P.S.A.

Hello to the Ghosts--

So this school year i'm doing some work for the Columbia Poetry Review, which is distributed nationally and is a great, no-frills poetry annual from the poetry folks at CCC.

We want submissions, really goddamn good submissions. Our reading period has a month left, and i know there is amazing work out there we want to showcase. The reading period ends November 30, so i'll spare us all the snail mail stuff. The link from the title of this post has sample poems from previous issues.

Please send 3-5 poems of quality poetic work to columbiapoetryreview@colum.edu by Nov. 30, 2005. We respond no later than mid-March and pay two copies. but as i said, CPR is more widely circulated than many journals, as CPR can be found a couple major bookstore chains, who here remain nameless. If you want any more information, see the link or just shoot us an email, but i know amazing poems are circulating the scene, and we want to give them a home.

We already have a stack of excellent material, so let's see some more!!! Thanks to all out there in poetry la-la land; everyone at CPR looks forward to reading your work!!!! Be well in luck...

all best,
rc cola

Glory Shall Be Revealed

Let it be known that I called the White Sox victory at least at the outset of the playoffs & provably on this blog before the series began. Tomorrow I'll witness my 1st tickertape parade through the Loop. I was in Bridgeport last night for the game & have never seen so much joy, love and high-fives in all my days.

So i came home emotionally charged & for the first time in a week launched back into my serial poem, which already has lots of baseball buried in it. Thie next section is dedicated to my friend Sean Flynn, who graciously invited me to the South Side to share in the triumphant night. Sorry for the length but the poems are chronological in their composition, which began last night about 1am. Comments have never been more welcome. All love & respect toward the South Side of Chicago, the pride of the City of Wind. Thanks & ten thousand congrats. Here goes:



Tonight, a single bridge,

an infinite zero
& no binary code

to explain the traffic & rain

of scarred throats raving
toward a child's dignity,

soaked, up past bedtime, awake

to scream with firecrackers
in flag-waving traffic, night
taken back for good & all.

Patient shaves clear the triumphant

path for pink twilight & jet-black
banners striping across the sky-

line, where victory awaits a parade,
paper haloes descending
by the thousands--

no barricades shall meet the wind.

************

Rivers halt in the flow of victory,

sad moustaches left over microphones
that have heard enough.
It's time for a vacation, time

not to throw a chair in disgrace
when myth finds you in ill favor.

************


Riots started no fire & the smoke
fills with cheers.

The wind needs more barricades.

Holy holy holy shall the tickertape
parade pass, baptized, through

miles of windows, a million voices

welcome home two dozen slim heroes
& violence crosses no Division.

No turf violated as tonight rains on one

diamond. The city needs more barricades,
but no fires take back the night.

Pinstripes anything but monochrome,
machines washing away the white
spray loosed into the bridge

lights, building a way, a triumphant path.

************

The finest laughter & scar tissue line
sleepless throats.

Heroes waved back to earth after
a complete game shut-out,

a sweep. A century's impossible tears.

Strangers embrace & the temperature
meaningless, hanging out windows,

racing slow motion flags to sail over
awakened graves. The nameless

deliver. Fierce hands wave from dreams.




ps check out the band Oh My God. they are amazing. get right...

yours in absence, r collins

Devotions of the Medicore

"We shall have everything we want & there'll be no more dying"
---Frank O'Hara "Ode to Joy"

Well, true believers, the Chicago White Sox are on the brink of one of sport's highest achievements and a truly momentous & triumphant victory for the City of Wind.

Haivng said that, a note to my fellow Cub fans--

I've heard many terrible rumors of bitterness & dumb jealousy on your part toward our South Side brothers and sisters. If you truly consider yourself to be a Cub fan, you would know that the only thing you have to be bitter about is the fact that the Cubs played far under their potential all season long and that they choked after fan interference in game 6 of the NLCS two years ago. They choked then & have been sub-par since, finishing this year behind the Brewers, which is unacceptable. Be jealous of the Cubs' divison rivals, two of whom made it to the playoffs and one of whom has one game left to play in the World Series.

