I probably shouldn't go all the way through May without a post, so - because I'm too lazy to write a new essay - here's another slew of poems.
The first three are up at GloomCupboard.blogspot.com (March #22)
and some of the others are pending publication at Istanbul Literary Review, Glass and Poetry Midwest.
The last one I just wrote today (cut me a lil' slack ... still needs some fine tuning. Ok, lots ...).
So, for all three of you who might read this, enjoy.
Laughter
Thursday night in America
only the hopeful walk the streets.
Frosted by dim lights,
painted in the murky
whitewash of the moon,
drunk nomads
wander like moths
to the neon signs
that dot the street,
offering promises
only the dead can keep.
While mothers, fathers,
grandmothers and grandfathers,
and children, and even birds sleep,
we wander our black
hole purgatory, caught
between Eden and the cubicle,
hoping the sun will finally let go
and drift into space
so that finally we can sleep naked
against the silk sheet of the stars.
And we send out our laughter
crashing against the shield
of the endless black sky
like prayers.
White Flowers
They sprout
like thin rolled
tongues, whistling
a familiar riff
from a free jazz tune
that you just can't place.
You watched me
standing
on that square of grass
where I peeled
back the paper
of my skin
and let the seed
of that tumor
fall
until the leaves
and the petals
and my smile
turned black,
crumbled
and mixed with
the earth.
Secrets
It's parked on Mulholland,
holding hands,
fingers tickling one another
like spiders legs.
Overlooking the night sky
mirror of the city below.
"Human hands twisted
each one of those bulbs," you say.
My heart twinkles
in the middle of Orion's belt.
The warmth of venom spreads
through the web of my veins
as you clutch tighter,
whisper the heat of your confessions
in my ear until the spider rests
and I can't move my fingers
when you squeeze my hand.
The Architect of Black
Aren't they the same, the stiff
body of a dog on the side
of the road and the road
disappearing into the night?
I whisper half of a prayer,
speed back up to chase the emptiness
ahead of my headlights.
I think about turning them off.
I could. But what might I see
trapped in all that endless black?
What swims here invisible?
What fiber weaves that blank
canvas which runs from
and chases me at once?
In front, white light pushes
a path for me to pass.
Behind, somber red
guides back the black I've moved
into the black behind me.
And me, a lone electric rose
in the middle of some inverse winter,
allowed through until the lamps
finally fade on their own,
until I go nowhere in all directions,
stuck in a web of sticky nothing.
Long yellow lines
crawl from the dark and fly
past in steady rhythm –
like the metered bark of the tires
in the groove of the road,
like the muted beat of a song
I know but have never
heard – falling off the cliff
of my rearview mirror.
Some False Spring
I played hooky
and spent the day naked
writing poetry,
half bored, pretending
I was a recluse genius
until I broke for lunch,
warmed our leftovers
from last night’s dinner
where we toasted soda
because we couldn’t
afford wine and celebrated
that you were not pregnant.
It made me want you more
but too frightened to touch
you, like the ceremonial
Czech drinking glasses
at my grandfather’s house –
if I take a sip I risk dropping
and shattering you
and if I don’t … then what?
Perhaps it was the soul
of our unconceived child
who stepped in and pulled
the muscle in my neck
so we could not make love,
so instead you could fall asleep,
leave me awake in pain,
wondering if I was relieved
or offended. The sun
seemed to be warming
the snow outside
so I showered and stepped out
to soak up the newness
of March – the coming of spring –
but got only a cold shiver in my bones
and a vicious breeze across my cheeks.
Song for the Ladies of the Soil
O Midwestern Girls
with your brunette pony tails,
too baggy jeans and aloof
shrug toward skyscrapers,
sing your pale-toned songs
in high pitched squeals.
Tell me your tales of work
on farms or life in the suburbs.
Let me be the poet that lives
inside you, in the Earthy void
where now subconscious dreams
wait out late night corn field bonfires
and the strong thick jaw lines
of cute, dumb-eyed farm and frat
boys with their shovel-built muscles
and tattered and creased-brim ball caps.
Cast the repetition and thrust
of their hot beer breath from you.
Come, read the stories in the stars
with me and find your song
in the silent power of the soil
on your worn shoes and grass
that stains your jeaned knees.
America has poured her history
into you in hope you'll embrace it,
in hope you'll see the poetry in the dust
kicked up by herds of wild horses, in the thick
heat of summer air and in the irony
of snow-covered black moonless nights.
