Ah. The wonderful, glorious, silvery, metabolic, undigested small press.

(spitting on the floor)

You know, it’s an occasion when I have something bad to say. I mean, take a look at this blawg. Some of my comments to others have been to the point, but the poasts have been along the lines of: “Find the good and praise it” because I don’t see lots and lots of use in griping about what’s so if I don’t like it unless I’m willing to offer suggestions about what might be.

In the past year the small press has begun finding me. I was lucky. The Noble and Praiseworthy Bill Roberts of Bottle of Smoke Press found me. Bill and I published a book. I was damned proud and happy that a man of his drive and commitment found the cave drawings I leave on the web and wanted to put a few between the covers of one of his beautiful chap books.

I have a few friends in the small press. They know who they are. I have also begun to gain a few enemies. Nothing significant, which bothers me. In American Indian tradition a man is judged by the enemies he makes, and I have only a few. And then only insignificant enemies. Kind of like kids chew candy cigarettes and play that they are all grown up. I have those kinds of enemies.

Turning that around, I have begun to despise the process. Let me tell you why.

I told Jenifer, whom I love, that I have given this crap, I laughingly call my writing, away for the free and the fun of it on the interweb for many years. And now flies have been buzzing around asking me for “manuscripts”.

(if you click these they get bigger – I mean if you dare. . .)

“See so, and so for a recommendation about who I am,”  they tell me.

Well. That’s nice. But I make judgements for myself. I’m a big boy. I even brush my own teeth. The few which are left after a lifetime of being kicked in them by well meaning others.

There is a woman, who shall remain anonymous for the time being, who sent me a copy of someone else’s banking information, and asked me if I wanted that money refunded to me because she was already sending me a contributor’s copy of my work. Then she ignored me when I asked her why she was sending me someone else’s banking information.

William Taylor Jr. has taken the monstrous task of collecting his favorite authors including Christopher Robin of my hometown Santa Cruz (Christopher is kind of Cock of the Walk in Santa Cruz. And rightly so. . .), and Christopher Cunningham, Father Luke, Hosho McCreesh and some others including himself, and begun editing a journal which he will soon be publishing. I like William Taylor Jr. I know him. He married a friend of mine. He’s a nice guy. So, when he came to me and said, Hey? father luke? Poetry collection. Wann’a be in it? Well, fuck. Yeah! Okay, sure! I know you, William Taylor Jr. I like you. How’s your wife? Here are a few things to consider for your collection.

There are others who frequent my website, and wish to use my work. People who take great joy in despising me publicly (snicker).

LiteraryMary, now co-owned by Jenifer Wills and I, put out a Journal when Mary was run by Jenifer. Jenifer is that part of my life that I turn to when I look for comfort and grace. Submitting work to LiteraryMary was like telling stories with a friend on a cold winter night, drinking something nice by the fireplace and watching the smiles. It’s a beautiful journal, and we’ve less than thirty left.

I’m happy that Jeff at nibble – a poetry magazine – likes my work. I’ve sent him things which I won’t put on my website until he publishes them.

Kim, at strangegirl.net  printed up some broadsides of my poems. I love them They are beautiful.

Then, too, are the publishers of Along The Knife’s Edge (proudly linked over yonder), who invited me to submit a few pieces. I have given them never before published original work. Such as it is. I mean, really? In all modesty I want to write more, but I don’t see what anyone sees in my writing. I just don’t.

So where does this leave me? It leaves me with the rest of the modern world: Broke, living off my savings, relying upon the kindness of family and strangers to make it through the day, living off my wits, and still pounding the keyboard of my ‘puter to keep my fingers warm in the coming coldness of the strange black hole known as my future.

Yes, Father Luke, but. . . what? Why the long poast? What crawled up your ass, Son?

To whom it may concern:
Let this be fair warning . . .

My work has been available on the web, and for free, for as long as I have lived. If you want a “manuscript” of my work to be submitted “for consideration” take a look, and see if there is something you would like. Then write to me for permission to reprint it. But to have the pomposity, and the arrogance, and the bile to come to me and tell me you may perhaps consider my work for publication so that you may turn a profit, and consequently fuck me in the ass. . . well, then fuck you. Seriously. Fuck you. Fuck your press, and fuck your mother, and fuck your children right in the head.

• Bill Roberts? Took the time to know me as a friend.
• William Taylor Jr.? He did the same
• Jenifer knows what color my pillow case is
• christopher cunningham – Hosho McCreesh? They took time to see me as an individual and as a friend
• Jeff at nibble? Again the same.
• Kim? Know her quite well indeed.

You want what I have? I can’t hardly see why. But if you do, do not come to me with greed in your heart. Or hate. Or envy. What I have has been available free, available to anyone who should happen upon it, and it has been this way for years. If you come to me with malice in your heart? I will eat you alive in front of those who love you.

Thanks, Gerard, for the photos. They are dandy.

-  –
Okay,
Father Luke