http://williamjames174.tumblr.com/

OUT WITH THE OLD, IN WITH THE NEW

Fri, 17 May 2013 21:55:37 -0400

July 19th of this year will be exactly two years since the release of my last chapbook “BUSTED FUTURES/GENTLE DREAMS.” Every time I’ve put out a chapbook, within a few months I’ve hated everything about it…this one was different. Two years later, I’m still stoked on the poems. Still proud of the work, both in content and in presentation. Still really excited to share these poems with people. That’s never happened for me before. I kinda like it!

I never bothered to keep track of how many copies of any of my books I’ve sold. I guess I was supposed to, so that publishers would look at my numbers and think I was important. Or so that I could put a blurb in my press kit about how many people in the world have seen my poems. Something like that. I know I did about five different print runs just of the screen printed version - different color variants, fancy inks, blah blah blah - as well as a couple of “oh shit, I ran out of merch on tour” printings. That means that a WHOLE BUNCH of y’all decided that you were interested in reading what silly things I had to say. I’m humbled and flattered to realize that my words are floating that far out there in the ether.

So, I’m down to my last several copies. I think I have about five or six more sitting in my trunk. Once they’re gone, I am not going to reprint this book again. It’s had a two-year life cycle, which is about as long as I can go without feeling lazy. I had planned on having a full length collection of poems by now, but…well, time makes fools of us all. I’m still working on it, promise! But I’ve also been sitting on a whole bunch of poems that have never seen print. I have a bunch of new poems that I haven’t posted or released anywhere. And I’m gonna be going to the National Poetry Slam this summer, which all comes together to mean this: I’m gonna put out a new chapbook.

I’m putting a total of ten poems here that I’ve never released in print before. The lead-off poem is an old one, but I’ve never put it in a book. The rest are a combination of brand new work, and performance-based poems that never got a print release. I’m not doing anything super-fancy with this (though there will be some special edition screenprinted copies), just a quick’n’dirty chapbook so I don’t feel like the laziest poet on earth, still slingin’ two year old work.

Here’s the poems:

FIXED WING PRAYERS FOR CRASHING JETS
COLONY
MAN TEACHES ORPHANED WOLF CUB TO HOWL
FOR MY MOTHER ON HER DEATHBED
THE FIRST TIME YOUR FATHER CURSES GOD
NIGHT SHIFT AT THE GROUP HOME
WAYS TO LOVE A BOY WITH BROKEN BONES
STILL LIFE WITH SPRAYPAINT
DEATHDANCE b/w EPHEDRINE
MONUMENT

I’ll let y’all know how you can get one of these in a day or several, once I’ve finished putting it together. I’m excited. I hope y’all are too.

w.james
1982-XXXX

deafheaven: 6/11/13 Want this so hard

Fri, 17 May 2013 14:16:42 -0400

deafheaven:

6/11/13

Want this so hard

Got this in my mailbox today. Been wanting this record since I...

Wed, 15 May 2013 14:38:58 -0400

Got this in my mailbox today. Been wanting this record since I started collecting vinyl, and now I have it. Stoked to give it a spin tonight.

referencesforartists: dimespin: lampfaced: stephenmccranie: T...

Wed, 15 May 2013 09:25:46 -0400

referencesforartists:

dimespin:

lampfaced:

stephenmccranie:

This essay is kind of the second part of an essay on taste that can be read here:

http://doodlealley.com/2012/10/01/taste-is-your-teacher/

YES

also, the message made me think of this -

Rebloggin’ because this is good stuff.

reblogging this again because it really changed how I feel about my own art and how I view the art world

I need to hear this from time to time. I’m sure I’m not the only one.

If you’re on the internet today whining about the fact that Angelina Jolie underwent a double...

Tue, 14 May 2013 20:07:20 -0400

If you’re on the internet today whining about the fact that Angelina Jolie underwent a double masectomy because you will no longer be able to ogle her boobs, there’s a part of me that hopes you never get laid again, you entitled misogynistic douchenozzle. Just because someone is a celebrity doesn’t mean that your need of masturbatorial fodder takes priority over their right to ~~significantly improve their chances of not dying of cancer.~~ do whatever the hell they want to regarding their bodies.

justadashofasian: Portland-based poet, Sam Mercer, explains the...

Tue, 07 May 2013 13:16:45 -0400

justadashofasian:

Portland-based poet, Sam Mercer, explains the difference between the friend-zone and the bone-zone.
Please don’t ruin the friend-zone.

This is my friend, and Slam Free Or Die grand slam champion Sam Mercer, explaining why the “friend zone” is a totally awesome place to be.

"The heart is giving war the middle finger and hiding a revolver in her left pocket. The heart..."

Mon, 06 May 2013 22:55:25 -0400

““The heart is giving war the middle finger and hiding a revolver in her left pocket.
The heart doesn’t actually know how to use the revolver.
It just hates being the only one with a body full of chambers where no one wants to go.””

- from “A User’s Guide To My Heart,” by Jennifer-Leigh Oprihory.

See this, and three other full poems, at Used Furniture Review!

(via tiredheartspress)

Photo

Sat, 04 May 2013 20:21:39 -0400

So this happpened. This is on my arm forever now.

Thu, 02 May 2013 16:00:48 -0400

So this happpened. This is on my arm forever now.