Let your awkward notes slip
into the lazy country sky
until they become the wink of stars
offering dreams to the empty prairie.
Annual Toads
I was seven and named mine Gus. We'd caught toads
in a murky old creek about a mile from my house,
my brother said it ran straight into Lake Erie. I wanted
to train that toad and take him to school with me.
On the playground he would do tricks, the other kids
would want one too, they'd call me Toad Man.
We'd even make cover of the yearbook. But,
after two days all he'd done was pee on my hand.
I didn't have any idea what to feed him, so my brother
and I decided to release them in the sandbox. We set
them down and they hopped away. I stepped back
into a thicket of milkweed. Under my bare foot I felt
a rubbery squish. We rushed him to the ER of our garage.
I disassembled an old matchbox car and removed the rear axle.
Derek made the cart and the toad died when we strapped
it to him with a twist-tie from a bread bag. We buried him in a ratty
washcloth that summer, right underneath the Tulips
in the flowerbed. That was the first time I heard the term 'annual'.
Tulips were perennials, Gus was a perennial, and Derek
said that he and I were perennials too. I didn't always believe
him though. That creek might have run into Lake Erie,
then into the ocean, and all the way to China.
Wearing your Heart on your Ankles
I like to wear mismatched socks,
use them as a private metaphor
for my most concealed secrets.
There’s an excitement in knowing
what others don’t,
even if you’ve designed it that way.
But, sometimes in public –
say sitting at the mall or on a sidewalk bench –
I’ll stretch one leg first and nudge the cuff
of my jeans so my white ankle shows,
then switch and unveil the black,
roll my foot, parade it a little
like a mute devil on my shoulder.
Then I wait to see who noticed.
I rarely get a response, unless some man
pushing a stroller trips over my foot.
Isn’t there something jarring
about the holiness of babies
that uncoils guilt? A guilt like
only a son can feel for the love
of his mother.
Am I some bizarre brother
of that pastor on the evening news
spreading the wings of his trench coat
in the seam of the freeway?
(He told the police he’d rather
feel the wind fondle him
than let the confused teenage girls
kneel at his private pulpit …
and after all, he wasn’t Catholic …)
I watched the news that night
with my mother. She used the word grotesque.
I said jealousy and a man’s primal urge
to see his name in the paper were excusable sins.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Marilyn Monroe and the Mysterious Penis
It was recently discovered that Marilyn Monroe has a sex tape, keeping the original blond bombshell competitive as a sex symbol. For unknown reasons, the news has taken its toll on me. I feel cheated, wronged, lied to. But devious at the same time. Thrilled and …aroused? Not quite. Curious? Absolutely.
According to reporsts (I haven't had the pleasure of seeing it) the tape is fifteen minutes long and shows Marilyn on her knees, giving head to a man whose face is conveniently just out of the frame. It’s not clear whether he finishes or not. The footage was taken allegedly before her starlet peak and has been in possession of the FBI since the mid sixties at least. J. Edgar Hoover tried his best to prove it was a Kennedy dick she was sucking, but had no success. Joe DiMaggio knew of it and tried to buy the thing (he probably wanted to conduct his own investigation into whose dick it was). He too was unsuccessful. At some point, some joker made a copy and that was recently auctioned off for a million and a half dollars. The FBI still has its copy. All of this makes me mad.
What really cheeses me off about the Marilyn sex tape is that for more than four decades, this top level government agents’ boys club has been passing the goddamn thing around like “Mother’s Pride,” the first porno I ever saw, that my brother’s friend Chris stole from his step dad, that my brother stole from Chris, that I stole from my brother, that I loaned out to all of my friends until one day some friend stole it out of my locker and threw it in a dumpster. You know these goddamn feds have been like middle school boys in a locker room, sliding torn out nudie pictures to each other, holing up in some hotel with a projector jerking off to Marilyn, or secretly fanticizing that it's John Kennedy’s dick. I can’t prove any of this, except with logic and reason and experience. Chances are if your buddy has some goldmine porn you know about it, if you haven’t seen it already. And Marilyn porn?! That’s like having a four-way with a bridal party and keeping it a secret. Guys just don’t work that way. Sorry ladies, it’s true. We know what you said and what position you were in when you said it.
My own indignance aside, there’s something much larger at work here. How coincidental is this discovery of the Marilyn tape? How is it that after 46 years, Marilyn is competing with Paris and Britney and Lyndsay and at least one girl from every season of every reality TV show for status as ‘scandolous sex symbol of the week’? My red flags are rising.
