mexican poetry. I had an intuitive sense that Paz’s style and tone were very much of the past, and that there was a true struggle by poets, especially from the northern border regions, to capture a different image of their country in their verse. 

EOA: How do you discover the poets whose works you wish to translate?
AS: I like visiting thrift shops. You hold up a coffee cup and say to yourself, this meant a lot to someone. As did that complete set of plates. That piano, well, someone may have gracefully played Satie on it, or plodded though the finger exercises that Bach composed for his daughter. Maybe some kid pounded out the opening bars to Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man.” The stacks at universities and great public libraries are somewhat akin to that… you discover voices from the past in footnotes, asides, letters, allusions that no longer click with many contemporary readers. Yet these voices are gasping to be resuscitated. The role of the translator is like that of the archeologist who finds hidden statues, inscriptions. I have found—and translated—so many wonderful poets from anthologies considered outdated. The coteries change, the general taste, but often some gold gets swept away with the dross. I have some very specific poets and poems in mind… It was a pleasure to do a full volume by Salvador Novo (Mexico, 1904-1974) titled Confetti-Ash, co-translated with David Shook, for The Bitter Oleander Press in 2015. Although not exactly forgotten in his country, Novo is rarely included in contemporary anthologies of Latin American poetry, especially bilingual ones for English readers. It’s criminal, as far as I’m concerned. His poetry brims with a sense of play, irony, candid homoeroticism, and a tone more like that of the US poets of his time than the highly refined sonnets of a Jorge Cuesta, or the elegance in the earliest poems by José Gorostiza. I happened to discover him in a water-damaged volume published by Mexico’s Secretary of Education, a rather unattractive edition from the 1980s. I picked up the volume from a street-vendor in Juárez who was quite happy to get a 10 Peso coin and rid himself of the book. 

EOA: How and when did you meet Alejandro Meter? How do his photographs and your translations work together?
AS: Great question… But to be clear, we don’t exactly collaborate—we work in the same spheres. Alejandro is a professor of Latin American literature at the University of San Diego, as well as an immensely talented photographer. For the past decade, he has dedicated his work to documenting the writers who write on both sides of the border and in close proximity to (now) Trump’s wall. It has been a delight and an honor to see that in various publications my translations of poets and narrators also showcase his photos. Alejandro has tapped into the energy of these border-region creators, and he is a regular on the scene at festivals and readings. His project is immense, and it highlights writers that are often overlooked by the “establishment” in Mexico City. Some Mexicans intellectuals still believe that the official or major culture comes from the capital, and they dismiss everything else as provincial. The far-flung cities on the border fare the worst. The Mexican writer and politician José Vasconcelos even claimed that culture in Mexico ceases where the inhabitants grill meat. (And indeed, carne asada is very much a northern thing in Mexico.) But thanks to the efforts of those like Alejandro Meter,and of such poets as Jorge Ortega—and, I hope, to some of my efforts—there is a new vision of the literature from the border. 

EOA: How do you manage the difficulty of translating different dialects of Spanish? Have you worked with dialects for which there are no complete dictionaries?
AS: Although I have recently translated Dominican and Peruvian poetry, and I am well familiar with Mexican poetry from Sor Juana to Díaz Mirón to the Contemporáneos to the poets of the ’80s, like Alberto Blanco, and younger poets, I have felt that I can best render into English the poetry from the northern border of Mexico. The reasons for this are simple…. Roughly from 1995 to 1999, and with extensive stays during the early 2000s, I lived in Ciudad Juárez. Many of those from the United States don’t grasp how multicultural Mexico is, and how the south differs from the nation’s capital, which also differs from other parts in the center, and how the desert’s northern expanse is vastly different. Different as far as attitude, social interaction, language, and manners of addressing others… even dress, gastronomy, not to mention music, or what one drinks at parties. By living in Juárez, becoming a father while living there, working at the city’s main public university, paying bills, going to the bank, etc., I was immersed in the border region’s Spanish… and although there are some differences between the Spanish spoken in Tijuana, Mexicali, and Cd. Juárez, the differences are minor. Actually, the bickering that sometimes exists between citizens from Tijuana and Mexicali strikes this individual as a textbook case of Freud’s “narcissism of minor differences.” Prior to a literary festival in Cd. Juárez to which my wife—the noir fiction author, Nylsa Martínez—and I had been invited, she had never visited that border city. After a day or two, she surmised that it was like Mexicali… yet not as hellishly hot. I heard a nearly identical comment from the great Juárez writer Willivaldo Delgadillo when I asked him for his opinions of Mexicali. Tone is so important when it comes to translation... tone and register, and discerning from which social point-of-view the turn of phrase, the judgment, the gaze surfaces. I must admit to feeling lost, sometimes, in the deep south of Mexico when it comes to irony, understatement, or the endless “albures,” all of which are far more easy for me to decipher up north. Thus, when I read a poet like Roberto Castillo Udiarte, and his lines: “Damas y caballeros/ welcome tu Tijuana,/ el lugar más mítico del mundo,/ onde las lenguas se aman y se unen/ en el aló, el oquei, el babai y el verbo tu bi.” Well, I easily pour that into: “Ladies and Gentlemen,/ bienvenidos a Tijuana/ the most mythical place on the face of earth,/ where two tongues make-out and meld,/ and the local speak in Hel-oh, oh-kaye, and the verb tu bi.” It’s a Spanish, Caló, and general zest in which I was immersed on the border. That being said, when I translated J.M. Servin’s new-journalism-like account of his time living in the States, For Love of the Dollar: A Portrait of the Artist as an Undocumented Immigrant, for Unnamed Press, I also tapped into the energy he derived from his love of The Ramones, James Brown, the Beats, and Bukowski, and I remembered that landscape he conveys—New York right before it underwent “deep cleansing”—from my visits to my grandfather during the early ’80s. And Servín is very much a Chilango, a proud lifelong resident of Mexico City. We got along swimmingly when we met for our presentation of the book in Los Angeles. The first words he said to me were, in Spanish, “But why do you speak like you’re from the north of Mexico?” That made me laugh heartily. 
EOA: Some claim poetry is too difficult to translate because idioms and symbols are so culturally specific. How do you handle these challenges?
AS: I wouldn’t have ever translated if I believed that. There is always some bridge, some connection. Poetry and narration are so embedded in the human DNA, it’s so natural. We tend to overlook that some of the canonical poems of the 20th century in English are translations… just think of Pound’s Cathay or his version of “The Seafarer.” Castiglione’s The Book of the Courtier is just as much Castiglione’s creation as it became Thomas Hoby’s, whose translation is considered a classic of English literature. I get dizzy when thinking of the centuries of translations, new versions poured into different tongues, from the languages of India, from Arabic, which gave us the Thousand and One Nights. Hardly anyone seems to pause when quoting from the Old Testament or the New. Interesting to note that our most sacred texts are translations, and these versions have their unique twists and takes. “Vanity of vanities” is uttered with great feeling and meaning, when the original Hebrew is more like “vapor of vapor.” But those idiosyncratic or sometimes flat-out wrong choices don’t perturb me. We’re dealing with language, sound, basically air. Things are going to get lost, and then again recaptured, and perhaps—dare I say it?—transmogrified into something equally luminescent. Still, clearly, one hopes to be able to read Dante, Camões, the Popol Vuh in the original. Alfonso Reyes—that most cultured and wise essayist and poet—proposed a simple triad when it comes to the challenges of translation: “A. If it’s possible, read the texts in their original language. B. Read translations that respect the distance although they may sacrifice the beauty. C. Read translations that help us better grasp the original, even if they may contain certain errors.” I believe that option C will end up producing more poetry and literature in the translated version. Ever wonder why The Cantos open with a translation of a translation? 

