How I Became a Legitimate Writer

Last Saturday, March 31^st, was a good day.  I had submitted a couple poems to the Columbus Arts Festival in hopes to be selected to read at the Festival in June.  On the 31^st I was invited to an on-stage audition in front of a panel of four judges to hopefully be selected as one of a handful of poets to read at the Festival.  My mom went with me to the audition, which was a little weird.  She had never seen me read prior to that and had only read a few of the many hundreds of poems I have written.  I was a little nervous because of that; though, I felt at least, my reading was probably the best one I had ever done.  It was certainly better than the two poets before me, one of whom kept reminding the judges that he had been writing and publishing for thirty years (they ended up cutting him off).  I felt pretty good about audition and was pretty confident.  The only thing I would’ve changed was getting there a few minutes quicker so I could’ve seen my buddy Hanif read.  My mom eventually said it was good, but only after offering some criticism over the content of my poems, specifically one which alludes to our hometown.  Later that Saturday night, I received a message on Facebook from a girl a few years behind me at Ohio Wesleyan.  I was a little confused because I had never talked to her a day in my life, just knew who she was.  She happens to be one of the editors of the OWL—Ohio Wesleyan Literary Magazine—and was asking for permission to publish a poem I had submitted to a contest in my senior year.  So as of April 19^th I will officially be a published poet.  It’s a pretty silly poem called “This Is How Much I Love You” that I wrote lord knows how long ago.  A silly poem in a small magazine—it still counts.

The following Monday afternoon I was in my best friend’s kitchen, leaning against the refrigerator waiting for him to finish his lunch so I could take him to an appointment and I decided to check my e-mail.  The first e-mail that popped up said “Congratulations” in the abbreviated subject; immediately, I knew what it was.  I had been extended an invite to read at the Columbus Arts Festival this summer—June 1^st-3^rd.  The only reading I’ve ever done other than the audition is a few stints at the Writer’s Block Poetry open mic at Kafe Kerouac near OSU.  I’ve only done that five times.  There are usually no more than 30 or so people, though once I’m sure we were violating a fire code or two.  I’ve never done anything like this before, so it is certainly an exciting experience.  Less than a week after the Festival, my best friend and I will be headed to Dayton for an Evening with the Avett Brothers, so I’m certainly excited for June.

Although I have always considered writing to be one of my strong points and it is one thing which I will readily admit to being good at (please ignore that hanging preposition!), finally getting something published after so many rejections letters and being asked to perform at an arts festival in its 51^st year, certainly gives me a big confidence boost and makes me feel as if I am a true, legitimate writer.  In a way, I guess it makes me feel accepted as a writer because someone else, someone who isn’t a friend, someone who isn’t biased, someone who is a complete stranger, likes and appreciates what I have written.  That’s a good pick-me-up.  That’s a good feeling to have.

Here are the two poems that got me into the Columbus Arts Festival:

You Can be Superman

Have you ever had a child tell you he wants to kill himself?

Because I have.

And let me tell you, it’s the most heartbreaking thing you'll ever experience

It is worse than that time you didn't get the fancy toy you wanted for christmas

Or the time you showed up to school and that nerd was wearing the same shirt

It’s even worse than when you discovered ABC was ending Lost

But what it isn't worse than is a child who hasn't just said he wants to kill himself but has indeed done the deed

Because while you were twiddling your thumbs he was googling how to tie a noose

And while you were out cheating on your wife, his caring and supportive mother, he hung himself in the closet because you called him a stupid fag when the trash bag ripped from all the beer bottles you refuse to recycle

And yes! Your son was smart enough to know and appreciate the irony and that is why he did it that way

Because he wanted one last laugh before he went to heaven

Where no one gives a goddamn about race or creed or sexuality

And where he knows he will never have to see you again

But it is horrible that you drove him to such extents

And you will never even realize that it was all your fault,

That you could have been the one to save him

And then he could have been the one save all the others

He could have reached out a helping hand to those who had no one else

To those who felt alone, scared, and unsure

He could have made a difference

And so could have you.

Welcome to the Midwest

This town is a-happening

This town is happening if you are an old person

This town is happening if you are a church-going, Golden Buckeye card-carrying, Bengay-using, Metamucil-drinking pensioner over the age of sixty-two

But for me and you, this town is far from happening, but rather it's dis-happening

It is dis-happening and depressing:

It is all that you wish to leave behind but yet, here you still remain

It is there every day to remind you of the things you have screwed up

And gives you the motivation to set them right.

This town is happening.

This town is happening if you are a child who doesn't know any better, under the guidance of his parents

His parents who always said they would get out of this town, but yet, here they still remain

This town is happening for that bicycle-riding, elbow-bruising, knee-skinning, homerun-hitting, ice cream-eating child under the age of fourteen

But I'm the one man who forgot how to ride a bicycle and I haven't hit a homerun since tee-ball,

And my aches and pains are most likely arthritic

But I damn sure love me some ice cream - two scoops cookies 'n' cream on a waffle cone, please.

Now, this town is happening - I can assure you

This town is happening with its five-minute delay from the time when something happens to when everyone knows

This town is happening with its four different churches - each one a different denomination

This town is happening with its 98.9% majority white population - but don't worry, they aren't WASPs

This town has it all - racists, bigots, homophobes, hypocrites, zealots, jingoists, gun-freaks, deadbeats, cokeheads, junkies, alcoholics, creepers, wife-beaters, child-hitters

Oh, and there's me - the long-haired, bespectacled, indie rock-loving, harmonica-blowing twenty-something son of a bitch with a pen and paper

And here I am, to immortalize all those others, for without me, their lives would go unrecorded

Because without you, I wouldn't have my inspiration

Because without you, I would stare at the piece of paper until finally I wrote down a few words:

A Mormon allegory alluding to the sinfulness of premarital sex

But instead, I have you - this happening town

This happening town for ideas that are stranger than fiction

So thank you, for being so effed up

So thank you, for drinking too much, snorting too much coke, hitting your wife, kicking your kid across the coffee table, calling your neighbor a nigger, telling me I'm going to hell, spending your child support on cigarettes, refusing marriage between a loving couple, and shooting that poor squirrel with a hand gun because it wouldn't stay out of your garden.

And here’s the poem that will be published in the OWL:

this is how much i love you

hey do you remember that time - it was sometime last year i think
you fell and hit your head and couldn't remember my name
and you thought you were and elf or some such thing
but then you grew pointy ears and we all freaked out - except for me
and that's because i'll always love you
but then you grew pointy teeth too and even more everyone else freaked out
except for me - i still didn't freak out
but that's because i'll always love you
and then your temper pretty much exploded and you grew hair all over
and everyone who hadn't freaked out yet finally freaked out
but i didn't - no, not me
but like i said, that's because i'll always love you
but then you ate my dog and i had to think things through for a bit
but it's okay because she was pretty damn old anyhow
and i love you too much to be angry at you anyway
you could eat my grandma and everything would still be fine
so long as you don't eat me
but then you took a nibble at my left foot and i didn't like that all that much
but it's okay because my feet do look pretty tasty.

For more information about the Columbus Arts Festival visit http://www.columbusartsfestival.org

(Sorry for the long lines and resulting formatting)