I am not questioning the tape’s legitimacy. I’m just skeptical of the timing. Why now are sex tapes suddenly so popular, and why now – at the peak of their popularity – is the Marilyn tape leaving the good ol’ boys network and coming into public knowledge?
According to reporsts (I haven't had the pleasure of seeing it) the tape is fifteen minutes long and shows Marilyn on her knees, giving head to a man whose face is conveniently just out of the frame. It’s not clear whether he finishes or not. The footage was taken allegedly before her starlet peak and has been in possession of the FBI since the mid sixties at least. J. Edgar Hoover tried his best to prove it was a Kennedy dick she was sucking, but had no success. Joe DiMaggio knew of it and tried to buy the thing (he probably wanted to conduct his own investigation into whose dick it was). He too was unsuccessful. At some point, some joker made a copy and that was recently auctioned off for a million and a half dollars. The FBI still has its copy. All of this makes me mad.
What really cheeses me off about the Marilyn sex tape is that for more than four decades, this top level government agents’ boys club has been passing the goddamn thing around like “Mother’s Pride,” the first porno I ever saw, that my brother’s friend Chris stole from his step dad, that my brother stole from Chris, that I stole from my brother, that I loaned out to all of my friends until one day some friend stole it out of my locker and threw it in a dumpster. You know these goddamn feds have been like middle school boys in a locker room, sliding torn out nudie pictures to each other, holing up in some hotel with a projector jerking off to Marilyn, or secretly fanticizing that it's John Kennedy’s dick. I can’t prove any of this, except with logic and reason and experience. Chances are if your buddy has some goldmine porn you know about it, if you haven’t seen it already. And Marilyn porn?! That’s like having a four-way with a bridal party and keeping it a secret. Guys just don’t work that way. Sorry ladies, it’s true. We know what you said and what position you were in when you said it.
My own indignance aside, there’s something much larger at work here. How coincidental is this discovery of the Marilyn tape? How is it that after 46 years, Marilyn is competing with Paris and Britney and Lyndsay and at least one girl from every season of every reality TV show for status as ‘scandolous sex symbol of the week’? My red flags are rising.
I am not questioning the tape’s legitimacy. I’m just skeptical of the timing. Why now are sex tapes suddenly so popular, and why now – at the peak of their popularity – is the Marilyn tape leaving the good ol’ boys network and coming into public knowledge?
(As an aside, we can no longer say Paris Hilton is famous for nothing, she’s famous for bringing the sex tape into the limelight as a new medium. Aren’t they hardly scandalous anymore? Doesn’t America wait for the next big one? We love celebrities, live with them. Watch them through pregnancy, birth, parties, drug battles, career ups and downs, shopping, weddings, breakups, work. Their whole life is accessible. Except for the one part we’ve never had access to, the one we are most curious about – how they fuck! How they are at their most genuine and vulnerable. So we can see, just like us they aren’t glamorous or extraordinary. They are us too, they fuck, moan, look beautiful and awkward naked. And Paris, with her fake diamond tiara, granted us this wish)
Yes, I am skeptical. I feel like I should be watching my back for a marketing ploy: a new bio pic or a Marilyn line of lingerie or condoms or breath mints or something.
But, then there is this: The man who bought the tape kept anonymous and promises only to lock the footage up “out of respect for Marilyn.” What a sweet fellow. This has lead to a quick-spreading web of conspiracy theories on the Internet. However, we can use what we know to limit our pool of potential buyers.
First, the buyer was identified as a man. Second, the tape cost $1.5 million dollars and he’s getting no return on his investment, so he’s reasonably wealthy (honesty, I think this is a steal. Not just Marilyn naked, this is Marilyn sucking dick on film when porn was a luxery! Honestly, who made home sex tapes with that bulky, awkward reel to reel? … This I worth looking into). Third, we can assume he’s white because no brother or sister or amigo or amiga I have ever met has ever expressed an ounce of concern about who the fuck Marilyn Monroe was. So, I have whittled it down to three potential buyers: 1. It was George W. Bush, in which case he’ll spend the remainder of his term locked up in the oval office manically masturbating to the thing like a deranged caged monkey at the zoo. 2. It was a gay man who wishes he would have written “Some Like it Hot” and thinks Marilyn is just “totally fabulous” in it. 3. Hugh Hefner.