I realize there is this cross-town rivalry with the Sox, but now is not the time. Be thrilled that the Astros are floundering, even if you hate the Sox. We all share a big beautiful city, and are fortunate to have two baseball teams here, linked by a single subway line. The whole faux-class war thing is bullshit, and in the scheme of baseball, is meaningless, unless the Cubs find themselves playing the Sox in the World Series. We should be joyful, celebrate and learn. It is an amazing time of Chicago, and petty cross-town beef has no place here right now. So please, hate not, cheer on your city and revel in the magical baseball we are all being treated to right now. This is as historic as last year, no doubt about it, and the fact that ratings are down means the baseball is up, and any true fan of the game, especially in Chicago, should be grateful to be alive and along for the ride. If there is a new champion in the City of Wind, let's welcome them and share, everyone, in the goodwill of victory.

I had the Sox in six. Let's hope I'm wrong. Let's get out our brooms. GO Sox!!!

All love & best, RC Cola

The Chicago White Sox Will Win the World Series

Houstonians are not welcome in Chicago, IL at least through the coming week.
(if you have to ask why, please leave this site immediately)

The subliminal man aside, the triumphant path begins today, in the infant fall chill in the city of wind. White Sox in 6 or 7, so we can have it go down in the city limits. For anyone out there who subscribes to the novelty, inter-league classicist rivaly between the White Sox & Cubs:
Your decsison on who to cheer for has already been made for you & will be served rare.

Damn the great violence of storms the ovening of earth manifests against the shores of the Americas. We're getting beyond history & almanacs. Something must be done, some reason please. Help--

For all who read the new beginning last night, yes i know i need a copy editor. grammar is the bottom rung of the english language. what i say is malleable & if anyone wants to work with my words & take ownership, welcome.

As long as you're routing for the Sox..

Barely yours,

r collins

ps if you've never heard of Jack Spicer,you need to. Trust me. I don't have the time to lie to anyone about poetry

No one listens to poetry

In brief, mid-level Hell is being re-invented.

At the behest of those wiser & more tuned-in than myself, "The Fifth Circle" has been reborn. This matters litle to most people clicking up blogs on the Workd Wide. All I can say is my level of hell is being re-vamped; dictated more by the tongues of flames than anything. Since blogs all essentially are writing to the wide world, I'll finsh by presenting a letter written to a friend diagnosed with leukemia. I don't know what to sya other than what came out of me right after earning of his condition:

Kev,

I remember the roar at Wharton your last year on the court, a general, more coach than the suit on the bench. Coming out for a breather only a minute at a time. No sign of the smoke wrapped in a Phillies, burnt down outside the locker room, as the six thousand rivals began to arrive. Not even lack of oxygen benched your game.

Good morning captain. Crew-cuts & cocaine, backyard pick-up games under the motion lights, a garage full of smoke. The love of pure-bred rottweilers, thick as buffalos. The television pulled outside, played loud to reign in three summers straight with the last Chicago championships.

But there are champions to come. The Ill state welcomes many to its thrones. Fall roars south through the city & all the skyscraper lights welcome all challengers. We have together over a generation come to expect flight. Flight: nothing less. Now quick thunder stares down home, the title, both hands in the fire. The defiant hands.

May justice & the heavens fall before being lost to oxygen, a sneaker’s tread squealing on a hardwood court. I will not relent & remember, the impetus of genius is momentum (& luck). Ghosts hang in the rafters of Wharton Filed House without initiation. You’re still our point guard, still Stripey… You and Your MOTHER!!!

Your smoke still curls in our rafters, the mask & oxygen forgotten. A senior year of fire, arguing the lane with future professionals. You are still the general & we young bucks hot for a point guard autograph on weekly maroon & white programs—thousands waiting to storm the court & raise you above eye level.

Glory shall be revealed. You will triumph & expand into a poisonless desert. We will expand, will disperse like pollen in the desert, command a rainy season. You expand & disperse. Still you remain the point guard. The ghosts respect.

The triumphant path speeds, without shadows, thru the roar of a glass canyon. He is what he is because he is never where he is. You live in the high rise you survive in. Traffic backs up days while we roar in the middle of the Avenue. You’re invisible & everywhere. The smoke still wants autographs, builds high rises. We’re forgiven what we have stolen, hermano. Deserts endlessly expand & you are always the point.



More tomorow. More for poets looking to be heard. All thanks to Woody for challenging me. No more dying.



cola