Bitter Comes Out Better On A Stolen Guitar (2012)

I am not sure who I have a stronger distaste for, interent Readers or internet Authors. With the wide spread popularity of the net, suddenly hacks everywhere had something to say and a vehicle to get it in front of an audience. I am not certain this is a good thing. While I champion free speech, I am not sure the small press on the interent is anything more than an electronic circle jerk where the goal isn't orgasm even...but attention. That is the attitude from which this blog sprung.

Those that want to read me, now know where to find me...and don't have to wallow thru the mediocracy of most small press journals. I can count on two hand the number of current authors and editors I have any respect for. And I have little respect for my readers who choose to read about life instead of getting out there and living it. To those readers that have been down the paths I have been, who have shot dope in the same nigger alleys I have shot dope in...you are the ones I hope my words reach. If my limp lines can make some sense of the world we are prisoners of, then I have achieved something...however small.

I should probably relate now the story of an internet author that was so into my stuff, they wanted to meet me and hang out. In fact, they travelled cross country to do so. Of course when they arrived to discover that my writing is my reality and not some pose concocted in some hip literary cafe with a bunch of Bukowski wannabe's...they ran for the hills. Sorry my heroin addiction didn't sit well with you. Sorry my heroin addiction was not some literary device I employed to garner attention. Sorry my life was as real as the words I wrote on a daily basis. Don't worry, I won't reveal your name...although I should just to shatter the charade of your own writing that isn't a true reflection of who you are. But alas, exposing writers for the frauds they are bores me, as does their writing. I much more prefer living in the bottle or syringe that produces my words, than I do playing dress up for the pretensious literary small press interent community.

I don't play well with interent people. Hell, I don't play well with most people. The type of losers that hide behind monitors and feel free to say and write some of the lamest things because they know in reality they will never have to put in a physical appearance to back anything up. I guess the internet liberates and encourages weakness. In fact, it champions cowardice. I don't write or type anything on this electronic box that I wouldn't say to someone face to face. I am much better with people face to face. The interent is nothing but a dark corner people hide in. Face to face with me there are no fucking corners for you to hide.

So continue stroking each other off in your little net journals no one reads (and I refuse to continue publishing in), and pay me no mind. The fact will not change, that being...80% of all internet authors couldn't write themselves out of a paper bag if their life depended on it. The interent is fantasy land and reality is defined by those who languish in the obscurity of its existence. Some of us however, for better or worse, choose to live our lives on the razor wire without a net. And remember kids, writing isn't the focus. Living life is the focus. The words that are squeezed out of that life, like a nice shit after a good meal, are simply that...waste produced from an experience.

Anyway, I stumbled upon an essay I wrote a few years back that appeared in numerous internet journals, after its first print publications. Some of you fuckers even included it in your journal without permission from me. Regardless, here is an edited and updated version of that article, for all you budding authors who just discovered how to turn on you mommy's computer...


The Bitter Comes Out Better On A Stolen Guitar (2012)


I suffer from no "Bukowski Hangover". I suffer from an over active ego and delusions of grandeur. I suffer from the same disease all other small press authors suffer from. Namely, if you write outside the mainstream you're pegged as another Bukowski rip-off and your identity as an individual writer is tossed in a drawer with the other "also rans".

My brother in arms, Victor Thorn who once published Babel Magazine seemed to think if a group of authors banded together...we could use that to our advantage. I tended to agree. I figured working with a bunch of other arrogant, self centered assholes like myself would prove interesting. Bukowski never had a problem whoring himself to Hollywood. I am sure he wouldn't mind if we stole his corpse and used it as our mascot. Fact, I think he would find it amusing. Stay tuned. Update: the Bukowski Hangover Project project produced a pretty damn good book, but failed in the end because of...you guessed it, the clash of author egos.

However this essay isn't about Victor's project. This letter is about me. More of me and less of you is a good thing. Write that down. Use it. I stole it from somewhere, but I am not sure where. I am in my arrogant mood today...take notice. I just scored 2 bottles of agave aged tequilla, and finished doing a few body shots off an 18 year old senorita from Sonora, Mexico. Take that Bukowski. I am the Frito Bandito. Comprende?