EOA: What do you love most about your work as a translator?
AS: García Márquez quipped that he wrote (and published!) so his friends would love him more. I think that was an honest and fine statement to make. I have benefited in a very human way—making contact, knowing other realities—from translation. I have made friends, and I have gained from their visions and realities. Recently, some of my most interesting conversations have been with Pergentino José, a Zapotec writer who employs his nation’s language from the Sierra, not the Isthmus, and I have been stunned, enraptured when he discusses the intricacies of his mother tongue, its syntax, idiomatic expressions, etc. (To be clear, I have not translated Pergentino, yet we met among our circle of poets and translators.) An example, if I remember correctly, the word for “innocent” in his variant of the Zapotec language means literally “to be flower and dew.” For a legal or moralistic concept, we get a tangible image… which is what metaphor should always be. 

EOA: What is most difficult about your work as a translator?
AS: You’re working with very slippery material. But I nodded in approval when I read how the great 20th-century Hebrew poet David Avidan dismissed the Frostian mantra that poetry is what gets lost in translation. (Avidan translated many of his own poems into English.) Avidan insisted “poetry is whatever is gained while moving from one language to another, and what’s lost in translation should better have been disposed of in the original.” As I consider myself quite functional in Spanish and French, and read in those languages, socialize in them, ponder poetry in them, I find that comment by Avidan to be comforting, a true guide. So. The difficulty is there, but it’s also not a terminal roadblock. A new bifurcation opens. I have always been indifferent to the translation of “moreno / morena” as simply dark or dark-skinned. Looking though old books on my shelves the other day I (re)discovered Rexroth’s Twenty Spanish Poems of Longing and Exile, and relived the jolt I had experienced when I was sixteen—having just bought the book at the now defunct Dutton’s in North Hollywood—and read his version of “Niña morena y ágil” by Neruda. (I had already read Merwin’s version.) And it was simply that employment of the adjective of “tawny” that made my skull split open with delight. Not exactly “morena”… not this, nor that… but a “gain” for the poem in English. 

EOA: Why is it important to provide the poems and images of authors who write in Spanish to Americans and to other audiences globally who read and speak primarily in English?
AS: My answer to this is very simple. We lose so much by not reading poetry and literature in other languages. We lose a lot, as well, by not regarding the poets’ faces, our shared humanity. How many times have I had wonderful evenings discussing Whitman, William Carlos Williams, Corso, Rich, with poets from Latin American countries who have experienced the dagger and poison of American imperialism? It’s about touching the real nerve, bone, and marrow of other cultures and countries… and bypassing the political slogans, the rapacious leaders and con artists.
EOA: Are there additional poets you’d like to work with in the future? What is it about their poetry that intrigues you?
AS: Oh, yes! Without a doubt. Two come to mind. After meeting David Huerta at a poetry festival in Tijuana where we both participated, I mentioned that we had in common a dear friend and a superb poet-translator: David Shook. I reminded him of our desire to translate his father Efrain’s legendary verse, specifically the volume Los Hombres del Alba (1944), which injected an urban landscape into Mexican poetry, a sense of class divisions, the mire of daily life, the tender skeletons of poets, the lack of birds, and the poet’s voice drenched in the saliva of oblivion, like a fish amid a shipwreck’s waters. Well, we received his blessings. We hope to carry over his father’s poetry into a worthy English version. And soon. 

The other poet who comes to mind (among many now rushing up in my memory) is the Peruvian Jorge Pimentel (1944). Rather late in his career, he published a collection entitled Tromba de Agosto (1992), a violent and righteous whirlwind howl from the poor and marginalized in his country, in a vigorous and idiosyncratic Spanish that reminds one of Vallejo in Trilce. 

