May Update

Howdy.

Something cool happened regarding The Novel that Will Get Me Published. I sent a query and the first 30 pages to a publisher and they asked to read the whole thing. That was pretty awesome in itself. They eventually said no, but it was one helluva complimentary rejection letter:

“Thanks so much for sending your full manuscript. The voice still blows me away with its pace and tone. You’ve captured humor and intensity at the same time. Although it is an intriguing concept and a well-written account, I didn’t fall in love with it. I wish you all the best.”

I was disappointed, of course, but just the fact they liked it so much made me think, “Gee, I’m getting really close!” Bittersweet. It was cool.

I’ve been submitting all sorts of stuff again. Short stories, vignettes, etc. Things that were rejected, I’m turning right back around and submitting to other places. Hash tag determination.

I’ve taken a break from Facebook. Place gets on my nerves sometimes. Gets to me, y’know? So far I feel better. More time for writing! 😀

Anyway, the weather certainly helps things, too. Thumbs way up.

Stay cool.

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Automaton

Automaton
JCD Kerwin

with heavy legs i make
the world turn
on its gears.
i hiss vapor,
hold fire;
sparks shower
from my joints.
my eyes
don’t shine;
the conveyor
belt becomes
my road to conformity.
no thoughts,
no memories,
just apocalypse and
long-dead dreams.
(Dec 2014)

Back Door Theology in a Whiskey Glass

**Disclaimer: Contains R-Rated and otherwise controversial content**

Back Door Theology in a Whiskey Glass
JCD Kerwin

I caught snowflakes on my tongue
once upon a time in July,
when the air cut like razorblades
and eggs fried on my brain.

I saw Jesus in a snowflake
when I was seventeen
and Jerry Garcia in a peanut
at twenty.
They both said the universe
isn’t all that large
and Andromeda is not that far
away.

At twenty-five I’m still thinking
about Jesus crackers
and pot leaves
fighting over the world.

I think God is a heroin addict
and It’s laughing at Man
running around with palm leaves,
and back-seat-driving Pope-mobiles.

(I think the Pope and the Queen
go fucking on the weekends
because the Devil makes them
do it. After all,
It’s got candy that’s enticing
to all us lollipop kids.)

I can’t seem to drink enough
to become an alcoholic,
but I’m still too inebriated
for AA to accept me.
I’m chasing horses out of bottles
lining shelves of “just another pub”
in some weird corner of my world,
and I’m not sure if this time
God will take a moment
to join me.

Lord fucking knows
I could use an omnipotent psychiatrist
like God
to sort through the mental shit
I’ve shoved in dingy closets
upstairs.

I don’t believe in angels
but if I did, I’d tell you
one has Irish eyes that glow blue
when they’re laughing, and
they saved my fucked up soul
from monsters in my head.

(Those monsters would make me
their marionette if I let them, but
when my Indigo turns Blue
they stay away and I don’t have to pray
to Jesus Garcia.)

And maybe if there’s Heaven,
it’s right here on Earth,
trapped between the Nowhereland
and Almost There that we’ve created.
They’re our excuses for Paradise,
but maybe Eden’s not man-made;
maybe you can’t find it in peanuts
or grape juice at the altar.

(I don’t care to know ‘cause I know
it’d just frighten me and
I’ve got enough things to be afraid of
looking in a mirror.)

I’m content to walk beside
the same jackass human beings,
because maybe someday
it will all make sense to me…

And I think Jerry might be smilin’,
snortin’ coke with Jesus,
while I’m down here laughin’,
‘cause I found an angel and Paradise
before them.

(April, 2011)

It’s Raining Likely and my Batman Clock is Broken

What? It is. Needs a new battery. I digress.

Phony
JCD Kerwin

He quotes passages from Catcher in the Rye and calls himself Holden at midnights when he’s drunk his head too full of bourbon. He acts tough to hide his self-inflicted wounds, but he’s afraid the world sees right through him. His zealousness convinces him to hit on the older girls, but then he thinks of her and all the ways he hurt her. Sometimes he curses to himself because he doesn’t like remembering the mistakes he made.

He goes to the bar to find reasons for all the things he never did or shouldn’t have done. But the only things he finds are empty beer bottles and girls that will never be her.

He can’t smile when he spies himself in the mirror behind the bar; he can’t face his own reflection without cringing. He wants to gouge out his eyes so he doesn’t have to see, because the face in the mirror just can’t be his.
What he’d give to rewind time.

He’d take it all back and throw himself in the fire he started between them. He’d give up giving into the world and disappear with her. Now he tries to find that place to hide because he doesn’t want to be anywhere now that she’s gone. He can’t remember what it feels like to belong.

He scoffs as he wonders why he cares so much. No one cares this much. He’s not supposed to care. But he does, and it’s why he plays the same songs ten times in a row, hoping the eleventh is when he’ll have an epiphany. It’s why he drinks coffee in the park, wondering if drinking her favorite pick-me-up will call her back.

He tried to get her back, but he’s not a valiant knight; he’s just like the other ego-driven anti-heroes who call themselves “Caulfield” when they’re too full of self-pity to realize they’ve lost.

He might never find the answers he needs, and probably won’t find a way to be with or without her. If she came back, though, he knows they’d be all right. He’d say sorry and she’d forgive him. There’d be no more pretending and no more drinking in bars. There’d be no more Holden at midnights; she’d call him Brian at noon again.

(Dec., 2011)

Tossing Back Cliches and Caffeine

Skitzacaine
JCD Kerwin

I’m subtle. Like a heart attack.
When I’m on a mission,
I’m as invisible as
an elephant on the subway.
I’m riding high, like
I’m snuffing cocaine and
soaring with wings made—
of iron.
Shit.
I fall faster than my stocks.

I almost wish I hadn’t wished
for the super dose of power
to turn me into Superinfiniteman.
Wish I hadn’t drunk the Kool-Aid and
pumped my thighs full of incrediroids
like all the other ’bots who can’t get
through the day without a pick-me-up.
I thought I wasn’t like them.
Thought I didn’t have to be.
Thought I could finish a dream without
kicking off my socks
and falling out of bed.

But I’m just another mannequin
with a pacemaker.

(May, 2013)