Hugh is a popular one for many. And it makes sense. After all, the FBI confirms the footage was taken before Marilyn achieved stardom (maybe she really did suck her way to the top?). Take into account that Playboy essentially discovered Marilyn, or perhaps vice versa; she was the first Playboy Playmate, launching Hef’s career as hers was just coming into full swing. Back in those days, Hugh was still a looker. Picture it: They courted, she stole his heart, but he was too late when he realized it. Marilyn was swept into a life bigger than her own. And the only man more powerful and unattainable than Hugh Heffner is the President. And JFK at that. So, Hef loses her, the only woman he ever actually loved and he watched her get destroyed by the machine. Nothing he could do about it. So, where do we find him then? The king of the pussy world … with seven blond bombshell girlfriends at all times, owning the burial plot next to Marilyn. Not unreasonable. How romantic, how poetic would it be if the original pimp daddy himself has held his flame for more than 60 years, pacifying his longing with parties and celebrities, and seven women to fulfill his unquenchable love. And here, he buys up her one and only pornographic slip to protect her honor … or, perhaps to re-live the paradise memory of Marilyn blowing him.
And the choice to stay anonymous? Of course! Who wants that burden on their back? Life is hard enough when you’ve got something cool, like a new car or a hot girlfriend, or good dope or something as simple as HBO. Your buddies are already calling you for all sorts of bullshit reasons to use your stuff. Imagine being the king of the porn world and owning the Marilyn sex tape … it’d be a nightmare.
All we can do for now is speculate and wait for a third copy to appear and leak online. Until then, I’m holding out for the future and waiting for the video game.
But, then there is this: The man who bought the tape kept anonymous and promises only to lock the footage up “out of respect for Marilyn.” What a sweet fellow. This has lead to a quick-spreading web of conspiracy theories on the Internet. However, we can use what we know to limit our pool of potential buyers.
First, the buyer was identified as a man. Second, the tape cost $1.5 million dollars and he’s getting no return on his investment, so he’s reasonably wealthy (honesty, I think this is a steal. Not just Marilyn naked, this is Marilyn sucking dick on film when porn was a luxery! Honestly, who made home sex tapes with that bulky, awkward reel to reel? … This I worth looking into). Third, we can assume he’s white because no brother or sister or amigo or amiga I have ever met has ever expressed an ounce of concern about who the fuck Marilyn Monroe was. So, I have whittled it down to three potential buyers: 1. It was George W. Bush, in which case he’ll spend the remainder of his term locked up in the oval office manically masturbating to the thing like a deranged caged monkey at the zoo. 2. It was a gay man who wishes he would have written “Some Like it Hot” and thinks Marilyn is just “totally fabulous” in it. 3. Hugh Hefner.
Hugh is a popular one for many. And it makes sense. After all, the FBI confirms the footage was taken before Marilyn achieved stardom (maybe she really did suck her way to the top?). Take into account that Playboy essentially discovered Marilyn, or perhaps vice versa; she was the first Playboy Playmate, launching Hef’s career as hers was just coming into full swing. Back in those days, Hugh was still a looker. Picture it: They courted, she stole his heart, but he was too late when he realized it. Marilyn was swept into a life bigger than her own. And the only man more powerful and unattainable than Hugh Heffner is the President. And JFK at that. So, Hef loses her, the only woman he ever actually loved and he watched her get destroyed by the machine. Nothing he could do about it. So, where do we find him then? The king of the pussy world … with seven blond bombshell girlfriends at all times, owning the burial plot next to Marilyn. Not unreasonable. How romantic, how poetic would it be if the original pimp daddy himself has held his flame for more than 60 years, pacifying his longing with parties and celebrities, and seven women to fulfill his unquenchable love. And here, he buys up her one and only pornographic slip to protect her honor … or, perhaps to re-live the paradise memory of Marilyn blowing him.
And the choice to stay anonymous? Of course! Who wants that burden on their back? Life is hard enough when you’ve got something cool, like a new car or a hot girlfriend, or good dope or something as simple as HBO. Your buddies are already calling you for all sorts of bullshit reasons to use your stuff. Imagine being the king of the porn world and owning the Marilyn sex tape … it’d be a nightmare.
All we can do for now is speculate and wait for a third copy to appear and leak online. Until then, I’m holding out for the future and waiting for the video game.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
New poetry
I'm going to kick this off with a bang and share four new poems.
Admittedly, partly because I'd like them copyrighted
(which publishing online automatically does). Dig in!
How I Quit My Favorite Job
Hank took me out on a Thursday
night to show me how poets drink,
said work was a dime a dozen.
Said he had twenty cents, he’d give it to me,
I could take the next two days off.
His burly laugh
rang against the stars all night.