Then there are the usual, canonical subjects whose poems in English version can always be furthered honed. Two examples: José Gorostiza is considered by Mexicans to be one of their greatest poets, especially for his long meditation, in Baroque register, Muerte sin fin. His earliest volume of verse was entitled Canciones para cantar en las barcas, and I have yet to find a translation of the lovely lyric “Quién me compra una naranja” that reflects the tone and meaning of the title: the speaker is not saying, “Who will buy me an orange?” but, “Who will buy an orange from me?” I would love to translate that poem’s lilting quatrains.
 
A final case: perhaps the most famous poem by Vallejo, ”Los heraldos negros.” The opening verses exclaim: “!Hay golpes en la vida… yo no sé!” English versions vary little from this: “There are some blows in life… I don’t know!” Yet for the Spanish speaker, it’s clear that the exclamation “Yo no sé!” should not be conveyed in such a literal manner. 

EOA: What advice would you give to future translators? 
AS: Read. Research. Collaborate. Do the saturation-job… read all you can of a certain poet whose work is deeply important to you. All you can about that poet as well… as in reviews, essays, letters to and from, even stiff, peer-reviewed academic studies. Know that you’re not alone. And some of the kindest and most helpful folks I know have been fellow poet-translators… among them Boris Dralyuk, who translates from Russian, Kent Johnson who translates from Spanish, Martín Camps for his translation of the Brazilian masterpiece Parque Industrial: Novela Proletaria by Patrícia Galvão, David Shook, who translates from Spanish, Nahuatl, and Zoque, Michael Casper, who works with Yiddish, Gaspar Orozco who translates from Chinese poetry, Roberto Castillo Udiarte who was the first to translate Bukowski, Lamantia, Robert Jones, and Bill Knott into Spanish, Blandine Longres, who translates into French from English… so many! I ache that I will remember others, but too late! And know that we always need new translations. Borges felt that he hadn’t suffered too much from not learning Ancient Greek—instead of resorting to only one Homer, he had Chapman’s and Pope’s. And now we have Lattimore’s, Fitzgerald’s, Wilson’s… It’s a beautiful process, awe-inspiring, as if we were watching tectonic plates shifting at a heightened velocity, with mountains rising in months rather than over eons. 

-by Erin O'Neill Armendarez

When Michael McNamara approached Aji press with a draft of Loose Canon, our conversations on prosody deepened. His rare ear and deep intuition allow Mike to express the “objective correlative” in ways many with MFA’s from elite institutions will never achieve. He has unique gifts, and his faith in those gifts, his honesty, his generosity of spirit, and his exceptional intelligence are a boon to the world of poetry.

I advised Mike to cull Loose Canon and to consider more carefully the accessibility of some of his poems. Sometimes, he sacrifices sense for sound play. Sometimes, he gives in to cliché. But McNamara is not the first poet to shun the rigorous scrutiny of academy-trained poets. At worst, some of his poems may seem like rants (and he probably intended them to read that way). At best, his lyric poems are as good as any I’ve read today.

Maybe I was wrong to take my hatchet to Mike’s lines. In retrospect, I admit I was. He seems to find the inscape of his own poems, the energy, the length of line, just the right words in the right order, as well as anyone else. I’d argue he could cull and edit more carefully, as some words and lines don’t keep the tension or mood of some poems as well as others.

With a title like Loose Canon, McNamara trusts we’ll accept his unwillingness to explicate and analyze as so many of us have learned in our writing practices. He is bubbling over with experience, image, expression; he hopes to be taken seriously as a poet. He wants to be read. I recommend you give him a try and join the conversation: which of his poems ring true to you, and why? Can you recognize the logic of his syntax, his line breaks, the sound play of his poems? Which of his poems do you find most compelling, and why?

Mike, you don’t have to rent a tuxedo to get into the places where the serious writers offer their work for consideration. Kerouac didn’t. Whitman didn’t. Keep singing your songs in the darkness out on the edge of that ocean off the coast of Wales. Keep looking up at the stars. I will always consider myself fortunate to read anything you write.

Here are some of McNamara’s poems, and a link below to where you might purchase Loose Canon.

ONE THING
Old tree, old tree,
what can you tell me?
Have you relations in Montmartre
who shelter the broad and busy boulevards?
There is a some time
in everyone’s life,
maybe just for one moment,
a some time to look beautiful.
In lawlessness.
In rawness.
There is only ever really one thing
that is important. One thing.
It’s late. Restore me.
What is it?

DEAR EDITOR
There are many deaths on our way to dying,
while in our words we live.
Empty lines of famished words
to fill a hungry written world.
I come to you as a stranger
but you may refuse to hear me
because of the colour of my eye,
the woman at my side,
the coarseness of my tongue,
or what is current to deride.
I’ve made no secret
of the secrets I cannot share;
I stand before the mirror
and see no tabernacle there.
But, unlike you, perhaps,
I walk around the borderland
or sleep on the immigrant’s settee,
drink coffee with the ex-con
but still cry out to the poets of death, decadence
and beauty: Celan, Rimbaud, Whitman.
I pause on the towpath,
polishing shoes on the back of trouser legs
endeavouring not to thrive but to survive,
to look without tears upon things we cannot bear to see;
to bathe in the luminant light of St. Ives
and remember fields of children’s voices,
frisson, fires on the beach;
everything we have ever known or seen.
Dives where X marks the window,
some streaked white powder traces
where a fat man plays the bass;
members only. No meth heads at the boating club.
Comprende?
Positive discrimination: it’s the uncredited star
of all the soaps but there’s always a twist at the end.
So idealists will daub esoteric signs up on the wall,
join The Moonies, The Masons, The Rosicrucians,
while realists who win awards soak their liver in champagne
and losers with White Lightning.
Creators all. Artists. It’s your call - but remember;
in reality, Dear Editor, it is you, not I,
who is the stranger.