My thoughts stray. Flashback of a nun slapping my ear with a ruler because I asked what color her panties were. Back to topic. For the record my sole justification for being a writer came from Walt Whitman, who wrote:

"I am the man.
I suffered,
I was there"

When I finally decide to swallow that .357 caliber slug...put that on my tombstone. I am the man. I suffered. I was there. Those three lines sum up the influence behind modern poetry, in my estimation. Poets went from viewing life in objective abstract to subjective realism. The good poets could make us feel their life and experiences pulsing through our veins like a quality cut of heroin.

The beat writers like Trocchi, Ginsberg and Kerouac took this to the extreme and left quite a mark on the literary scene. Bukowski did the same. However, todays writers are now trapped in Bukoski's shadow. We are being denied our own identity. Some of us have only ourselves to blame as we seem to cater to the Bukowski shadow by accepting our label. In fact, most of you writers are quite content living in the shadow. I am not. Here is my new poem to sum up modern poetry:

Bukowski was the man.
He suffered.
He was there
and like a fly
I will feed
from his corpse
& puke
my pablum
into small press
rags

My point, if I have one...and that can be debated, is synthesize your reality and life experiences through your own bloodstream...not Bukowski's. Ignore heroes. Poetry has less to do with subject matter than it does with how that subject matter is presented. Just because your subject matter is Bukowski-esque does not mean your poetry has to be. That seems to be the trap we are in. A bunch of us write poems about booze or dope, and instead of our style being the focus...the subject becomes the focus. And as you are well aware, if you write about booze then you are a Bukowski rip-off. Fuck that.

This is the part where I piss everyone off, and hereby seal my fate to be labeled a poetry heretic...and thereby make myself unwanted amidst small press editors. Good fucking riddance if you people can't see past the obvious and understand what I am saying here. (Hereby..thereby...where the fuck did that come from?) Fuck it, I am to lazy to edit this thing.

I am not a huge Bukowski fan, and the next reviewer that compares my shit to him gets strangled. Period. I will hop a Greyhound and shove a boot up their ass. Serious here kiddies...I have never had any problem spending a few nights in jail. Nor have I ever shied away from a good bus trip, or beating the fuck out of some blow hard. The punk bar scene of the late 1980's is scattered with motherfuckers that were dumb enough to cross my path or try to stiff the band on their door take.

In my estimation, Bukowski wrote some damn cool novels. I find his poetry highly overrated. Don't get me wrong, he wrote some good shit. He became Hollywood's court jester and was pimped out like the whores he liked to hang with. Big fucking deal. His trip...not mine.

My first chapbook was published in 1991. Most fucking review mentioned Bukowski. I had never heard of him (sorry to shatter your bubble all you hip cats). Back then I was reading Alexander Trocchi and Papa Hem...and I had very little use for poetry. I was just a fuck up (and still am) caught up in the "punk" music scene and only read whatever books the chick I was banging at the time had laying around. Fortunately for me, they had reasonably good taste in literature. However, I actually believed people like Lou Reed, Joe Strummer and bands like X had their finger on the pulse of my reality. Silly me, according to you literay fools...Bukowski did.

Anyway, these reviews prompted me to pick up a few collections of poetry by Bukowski. It was almost 10 years before I sent another damn piece of my shit to a publisher. That is an easily documented fact. I dropped off the face of the small press publishing map...but continued to write for my audience of one. If Bukowski was the yardstick poetry was to be measured by, I figured why bother with these people.

Sure, Bukowski was good. Several of his novels are classics in my estimation. But fuck, he wasn't the end all be all god you people make him out to be. In fact, he is probably laughing in his grave right now at this lame "cult of personality" you have built around him.

Sure my lifestyle and subject matter may share a tiny comparison to Bukowski...but even when I was shooting dope days at a time and sleeping in abandon warehouses, I had enough self awareness not to wallow in my own filth or buy into my own bullshit. I am so fucking sick of "literary experts" and "hip editors" lumping all writers that write of personal experiences that fall outside of "mainstream" into the Bukowski school.

My lifestyle is my lifestyle and I use writing as a grounding rod for self examination. I am sure as hell not the first to do this, and I sure as hell won't be the last. But then neither was Bukowski. I hold no reverenace for Bukowski other than the fact he was another good writer among many, and had I ever ran into him in the midst of a heroin binge I would have probably rolled the fucker for spare change.