They laughed back and the whole
cacophony beat inside and against
my head until it melted into the angry
pulse of my neglected alarm and my
livid hangover headache. But first,
The majestic silhouette of that golf course
clubhouse – off limits when you work
in the grass stained poverty of the grounds
crew – sun climbing slow, pink and ambitious
behind where it overlooks the sensual
rise and fall of the Earth,
slow, soft breaths of a lady’s chest.
I’ve painted that holy image
on the backs of my eye lids.
And the pond in the far back,
near the field, tucked away in that cathedral
of towering oaks, where I hid and smoked,
watched the day yawn and wake –
How I envied the leisure of the careless
geese who dwelt there.
I touched down briefly,
enough to wet my tired feet,
spread a soft ripple,
tickling the soft keys of the muted organ
of the cattails at the edge of the pond.
Took a small bite from the shore, then flew home
into the Heaven of that Michigan sunrise.
I woke up at noon
and never went back.
Skipping Communion
My car is almost
out of gas and low
on oil. It’s begging
for a drink and I
wish I could give
a few back. Rolling
past tombstone slum
apartment buildings
which line the street
like mourners for my
one car procession,
the radio sets free
the rapid eye movement
I missed the night before
“That’s me in the spotlight
losing my religion. Trying
to keep a view and I
don’t know if I can do it.”
I haven’t said anything
at all. Free of verbal commitment
but on my way to work
anyway. How can drinking
make you thirsty?
If that’s the case, all
the universe’s laws
are suspect. And neither me
nor my car, nor the choir
boys in church should
put His blood to our lips.
Or should we? To dry out,
crumble when we laugh
and turn ourselves
into dust.
Generational Poverty
Great Grandmother,
solid study Czech –
though I remember you
always frail with lonely
age – even the whiteness
of your porcelain horse
cracked and forgot
its pristine glow.
Where its free and flowing
sculpted tail was meant,
instead a silent, jagged hole,
an angry tear like the one
ripped in the center of the quilt
you made my mother,
that dream you had
as a girl – Lady Liberty
gleaming bronze and riding
a golden calf.
But she was torn too,
wasn’t she Great Grandmother?
Rotting with mold and green,
sick with a rule of science
which she could not change.
And you, beaming, clutching
your sturdy white horse,
stepping on land, first American mud,
praying not just to ride it,
but forever,
and slipping, soiling
your first American dress.
For Buzz
The hallway of the home where I grew up.
Wood floor stretched like a waking cat.
You spark a cigarette at the other end –
just a shadow, My Dead Uncle.
Tell me, did it hurt when your chest caved in?
Or more when you watched your precious Harley
skid across the asphalt,
spewing an exhaust of sparks?
Or, did you just chuckle, watch it topple
like that drunken lemur we fed Coronas last summer?
Admittedly, partly because I'd like them copyrighted
(which publishing online automatically does). Dig in!
How I Quit My Favorite Job
Hank took me out on a Thursday
night to show me how poets drink,
said work was a dime a dozen.
Said he had twenty cents, he’d give it to me,
I could take the next two days off.
His burly laugh
rang against the stars all night.
They laughed back and the whole
cacophony beat inside and against
my head until it melted into the angry
pulse of my neglected alarm and my
livid hangover headache. But first,
The majestic silhouette of that golf course
clubhouse – off limits when you work
in the grass stained poverty of the grounds
crew – sun climbing slow, pink and ambitious
behind where it overlooks the sensual
rise and fall of the Earth,
slow, soft breaths of a lady’s chest.
I’ve painted that holy image
on the backs of my eye lids.
And the pond in the far back,
near the field, tucked away in that cathedral
of towering oaks, where I hid and smoked,
watched the day yawn and wake –
How I envied the leisure of the careless
geese who dwelt there.
I touched down briefly,
enough to wet my tired feet,
spread a soft ripple,
tickling the soft keys of the muted organ
of the cattails at the edge of the pond.
Took a small bite from the shore, then flew home
into the Heaven of that Michigan sunrise.
I woke up at noon
and never went back.
Skipping Communion
My car is almost
out of gas and low
on oil. It’s begging
for a drink and I
wish I could give
a few back. Rolling
past tombstone slum
apartment buildings
which line the street
like mourners for my
one car procession,
the radio sets free
the rapid eye movement
I missed the night before
“That’s me in the spotlight
losing my religion. Trying
to keep a view and I
don’t know if I can do it.”
I haven’t said anything
at all. Free of verbal commitment
but on my way to work
anyway. How can drinking
make you thirsty?