LAME GODS THAT HAUNT THE HALFLIGHT
Lame gods that haunt the halflight,
the king's thorn, the winter's cross,
no breath shrouds the moonlight
the letters cast in stone.
Oh, there's a place beyond the needing
where the colours run as one.
Lost gods stir in the twilight,
seven rays, the rosy cross,
sleep counted by dark midnights
in cold beds long alone.
Oh, there's a place beyond believing
where the colours run as one.

SHORT SHRIFT
The voiceless dead come to greet us
in softened shoes that fold like kidskin,
faces sculpted by time’s microbic caresses
to a blind and mirthless grin.
‘Ah’ they don’t say; ‘Oh’ they don’t cry,
deaf and blind to hear or see those things
like the summer’s swallow wings
that flock and flutter through a cloudless sky.
For these the crafted poem holds no sense
and the promises of lovers of no consequence.
Gone the desire for acquisition,
gone the option to forgive;
so live for this moment you who can:
live.

Note: “Short Shrift” was originally published in International Times.
“Lame Gods That Haunt the Halflight” was originally published in The Dawntreader.

Click to Purchase through Book Depository

by Erin O'Neill Armendarez

​​After the summer of covid-19 and social upheaval, you might be wondering: Can we all just get along? The obvious answer seems to be no, and the poetry books of Mitchell Grabois and Serafina Bersonsage point to some of the reasons why.  It’s clear that neither is interested in relentless niceness, the ubiquitous standard of good taste that often smothers honest conversation.  Instead, Grabois and Bersonsage offer gloves-off honesty as they scrape the veneer from a status quo that punishes those who live outside implied conventions.  According to the experts, if you scrape correctly, veneer should come off in one nice piece.  If that doesn’t work—and apparently it sometimes doesn’t--it’s okay to use a heat gun, a hammer, just go with your gut.  Get it gone.  Veneer is always covering something.  If you really want to get it out of the way to discover what’s underneath, you might have to dispense with plan A and go with whatever works.   And when Plan A falls apart, the frustration, ineptitude and downright savagery that can emerge can be, what else can I say, funny in a deeply disturbing way, and these two are not apologizing.  Not sorry.  If you’re a bit uncomfortable with their narrators’ predicaments, it’s all on you.

​Virtually all of the poems in Mitchell Grabois’ The Arrest of Mr. Kissy Face were previously published in small magazines.  Robin Ouzman Hislop, editor of Poetry Life & Times, characterized Grabois’ poems as “lucidly readable. . . delivered in a paced, snappy, even raunchy style, a mix of compassion with often hilarious black humor.”  To fully appreciate Grabois, one must tear off a layer or two of political correctness.  The author’s main quibble appears to be with the way we cling to our assumptions on how things should be all the while ignoring the obvious facts of how things are.  Grabois playfully and sometimes despairingly forces readers to contemplate the things we’d rather not think about: Are wind farms an energy solution, or just another serious threat to avian survival?  Are any of us actually sane, or “good”? Most of Grabois’ narrators could use some therapy.  One has an infatuation with female dentists, while another, a farmer, brings pesticides in his suitcase for his stay in the “nuthouse.” Still another describes Latilda, a cult member obsessed with wafting the smoke of her father’s cremated remains toward awaiting archangels.  If you cannot take a joke, The Arrest of Mr. Kissy Face is not for you.  But if you’d rather laugh than cry, you’ll definitely come away from this book with less neurosis and more empathy for the anything-but-ordinary people searching for God, love, whatever, in this book. The harder they try, the more ridiculous they seem.  Is this us?  Read the book.  Watch the news.  You decide. 

Interview of Mitchell Grabois

Erin O'Neill Amrnedarez (EOA): Please share some background information with our readers.
Mitchell Grabois (MG): The term “background” is limitless. Increasingly, I think of myself in terms of the 14-billion-year history of the Universe. When I walk around the lake and witness the sunrise filtering through the trees, when I work in my garden, when I help raise my young granddaughters and see them unfold, almost as if in time-lapse photography, I am often filled with appreciation and awe for the unimaginable timeline and the processes of physical development that led to the world existing exactly as it is, with the mountains and seas and all the plants and animals, and that humans evolved to be capable of appreciating every bit of it. Maybe there’s nothing more exalted in my experience than watching leaves being illuminated by the sun, or following the rotation of the blooms in my garden, daffodils to irises to day lilies and spirea, and on. But I also feel exhilarated when I look at the imperfect line of Quikrete Grey Concrete Crack Filler I laid down this week to keep water from percolating down through the walkway directly in front of my house and unsettling the foundation. All that means more to me than literature, written by someone else or by myself. It is unmediated experience, requiring consciousness but not requiring mind or language.

To use a baseball term, I know that this an elaborate wind-up for the discussion of poetry and being a poet, but in a literary world filled with clamoring narcissists, perhaps we could use a little more of this sort of reflection.
Moving much closer to the present, my people were Jews, which means that my history includes a couple thousand years of persecution. My paternal grandmother was born in Barr, Russia, the site of the first pogrom (anti-Jewish riot). My grandfather was born in Kishenev, Moldova, the site of the largest pogrom in Europe up to that time (1903). His father, my great-grandfather Saul, was a farmer whose land had been taken by Russian decree in 1891. He moved to Kishenev and became a wagon maker. Luckily, his partner was a Christian, who hid Saul and his family in his cellar during the pogrom. The brutality of that event made news around the world, and there was much condemnation of it in many countries, including the U.S.

