Notabilia

Get Your Lit On at Tulsa LitFest

Here’s what’s going on at my Tulsa LitFest Book Fair table: a triple-billing of my work, Durell Carter’s work, and work by authors at Moon in the Rye Press. I’ll also have information about Nine Mile Press’s Propel Disability Poetry Book Series, where my full-length collection, Crude—which is largely set in Oklahoma—will be published next summer.

Come say howdy to Durell, me, and more than 50 other authors and publishers.

Tulsa LitFest 2026 Book Fair
Sunday, April 26, 11 a.m.–2 p.m.
OSU Tulsa Campus Mail Hall
700 North Greenwood Avenue
Tulsa, Oklahoma 74106

Images: 1. A sign for my collection, No Sea Here. 2. A sign for Durell Carter’s collection, Mr. Monday Morning’s Broken Songs and Testimonies. 3. A sign for Moon in the Rye Press.

Old Water

I learned today that we should all be drinking old water, really old water, ancient water, Pleistocene Epoch water, lest we be exposed to Anthropocene contaminants that significantly increase the risk of Parkinson’s and other diseases. If your area has it, it has it. If not, don’t even try to buy it bottled because the bottling process adds micro- and nanoplastics.

Oklahoma has old water. Eastern Washington has old water. Northern Utah has old water. Toquerville does not have old water. It has highly contaminated brand-spanking new water full of pesticides, herbicides, disinfection byproducts, heavy metals, and radioactive elements.

‘Crude’ Publication Announcement

I’m thrilled to announce that I signed a contract with Nine Mile Press today. My collection, Crude, will be part of the Propel Disability Poetry Book Series and will be available in June 2027.

I’m also stepping into a contributing editor role for the series. Between the authors, editors, and founder Steve Kuusisto, Propel is doing phenomenal work around poetry and disability poetics.

This series matters deeply to me. Crude could not have found a better home.

Image: A screenshot of the masthead for the Propel Disability Poetry Book Series from Nine Mile Books.

The Good News

Things are shit in the world, but they’re looking up here in Toquerville, Utah. Check out all the good news:

  1. The sheriff who was nasty to me when I was traumatized and manic resigned.

  2. The bookstore in Hurricane where part of my mania played out in 2023 is under new ownership, so I feel like I can go in there again.

  3. The neighbor who wrapped his house, his car, and himself in American flags has moved.

  4. Only one truck rolled coal at me when I was out today.

  5. I saw two dozen baby goats by the side of the road.

  6. The pond at my neighbor’s house has been repaired and filled.

  7. The feral peacocks have returned to the pond.

Reflecting Light

Speaking of loneliness, I once played with light as a friend. When my brother-in-law, who was much older than me and a physicist, was visiting one summer, he showed me how to capture light in a small mirror and project it onto a wall. After he left, I played with the light for hours and hours in an otherwise dark hallway, the one that led to my parents’ separate bedrooms and to my bedroom and to everything that happened in them. I don’t know what I thought I was going to accomplish by getting a ball of light to bounce around on those nicotine-beiged walls, but I knew it was better than going it alone in that house. My light friend was everything to me that summer. It only let me down on cloudy days.

Alex Caldiero Memorial Essay

On this second day of April, I’m honored to share Scott Abbott’s tribute essay about Utah poet, sonosopher, composer, and musician Alex Caldiero, published today by Rob McLennan at periodicities : a journal of poetry and poetics. This tribute means so much. I only knew Caldiero’s work, but I recognize what a loss it was for Utah and for poets, artists, thinkers, and creative folks everywhere when he died. Rob was kind enough to reach out to me after I posted about Alex’s death to see if anyone wanted to write something about his work. Scott generously took the time to write this piece about Alex, his life, and his work. Read it. Then read it again whenever you start to think poetry and the arts don’t matter. Ad astra, Alex.

Images: 1. Alex Caldiero with Scott Abbott. 2. A poster for a Howl event with Alex Caldiero at the bottom. 3. An open page from one of Alex Caldiero’s notebooks.

Holy Nodding Donkeys!