If I am a poor hack imitation of anyone it sure as hell isn't Bukowski. If your going to take pot shots at my stuff, get the facts straight. I don't mind being a hack and I don't give a fuck if any of you small press people are offended by my irreverance to your "god". I intend to speak my mind in an honest manner...deal with it or ignore me. It matters little. I am not even a blip on the "literary" radar screen. No one is standing in line ready to offer me large sums of cash for my stuff. Nor do I have some publisher princess cutting me a check every week to watch me shit my pants. I have no "fan club" or "cult following" I need to pander to. I have no role to play in the soap opera of the small press world. I don't have time for hero worship. I just write. It's what I do.

If that isn't good enough for you, go take a flying fuck at a rolling wine bottle and leave me be. As I certainly have no use for you. I pick and choose which publications I send my stuff too, and writers I associate with. I've never felt the need to be in every online magazine that ever existed. I expect none, and give no quarter.

Hypocrisy is Policy In The 2012 Election

Even though I have given up on the political system in this country, I feel the need to point out a few items. There's an old adage that says: “You are allowed to your opinion but you are not allowed to YOUR facts”. So regardless of your political affiliation, no one can deny the FACT that Obama has Received MORE Campaign Contributions from Wall Street than ANY Politician Since 1950. No one can deny the FACT that Obama just hired Wall Street lobbyist Broderick Johnson as senior adviser for his re-election campaign. What really makes this amusing to me is, the Occupy Wall Street supporters still view Obama as their candidate. I wonder if they are also aware of the FACT that Obama has received MORE campaign donations from Wall Street for 2012 than all Republican candidates combined. Maybe this explains why you may be losing your house or may not be able to find a job...but Wall Street and major corporations are doing quite well after their billion dollar Obama bailouts.

More important to remember, if you really want to get a feel for where Obama really stands, is that during Obama's first two years of office the Democratic Party controlled the Congress. They spent most of that time passing a watered down Health Care Bill, even though polls showed most American's were NOT in favor of it. Then, instead of passing a budget while Obama and the Democrats still held sway...Obama began his Wall Street and corporate bailouts.

Nice priorities considering Americans were losing their homes to foreclosure and the jobless rate was rising. Americans have received nothing from Obama during this economic crisis, and now he wants to blame Republicans for economic issues he had the power to handle in his first two years of office. Absurd.

Please note: I am not a fan of or confident that any Republican currently running will do anything different than Obama. America has fallen to a one party system controlled by wealthy bankers. A conspiracy? Nope. Just the facts speaking for themselves. After all, it was the Republicans, Democrats, and Obama who worked hand in hand to destroy the U.S. Constitution by passing the NDAA, effectively turning America into a police state.

Here is an example of Obama at work: Lauren DiGioia, who was arrested for protesting the NDAA at New York's Grand Central Station and HANDCUFFED FOR 26 HOURS, IN ADDITION TO BEING DENIED ACCESS TO A LAWYER OR PHONE CALL.

  

Zygote In My Coffee #9

Zygote In My Coffee #9 is now available for pre-order. By pre-ordering you save $2 off the $10 cover price (shipping is included).

This is issue includes a great cover by Cheryl Townsend. Some of the authors included are Ross T. Runfola, Doug Draime, Bradley Mason Hamlin, J.J. Campbell, Carl Miller Daniels, and Ruby Jenkins.

Zygote has long been one of my favorite print journals. Pre-order your copy now!

Coming up in Zygote In My Coffee #10, I will have 5 pieces included, along with such authors as Bill Gainer and MP Powers. This issue is due out in May 2012. I am not sure if Zygote is still offering yearly subscriptions, but it doesn't hurt to inquire so you never miss an issue.

Where Did The Poetry Go?

For those who have yet to notice, I have removed all my original poetry from this blog. The free ride is over. If you wish to read my stuff, please feel free to frequent the numerous online e-zines and journals that publish it. My stuff also appears in numerous print journals, anthologies, and books. These are all available for purchase, at very reasonable costs, throughout the small press.