In response to that condemnation, the African-American community protested that African-Americans had been, and were still being, subjected to worse injustices. It was eighteen years later that the infamous Greenwood Massacre, a violent anti-Black riot that destroyed the “Black Wall Street,” took place in Tulsa, Oklahoma, an event that has received increased attention in the wake of the public execution of George Floyd. As I observed in one of my flash fictions, “Doberman Empire” (written some years ago): The ghosts of the brutal past animate the present as the ghosts of our brutal present animate what-comes-next. 

Fortunately, the eddies of European persecution caused my grandparents to flee to the U.S. in advance of the Holocaust. Of my grandfather’s siblings, only one of eight survived. Even for those who did not directly experience it, the Holocaust continues to influence modern Jews (as slavery and ongoing racism influence modern African-Americans), in ways both subterranean and closer to the surface. It is an influence on my poetry, even when it is nowhere in sight.

EOA: How and when did you discover your interest in poetry?

MG: I started working on my elementary school magazine when I was in the fourth grade. By the time I was thirteen, I considered myself a serious poet. I’m now 67, so I’ve been involved in this enterprise for over half a century. As I recall, even despite Wallace Stevens being an insurance executive and William Carlos Williams being a physician, the prevailing models for poets (and writers in general) in my youth were quite different than what they are today—the poet was a sort of Thoreauvian character—a loner finding his own way. That was consistent with my personality— brooding and introverted. 

EOA: Which poets, contemporary or classic, do you most appreciate and why? 

MG: I’ve actually read far more fiction than I have poetry, and I’ve written nine novels. The first was in my mid-twenties. I acquired agency representation but the agent failed to get me a contract with a publishing company. The comments of the editors to whom she submitted all ran along the same lines: too literary, too strange, too feminist. In my fifties, I wrote six novels, and also got an agent (for five of them) but, though he was able to get contracts for some of his clients, he failed to get one for me. He held the bizarre belief that his inability to get me a publisher was proof of how good my work was.
I’m still trying to get an agent for my last novel. I’ve recently reorganized, retitled and repackaged it, so I remain hopeful. However, my relationship to publishing my novels is probably unlike that of most writers. I feel like an old Brooklyn shopkeeper with shelves full of dusty inventory that he’d like to unload.

But to answer the question: some poets I’ve appreciated have included John Berryman, Wallace Stevens, James Wright, William Carlos Williams, Diane di Prima, Gary Snyder and other beats, Charles Bukowski (whose poetry I find more exemplary than his prose), Wendell Berry, Mary Oliver, Tony Hoagland and Zen Master Ryokan, “the great fool.”  

EOA: How has your life experience shaped your writing?  Is there a strong correlation, or do you prefer to write from observation or imagination?

MG: Many people have had far more difficult lives than mine. However, without going into detail, my childhood was psychologically challenging. In fact, at age 17, approaching high school graduation, I felt dead. I wasn’t suicidal—I felt that I was already, literally dead. It was… disconcerting. It took me many years to surmount that. I believe that the impetus for many poets to write is to try to make sense of emotional realities that they experience that cannot easily be understood and explained. That was certainly true for me. Over the years, as we all do, I developed my own blend of life. Sensitivity, cheerfulness, suffering, compassion and black humor are elements of that blend, and it comes out in my writing in ways that can’t be programmed or predicted.


EOA: How has your craft evolved over time?  Have peers or mentors assisted in honing your process?  

MG: To my benefit or my detriment, or both, I’ve been largely isolated and self-contained as a writer, and “self-taught.” I have no English or Creative Writing degree. In college I took a couple of writing courses. One of the instructors harped on “writing organically,” which made sense. The other instructor was Jim Dodge, the novelist and poet and friend of Gary Snyder. After reading many of my poems, he told me, “Despite Gary Snyder, English is not an idiographic language.”

I don’t know if I can speak to how my craft has evolved over time. I’ve never been good at identifying what writers have influenced my work and that sort of thing. I guess that’s because I’m neither a literary person, an intellectual or an academician. I don’t believe that you have to be those things to be a good writer. Certainly, you don’t have to be those things to enjoy your writing process and what you’ve written. After writing a lot of long fiction, during the last ten years I’ve focused on poetry and flash fiction, and lately I’ve gone back and started compiling a lot of it into book form. I’ve cringed at some of the work before deleting it. However, on rereading, most of the work feels fresh and: Hey, this is good shit. I believe that, ultimately, that’s the prize that you get from being a writer—the understanding that you’ve engaged in a creative process, which is valuable, perhaps even sacred, in its own right and, rereading your work, you have a feeling of satisfaction and enjoyment.   

EOA: How did you decide upon a publisher for The Arrest of Mr. Kissy Face?

MG: Lacking connections, and acting according to my long-held principle that I would never pay submission or contest fees, I simply found a list of poetry publishers and sent out the manuscript. Subsequently, Pski’s Porch Publishing, a small press in upstate NY, accepted and published it.

EOA: Are you satisfied with your publishing experiences thus far?  

MG: Despite my natural aversion to marketing, I marketed THE ARREST OF MR. KISSY FACE to the best of my ability, and there were some sales. The publisher did little marketing. Poets should know that there is a very small market for poetry (though I understand that there’s a stronger one in Britain). If you can manipulate social media in innovative ways, you have a better chance of some success. But any writer nowadays, poet or otherwise, who nurtures the old dream of becoming “rich and famous” through his or her writing is some kind of moron. The market for literary work in general has significantly shrunken. I read an interview with John Irving not long ago in which he stated that if he were starting out now, he would never get published.

EOA: What advice would you give to other poets contemplating publication of a first collection?  