If that’s the case, all
the universe’s laws
are suspect. And neither me
nor my car, nor the choir
boys in church should
put His blood to our lips.
Or should we? To dry out,
crumble when we laugh
and turn ourselves
into dust.
Generational Poverty
Great Grandmother,
solid study Czech –
though I remember you
always frail with lonely
age – even the whiteness
of your porcelain horse
cracked and forgot
its pristine glow.
Where its free and flowing
sculpted tail was meant,
instead a silent, jagged hole,
an angry tear like the one
ripped in the center of the quilt
you made my mother,
that dream you had
as a girl – Lady Liberty
gleaming bronze and riding
a golden calf.
But she was torn too,
wasn’t she Great Grandmother?
Rotting with mold and green,
sick with a rule of science
which she could not change.
And you, beaming, clutching
your sturdy white horse,
stepping on land, first American mud,
praying not just to ride it,
but forever,
and slipping, soiling
your first American dress.
For Buzz
The hallway of the home where I grew up.
Wood floor stretched like a waking cat.
You spark a cigarette at the other end –
just a shadow, My Dead Uncle.
Tell me, did it hurt when your chest caved in?
Or more when you watched your precious Harley
skid across the asphalt,
spewing an exhaust of sparks?
Or, did you just chuckle, watch it topple
like that drunken lemur we fed Coronas last summer?
Welcome to Word Gnosh!
This is the first of what I hope will be many randomly posted posts. Word Gnosh's intent is to be a site where intellects, aficionados, academics, low lives and the streets come together to chew on the tools of American language. Most of what you will find here will be ruminations on pop culture - music, art, trends, anti-trends, etc. - though, you might find some occasional political commentary, short fiction and/or non-fiction, food writing and brief, mostly meaningless daily observations as well. I'm going to warn you right now, I'm a poet too. So, the event that you'll find yourself reading poetry here is also likely. Even more likely is that it will be mine. I'm not apologizing, just warning you.
So, who am I? My name is Ryan Bunch, I am fond of my middle initial, A., and frequently include it in the spelling of my name. I am the Arts and Entertainment Editor for both Toledo City Paper and Ann Arbor Current newspapers. The first is a weekly, the second a monthly. I am also a student at the University of Toledo, currently in my third year as a senior. I'm a firm believer that higher education is a racket and I'm comfortable taking it slow, so save your judgments if you have them. I am a publishing poet, recently at GloomCupboard.blogspot.com and at PoetryMidwest.org in issue #20. You can read more of my work, as well as a couple of interviews and other writings on my other blog at www.myspace.com/kyrux. I've been fortunate to interview a handful of my musical heroes, including Aesop Rock, Lou Barlow, John Sinclair, Wayne Kramer, Daniel Johns, Honeboy Edwards and friends like The Hard Lessons, We Are The Fury and Stylex. You can search those interviews at http://www.toledocitypaper.com/. Though, the chance that they are archived is highly unlikely. Sorry. I will work on getting some of those interviews and stories up on here.
That said, I'm glad we're acquainted and I look forward to posting more products of my mind here on Word Gnosh. While the regularity of the posts can't be promised, the quality can. Stop by soon.
Sincerely,
Ryan A. Bunch
So, who am I? My name is Ryan Bunch, I am fond of my middle initial, A., and frequently include it in the spelling of my name. I am the Arts and Entertainment Editor for both Toledo City Paper and Ann Arbor Current newspapers. The first is a weekly, the second a monthly. I am also a student at the University of Toledo, currently in my third year as a senior. I'm a firm believer that higher education is a racket and I'm comfortable taking it slow, so save your judgments if you have them. I am a publishing poet, recently at GloomCupboard.blogspot.com and at PoetryMidwest.org in issue #20. You can read more of my work, as well as a couple of interviews and other writings on my other blog at www.myspace.com/kyrux. I've been fortunate to interview a handful of my musical heroes, including Aesop Rock, Lou Barlow, John Sinclair, Wayne Kramer, Daniel Johns, Honeboy Edwards and friends like The Hard Lessons, We Are The Fury and Stylex. You can search those interviews at http://www.toledocitypaper.com/. Though, the chance that they are archived is highly unlikely. Sorry. I will work on getting some of those interviews and stories up on here.
That said, I'm glad we're acquainted and I look forward to posting more products of my mind here on Word Gnosh. While the regularity of the posts can't be promised, the quality can. Stop by soon.
Sincerely,
Ryan A. Bunch
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