I know it’s April Fools’ Day, but this is no joke. My full-length manuscript Crude has been accepted for publication. It took most of the morning to write that last sentence because it doesn’t seem real. I’m actually just sitting here now thinking of what to write next.

I feel funny in a good way like when you have a colonoscopy and they give you Propofol so you wake up loving everyone and wanting to call them on the phone to say I love you and you love your gastroenterologist so you tell him so and you love the nurses and techs so you tell them so and you run around in the waiting area in your paper gown with your butt hanging out telling everyone you can how much you love them because you love them you really do you really love them.

I’ll share more details when I can. At that time, I’ll do a more formal announcement that doesn’t read like this one.

No Manifesto

It’s haunting to read the “No Manifesto” poem from Chicago Review ten years after it was published. It came out thirteen days before I left poetry because I experienced some of the very issues this poem addresses. It’s situated in a time and place, or rather places, but is also timeless in that too many of the lines could be written today and still be applicable. What a mess we’ve made of poetry. I want better for it, for us. I wanted better for myself.

This is actually the first time I’ve seen the poem and this issue of Chicago Review, which includes a forum on “Sexism and Sexual Assault in Literary Communities.” The “No Manifesto” poem begins on page 221 of the linked document. The poem is 13 pages and 271 lines long.

We’ve been fighting this fight for a really long time. I can’t even see who’s been fighting alongside me. What I see is who didn’t, who hasn’t. When my loneliness leaks into the fissures left by poets and their complicity, it feels like the time I poured salt on a gash in my hand under the magnolia tree in my backyard on a sunny, blank day. I was a kid then. I didn’t know what pain was but wanted to. I’m an adult now and have no need for this pain that won’t stop seeping.

Tall Tales Turned Titillating Truths

I found a document that my paternal great-grandfather dictated for the Indian and Pioneer Historical Collection in 1937. It turns out that side of my family also took part in the 1892 Land Run.

On my mother’s side of the family, I found a news story about one of her uncles dying after being shot four times in the back by a pool-hall owner in Headrick, Oklahoma, over the sum of fifty cents. My mother told me my great-uncle was shot while walking down the street, but I thought it was a tall tale. Turns out, she pretty much told the truth about everything.

Also, I found a portrait of my fourth great-grandmother on my father’s side. She looks like the botched Ecco Homo restoration.

Image: The Altus Times, July 16, 1914, with a front-page story about my great uncle being shot to death outside Garrett’s Pool Hall in Headrick, Oklahoma, by the establishment’s owner, Bud Garrett.

Word-twisping

That was fast. All fifty of the copies of No Sea Here that Moon in the Rye Press gave me are spoken for. I’m now digging into the copies I purchased at a discount, so I’ll be pivoting to a pay-what-you-can model. I hope that model will allow everyone to have a copy regardless of their ability to pay. I also love trades of all kinds, so that’s always on the table.

I’m mailing the first fifty copies out tomorrow, which means I get to visit the Toquerville Post Office, one of my favorite places in Utah. It sits beneath a steep hill festooned with chunks of basalt the size of economy vehicles. None of them have dislodged and killed anyone, at least not yet. Death by igneous rock is on my list of preferred ways to shed this mortal coil, which I always say in my head as cortal moil the way I used to call my friends who were dating Sherry and Jelly when their names were actually Jerry and Shelly.

This word-twisping is not something I try to do. It’s one of the ways my dyslexia makes itself known. Dyslexia is my mischievous little language friend who never fails to entertain me. It’s wearing a cute devil costume right now, kind of an inside joke. Dyslexia is such a comedian.

In other news, I’m happy to report that some poets are still people. I almost typed pets, which would also not be awful. Poets are sometimes people, sometimes pets, and sometimes a pestilence. I said what I said. Mostly, I was riffing on the sounds of the words. Mostly. Let me have some fun, OK? I’m going on day three of a migraine, which is in turn causing my centralized pain syndrome to flare. This is what I get for being in a body. My body doesn’t know how to have fun. Even my dyslexia can’t make it laugh.