MG: I was excited to have a bona fide publisher publish my poetry, but really, what does that matter? It means that one other person (or maybe a committee) liked my work well enough to put it on paper. Is that important? I think that in the future I will simply self-publish my work, as I did with one of my novels, TWO-HEADED DOG. (By the way, both that book and THE ARREST OF MR. KISSY FACE are available for purchase through my website, wordsbymitch.com, in which you can also find many of my poems and flash fictions which you can enjoy free-of-charge.) Self-publishing short-circuits the waste of time and the hassles of trying to find a publisher and then dealing with the publisher. Considering only my poetry and short fiction, I probably have ten books worth of work. It tickles me to imagine a great-grandchild or great-great grandchild or a descendent even further in the future, reading some of my work and thinking: My ancestor, Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois, was an interesting dude.  

Making this decision puts more responsibility on me—if the only decisions about which poems will appear in my books are my own, and if I’m committed to quality, then my decisions better be well-considered and sharp. Also, let’s not forget the other meaning of “submission.” Why bow your head and accept your fate as a subordinate when you can embrace freedom and take your place as a fully self-determining being?

At this moment, I’m on, maybe, my sixteenth revision (typical for me) of these responses to the Aji editor’s interview questions. I revise until I am fully satisfied with a piece. I revise even after a piece is published. And that’s certainly something that any writer should know—as many, many writers have said previously: Writing is Revision.
 
EOA: What do you hope readers will gain from reading your book?  

MG: I’ve never really thought about my writing in that way. I’ve never written with a reader in mind. I guess I hope that some of it might give readers pause, might give them a deeper sense of humanity, might amuse them.
 
EOA: What advice do you have for other poets when it comes to pursuing a desire to write and publish poetry, to find community and an audience for their work?  

MG: Just do it?

If they’re young, they might consider acquiring academic degrees, like the MFA. There’s been a lot of criticism of the MFA, but human beings operate in clubs, through networking, so acquiring degrees, with all the consequent contacts, could be helpful. Getting published requires a combination of talent, hard work, and luck, and luck usually comes through association with other people.

​Two Poems from The Arrest of Mr. Kissy Face

The Arrest of Mr. Kissy Face

I kissed the woman who slices lunch meat
at King Sooper’s
She shoved smoked turkey at me
leaned away 
and cried: Next!
 
I kissed my doctor
I’d been wanting to do it
since she first told me to stick out my tongue
and complemented me on its smoothness
and the elegance of my taste buds
I kissed her and she asked
On a scale of one to ten, how have you been feeling this week?
I kissed her again
Have you been seeing or hearing things that aren’t really there?
I kissed her a third time
Have you been feeling suicidal or homicidal?
I kissed her more deeply
really sent my tongue to a remote locale
Do you have access to weapons?
 
I said:
How can you ask me that
after everything we’ve been through?
Anyway, this is America
 
She called Security
Security knew me
from the days when I was a high school football star
and an amateur boxer and cage fighter
who went by the moniker Destructo
They were afraid of me
called the cops
warned them: Be sure to bring your stun guns
your billy clubs
and chemical weapons
 
The first cop who entered the room--
I kissed her
She yelled FREEZE! 
Hands where I can see them!
Get down on your knees!
 
I happily complied


Jet Fuel
 
Sometimes I wish I were still out 
on the back porch, drinking jet fuel 
with the boys
 --Tony Hoagland
 
Gasoline smells like gin
sweet and clear
I’ve loved that smell
since junior high
when me and Pollo Murillo and Hector Delgadillo
huffed it from the jerry can
in Pollo’s dim garage
 
Isn’t “jerry can” an incandescent phrase
transcending its simple language?
 
Delgadillo said I was Mexican
I said, I’m a Jew
 
Delgadillo said: You may be a Jew 
in your shaved-off prick
but you are Mexican in the soul
unpredictable, combustible
 
Then he passed me the jerry can
no worries about bogarting that
there was plenty for all
 
Murillo ran off a mountain road
Delgadillo went to prison
and got shanked by the Aryan Brotherhood
Fuck them
 
I’m Mexican
and will wait for my chance for revenge

Serafina Bersonsage’s A Witch’s Education delights in smashing inane, restrictive social norms, particularly those that punish women for following their natural inclinations, one of which is to use their brains.  Her ironies, often understated, are downright wicked.  Imagine a high school girl troubled by dreams of a hot night with “Dubya,” the most disturbing part of which turns out to be her “certain affection” for him.  Many of these poems, which move from childhood home to graduate school and finally into the “woods,” portray the unfair, oppressive rules applied toward female sexuality.  Previous societies have often labeled women who question or ignore these rules as witches, shunning or even executing them.  Bersonsage’s point?  A contemporary American woman’s going to need a few spells to thrive in this world, and when she is found out, the punishments are still apt to be quite harsh.  Like Grabois, Bersonsage has no fear of offending the obtuse keepers of the status quo.  True to the assignation “witch,” her narrators conjure images of Republicans who shouldn’t be eaten (“they can hardly be organic”) and psych wards where desperate patients wonder how to get a room (“a full psychotic break,” the narrator induces).  Depending upon your worldview, these poems will either horrify you, or they will bring you a distinct, guilty pleasure.  As for me, I stand with the witches.  If you are world weary, as an alternative to banging your head against the wall, I prescribe just a few of Bersonsage’s pages.  Trust me—you’ll feel better.  

​EOA: Please share a bit of background information about yourself. 

Serafina Bersonsage (SB): I’m a Michigan-based writer with a penchant for poetry, fantasy, and more or less unpublishable ephemera: fictional lexicons, made-up annals, detailed descriptions of places that don’t technically exist.  At six, I caused a small panic in my first grade class by convincing half of the students that I was a vampire.  My mother introduced me to T.S. Eliot, socialism, and Bloody Marys; the precise order is hazy.
 