I will always continue to post here where my poetry can be found. I will also include reviews when appropriate. I believe if you are truly a follower of my poetry, you'll manage to scrape together the few pennies it costs to purchase it.

Of course I will continue to use this blog to post my usual bullshit and opinions. That will always be free.

Ten Page Press Reader - Vol. 3

Ten Page Reader - Vol. 3 is now published and available for free download in pdf format. Authors include David McLean, Kyle Hemmings, Andrew Taylor, Mamta Madhavan, Craig Scott, Kevin Ridgeway, RC Edrington, Mickael Dickel, and Catfish McDaris.  

Check it out while it's still fresh: Ten Page Press - Vol. 3

MUST Microzine

MUST Street Zine is a small microzine with a lo-tech aesthetic, easy to copy, easy to spread. The goal is to share the written words of talented writers and artists in an easy format. If you have questions about MUST, get in touch with me, Lynn Alexander. 


Issue #17 features poetry by Frankie Metro, Paul Corman-Roberts, RC Edrington, Joseph M. Gant, Dan Provost. MUST Street Zine is a small microzine that has been around, off and on, for a few years now. Literally thousands of these things have been distributed wherever, whenever. Free, loose, lo-tech, cooperative.


 Issue #19 features poems by Lora Dziemiela, Paul Corman-Roberts, RC Edrington, Frankie Metro, SB Stokes, Joseph M. Gant, Justin Regier.


To get your copies contact Lynn Alexander: MUST Street Zine

Flesh Wounds

My new e-chapbook, Flesh Wounds, is now available from Ten Page Press. You can download it as a free PDF file. Please feel free to leave comments. This e-chapbook contains 10 of what I believe are some of my best pieces.

To view and download:  Flesh Wounds by RC Edrington

Kerouac's Dog Magazine

It’s a bold and exciting platform for new writing, design, illustration, photography, architecture, fashion, and creativity in general. Bound together with overarching themes of freedom; truth; beauty; love; travel; wanderlust; sex; taboo; and fringe. It’s an opportunity for established and aspiring creatives of all disciplines, from all over the world, to exhibit their work in something beautiful and tangible. It’s a place to be published and be seen, and won’t exist in any other format.


Featuring new Writing, Design, Photography, Architecture, Fashion, Erotica, Opinion, and more. Featuring Creatives from all over the world including America, Australia, Eastern Europe, New Zealand, and Japan. It’s a magazine that’s truly independent with no advertising, no classifieds, and no editorial-led advertising. A magazine that oozes pure creativity, with a free-thinking, underground-press feel. A platform for new creative talent; beautiful and tangible, and a homage to the philosophy of the Beat Generation. --from the Editor


I will have five poems published in Issue #5, set for an early 2012 release date. Please be advised that these limited edition print issues sell out rather quickly so it might be a good idea to pre-order. Issue #5 is set to check in at around 300 pages. Certainly worth every penny. Support the small press. 

To view issues & order: Kerouac's Dog

Use Once & Destroy Review 2

Edrington takes no prisoners. Everything here is raw reality, written in technicolour. Often the language is shocking, sensual and serious. I don't give full marks to much work I review, but there again, Edrington's work is seriously good. Of the 35 poems, I marked 18 as five star — if, however, you are easily offended or of a nervous disposition, you'd best stop reading now.

The rest of you are in for a master class in writing poetry for the 21st century. SHEDDING SKIN gives a feel. It's about a hooker dreaming of getting out of the business:

sucking on a .357 chunk of steel
like a pacifier...
she's not a fucking object
and smart enough to know it,

As you see, nothing sentimental or mawkish here. Edrington's work is infused with the sweat of the near-constant summer heat that is Tucson, Arizona — from AFTER HOLLYWOOD:

The heat hung in the air
like sheets of cellophane

from where he reflects, in graphic detail, on years of substance abuse, veins and syringes filled with heroin, used razor blades, brains and blood splattered on dirty floors, too much booze, self and female masturbation, living on the line, even prison green tattoos - it's all here. These two extracts are taken from the first stanza of SICK FUCKS:

a rookie cop puked
into a shit-clogged toilet
& called for an ambulance...

...momma lay overdosed
with a welfare check
coursing pure Afghani
horse through her caved
hypodermic veins