Untitled draft, 4/30/13

Thu, 02 May 2013 10:15:36 -0400

Because the tracks to the south are
under repair, we take the train north
from Exeter at a discount, a $5 Sunday ride
to a postcard scene come to life. In Saco,

we eat breakfast in the cafe car, paper
cups of coffee, bagels smeared with cheese.
The landscape moves past us like a movie reel,
flashes of brown, green, a blur of trees

as we slow to allow a freight train to pass by.
Brunswick, we walk hand in hand down Maine St.,
stop at a record store to peruse through
crates of vinyl – some new, still wrapped in plastic,

others dusty, long forgotten, withered relics
with their stories scratched careless in the wax.
We eat sandwiches & crackers in a park
framing a metal bridge, river spilling like a photograph.

In an antique mall you buy a pink dress.
It is paper-thin, heavy as feathers. You wonder aloud
if someone wore this dress to their first dance,
or lost their virginity, or broke a heart.

When we get home, you will put on the dress
and my breath will catch hard in my throat,
but for now it is wrapped in brown paper for
safe keeping. The aisles bow under

the weight of so much history. We walk
back up Maine St. to the station, our hands
folded together like prayer. Or flowing water.
Consider buying ice cream, but the line is long

so we sit on a bench until the conductor
calls us all aboard, climb up into the traincar,
still giddy as school children but exhausted
just the same. We play cards in the parlor car,

you sipping whiskey while I drink coffee thick as tar.
We exit the train back in Exeter, home still ½ hour away.
Your sleepy head presses against my shoulder,
your breath more soothing than steel wheels on rail.

***********************************
I appreciate all the support y’all give me, but if you want to share this I would appreciate if you just link back to this page rather than reblogging, as the poem is still an early draft in progress. Thanks for reading!

uhavenothin2losebuturchains: pretty awful, but sadly true. fuck...

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 12:41:49 -0400

uhavenothin2losebuturchains:

pretty awful, but sadly true. fuck the patriarchy.

What my workday looked like today.

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 10:59:07 -0400

What my workday looked like today.

mikemoschetto: yournewpairofeyes: A Silver Mt. Zion - 13...

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 19:55:47 -0400

mikemoschetto:

yournewpairofeyes:

A Silver Mt. Zion - 13 Angels Standing Guard Round The Side Of Your Bed

When I observe bands still jockeying for position of “saddest jams,” it becomes clear to me that they haven’t heard this song.

ASMZ is still, hands down, the reigning champion of sad. Braveyoung is getting closer and closer these days, though.

NEW POETRY BIO

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 19:53:50 -0400

Because he hangs out with poets a lot, William James tends to write sad things, which he calls poems. Because he hangs out with punk rockers, he tends to yell them loudly. He used to be from Pittsburgh, but recently his brain decided that Manchester, NH would be a better idea. It is rumored, though not confirmed, that all of his poetic super-powers come from his beard. The beard is very much confirmed.

Rest stop on the Maine Turnpike at one in the morning, sometime...

Sat, 27 Apr 2013 21:47:26 -0400

Rest stop on the Maine Turnpike at one in the morning, sometime back around March.

NaPoWriMo 2013: #21/30

Thu, 25 Apr 2013 18:41:00 -0400

DEATH-DANCE W./ EPHIDRINE

This is nothing like swallowing water,

or preparing your jaws for the feast.
It is a wineglass filled with charcoal, dust,

sharpened stones tumbling in your mouth.
You are wrapping your tongue in rock salt,

gnawing on fruit rotten at the core.
This is the dance you have requested –

the ash, slip-streaming through your fingers,
the braid of rope snaking around your neck.

You did not prepare for this – the limb twitch,
the restless legs, the pulse pounding drumbeat

rushing in your ears. This is
the dance you never wanted. If you were honest,

you only told yourself you wished for
the spasm, the sweat shake,

coiled clock springs turning you to knot.
It is a stumbling pirouette. Graceless,

blood knuckled death grip on live wire.
Tighter, still, the way your trembling hands

grasp desperately at hospital ward air.

timtoasterhenderson: Allllllooooooootta this

Thu, 25 Apr 2013 13:48:28 -0400

timtoasterhenderson:

Allllllooooooootta this

Photo

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 17:53:45 -0400

NaPoWriMo 2013: #20/30 - MAN TEACHES ORPHANED WOLF CUB TO HOWL

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 14:58:19 -0400

Brother, see how we are born of different blood.
See the difference in our coats, the way yours

swirls thick - sable bristles of stiff night,
and mine - smooth as snowfall. Ivory. Bone.

How the light disappears into you, hides beneath
your rippling shoulders. How that same light

shines off of my skin, reflects every star back to me,
turns the paleness of my wrists to full moon. Brother,

hear how we learned to speak in separate tongues. Hear
the cadence of my breath, its slow quiet calm.

Brother, for too long I have chewed on
the fat and gristle of my father’s demands.

I have seen him dressed in pelt, your mother’s
blood still flecked on his blade. Brother,

I am not my father. I will not learn to see your neck
only in scope or crosshair, I will not reduce you to meat.

Watch, brother, as I lift my head, turn my throat open,
point mouth to sky. Follow me, brother. Pull your lips

to snarl against bared teeth. I will teach you
every muse I have known. I will teach you to sing.

NaPoWriMo 2013: #19/30

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 12:19:13 -0400

morning arrived much earlier than I would have wished,
four hours stretched thin between “sleep” and “wake,”
three tines that many to pass before the day is done,
and the alarm clock chimed a screaming banshee,
all dust-eyed anxious, my eyes clinging to their lids

but now the sun is a warm coat on cool shoulders,
and the fish are all feasting on hooked worms,
and the river, rushing over stacked stones polished smooth,
is a soft applause, all these branches holding tight to
their budding leaves, open arms saying “welcome. you are home.”