Random facts: I lived in Philadelphia for a year; I read tarot on a regular basis; I married a man who is at least as much a bibliophile as I am; I enjoy studying languages and once asked for a Latin textbook for Christmas, but was utterly trounced by Old Irish grammar.  I learned to shoot tequila in my fourth year of grad school, and I once stayed awake for so long during finals that one of my professors thought that I was possessed because of all the burst blood vessels in my eyes.  I can’t do math, play a musical instrument, or play sports without risking serious injury to myself and others.  In high school, I refused to date anyone without a half-decent plan for world domination.

EOA: When did you start to write poetry?  What was your inspiration? 

SB: I started to write poetry in high school, a couple of years after I began writing fiction, mostly because I found it easier to work on poems than novels while pretending to pay attention in class.  I can’t really speak to the inspiration behind my earliest poetry, because I tend to avoid rereading it at all costs.  I seem to recall that some of it was vaguely Arthurian; I was obsessed with Merlin and Viviane.  This was a time when I listened to a lot of Loreena McKennitt.  I aspired to be an elf.

EOA: How did you hone your craft?  Did you take classes or attend workshops?  Did you have mentors? 

SB: My formal training is in criticism—I did a PhD in English at the University of Rochester, where I wrote my dissertation on microcosms in seventeenth-century British literature.  This involved reading a huge amount of rather sycophantic country house poems and trying to make sense of the stage directions for masques—Ben Jonson could be very catty about special effects!—and at one point I developed a small crush on Margaret Cavendish and crashed a stationary bike.  And I think that all of this was very beneficial for my writing, because it allowed me to live in another world for several years, and also helped me to get over any lingering preoccupation with the notion of voice.  For the first two years, I didn’t write any poetry or fiction at all, and, after that, I worked on my dissertation, and wrote poetry and fiction to please myself. 
 
Eventually, I began to share my work, and the feedback that I’ve received from others has absolutely had an impact on how I approach certain things.  I can tell that a piece of advice has really struck a chord when I find myself applying it to other projects—not even necessarily in the same genre.  My doctoral advisor never saw my fiction, but some of her comments on my academic writing still come back to me when I’m revising a novel.  Remarks on a novel manuscript by my agent (the brilliant Connor Goldsmith) have led me to poems, and various editors’ comments on poems have sometimes informed my fiction.  My husband reads everything that I write.  He’s an insightful and ruthless reader—a far better critic than I ever was, when I aspired to such things.
 
I tend to get a lot out of other people’s comments; nonetheless, I remain mildly allergic to workshops.  (I can see how many writers find them helpful; I just tend to avoid formal groups on principle.)  I did take one undergraduate writing class, at the University of Michigan-Flint—but, as I was also taking the GRE that semester, I’m afraid that I wasn’t terribly engaged.  The most useful advice that I can recall was to aim for three hundred words a day—a strategy that has its limitations, of course, but one that served me well when I was just getting back into fiction, a few years after that.

EOA: A Witch’s Education seems to be, at least in part, a response to cultural assumptions about gender and women who refuse to conform to them.  What do you hope readers will take away from this “wicked” little book? 

SB: It depends entirely on who those readers are.  If they’ve been marginalized in some way, if they’ve been slut-shamed or judged for failing to meet cultural expectations or otherwise pushed into the woods, then I would hope that this book gives them a sense of being somewhat less alone in that, assuming that it resonates with any part of their experience.  If they’ve been privileged enough to avoid such things, then I would hope that it broadens their perspective a bit.  And, if they’re Trump supporters, then I would hope that it gives them a paper cut.  (But I very much doubt that anyone from the third category will read my book.)

EOA: Along with irony and some delightfully sharp edges, your poems also imply some understated humor.  Does that humor seem helpful in dealing with some of the especially difficult topics treated in the book? 

SB: I think that the tendency to turn to humor when confronting difficult topics is a habit that I picked up from my father, who has been known to improvise some truly top-quality comedic monologues in hospital rooms.  I also suspect that a certain kind of dark humor tends to be more prevalent in Michigan, or at least in the parts of Michigan where my parents and I grew up (Detroit, in their case; the suburbs of Flint, in mine).  When things go badly enough for long enough, you start to turn to the mordant, the wry, the sardonic.  There’s a protective quality to it, certainly, but it’s also a way of reaching outward—connecting with others by finding a way to make light of something that’s objectively not great.  (I recently learned the etymology of the word “sardonic,” by the way.  It involves poison and laughter and quite possibly senicide, and is definitely something that I would encourage your readers to look up.)

EOA: The copyright page in A Witch’s Education pokes fun at the standard copyright credits. What was your process for selecting EMP as the publisher for your book?  

SB: I believe that the copyright page in question, or a version of it, is one that EMP uses in all of their books.  I was pleased to include it in A Witch’s Education, because I think that it’s admirably honest.  Very, very few people are making (significant) money in this business.  Obviously, I do think that artists should receive credit for their work, and I support the enforcement of copyright laws insofar as those laws allow artists to make a living.  But I also think that it’s good to push back against the proprietary urge when feasible.
 
I submitted the manuscript of A Witch’s Education to relatively few publishers.  I understand why so many small presses have made contests such a central part of their selection process, but it’s deeply frustrating, because a $28 contest fee isn’t a trivial expense for many people, and multiple contest fees can be prohibitively expensive for those of us who prefer to live by Erasmus’s words.  (“When I get a little money I buy books; and if any is left I buy food and clothes.”)  So it was a short list, and EMP was on it because I felt that the press’s unapologetically anti-establishment ethos would be a good fit for my project.  Happily, my publisher agreed.

EOA: What are you writing now? 

SB: I’m writing poetry on a fairly regular basis, and I’m also working on a draft of a fantasy novel, which is about four-fifths complete.  The latter project tends to involve the generation of large amounts of worldbuilding material—some of it, very sketchy and utilitarian; other parts, less so.  I feel tremendously fortunate to be able to spend so much time in another world, especially given the state of this one.
 
I’m writing this in July, when the pandemic seems to be on the wane (at least for the moment) in Michigan, but spiraling out of control in many other parts of the country.  Writing during the pandemic has been an interesting experience.  When my husband and I rented our current apartment, we had never expected that we would both end up working from home—  He spends a good part of the day on the phone, so noise-canceling headphones were a necessary investment!  Tuning out the news proved to be rather more challenging, and I’ve had to become considerably more disciplined about when, and how often, I check the latest numbers.  It’s been stressful, but I feel grateful to be able to keep writing during these times.

EOA: Who are you reading these days? 

SB: I’m currently reading Anne Carson, whose “Essay on What I Think About Most” I particularly like.  I’ve also managed to find my way back to Donne, as I do at least a few times a year.  As far as fiction goes, I’m reading Anita Desai’s The Artist of Disappearance, and I’ve just started The Lord of the Rings in Spanish.  (My Spanish comprehension is better than it was, but I’m still in the process of building up my confidence by reading books that I’ve already read in English.)  Assorted nonfiction from the stalagmites that appear on most unused surfaces in my apartment: Orlando Figes, Natasha’s Dance: A Cultural History of Russia; John Iliffe, Africans: The History of a Continent; George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Metaphors We Live By; and Behave: The Biology of Humans at Our Best and Worst, by Robert M. Sapolsky, whose lectures on YouTube are absolutely fascinating.  (I don’t think that I’ve enjoyed science class so much since baking soda volcanoes passed as cutting-edge research.)

EOA: What advice do you have for aspiring poets?  

SB: Take a break if you need it!  I think that it’s difficult to overstate the importance of fallow time, perhaps especially where poetry is concerned.  Sometimes it’s best to let things sit—a poem or a project, certainly, and, at times, it can be beneficial to take a break from writing (poetry, fiction, anything at all), in order to find your way back to it.  But that advice runs counter to the narrative of perpetual optimization that seems to dominate more and more of our waking hours.  It feels nice to have goals, and sometimes it can be beneficial to aim for a poem a day (50K words in a month, etc.), particularly if you’re struggling to cultivate a consistent writing practice.  But it can also be a fine way to produce an impressive amount of mediocre poems.
 
On a related note, I think that many poets, especially newer poets, tend to underestimate the amount of time that they should allow a batch of poems to rest before they try submitting them to literary magazines (or posting them on social media, if that’s their inclination).  Clearly, for some writers, it’s the opposite problem, and they’ll accumulate years, or decades, of backlog before they submit anything at all.  But I think that premature submission is much more damaging, because it can be tempting to allow external feedback (whether positive or negative) to drown out your own critical voice, and it’s harder to be objective about something that you wrote just last month.  I’m fairly certain that at least 80% of the hurt feelings generated by rejection could be avoided by delaying submission for an extra few months (longer, if necessary).
 
I also think that it’s quite important for poets (and all writers) to study languages other than their own, and to try to learn something about the history of their preferred language(s).  Obviously, it’s exciting to read works in the original, but the point is also to get a better sense of the limitations of your own language.  Where does English lack nuance where Spanish conveys it, and how might a poet writing in English try to get around that?  Studying the history of a language might also shed some light on that, and can be especially useful in awakening your sensitivity to dead metaphors—a necessary sensitivity, whether you prefer to engage in necromancy or avoid corpses altogether.

Two Poems from  A Witch’s Education
 
FINISHING SCHOOL
 
We fashioned ourselves
into slightly damaged trophy wives --
not the blonde tanned televised
variety, but the sort you see
in dim cafés, sporting crow’s feet
and small Latin and less Greek, the sort
a wealthy Democrat might seek
to adorn his house in Brooklyn
to play at being bohemian.
We made ourselves such lovely dolls.
Her degree is terminal
like her prospects.
Her dissertation is bound in a little black dress.
It sits on the shelf and oversees
dinner parties and gathers dust
becoming an amusing anecdote, like mine
like me.
We guard our theses, share identities
all taking up yoga, vegan cooking
all losing the same fifteen pounds.
We wear the same black tights to interviews,
becoming
each other’s shadows on the pavement.
We wear the same dress to our weddings.
Five hundred years ago, just possibly
before the Dissolution of the Monasteries
we married the same man, had no mirrors.49
We were each other’s reflections then--
and, when
on the street, by accident, I look
at a woman looking critically
and just too closely, as if she knows
as if she means
to read my history, I see
shards of me in her eyes
 
 
THE MISANTHROPE
 
Actually, I hate children.
Yes, even if they prefer the real fairy tales.
Yes, even if they are yours.
I cannot stand their voices
so loud and ugly, and no --
it isn’t particularly funny
what they said.
A friend’s fat baby I may like
on Facebook, where children are seen and not heard
silent, frozen — and, speaking of freezing
I will nod politely
at the mention of freezing my eggs
for I am one of those childless women
who claims to love children
but I am lying — and, speaking of lying
yes, you did look fat in that dress
and, yes, I fucked them
(both of them
in twenty-four hours
and did not shower
before I came to bed).
And have I mentioned that I hate dogs?
They fenced off the woods in my favorite park
the woods where a monster like me should live
not far from the little town,
bound in hate
to the people who let
their dogs run free and bark and shit
just like their waddling toddlers64
and. passing, I will smile and wave
and say good morning,
and I will hope
that the tall pines crack and crush them,
that their children choke on breadcrumbs
that the apples are poison that fall from the trees.