SQ 2: Some Logic Behind the Meme

Poetry and Sharing, a Tango

 Poem 4 Revised

 Poem 5 Revised

 Poem 6 Revised

 Poem 7 Revised

 Poem 8 Revised

 Poem 9 Revised

 Poem 16 Revised

 Poem 17 Revised

 Poem 18 Revised

 Poem 21 Revised

So yesterday before work I posted a few of my Square Sharables or SQ’s for short, that I thought would be a good idea to jump start the sharing phase of this project of mine.

So let’s outline what we know and talk about why this helps both the knowledge of these poems and the editing process in general.

As editors we are challenged to look at a piece in all possible angles in order to anticipate and preempt meaning and understanding. By this I mean that we are making sure there are as few ‘that’s what she said’ moments as possible so that the art and meaning can be absorbed without distractions or silliness. In some ways that is the control that poets are always trying to get a hold of.

So gather your thoughs as usual, write and be merry. But when it’s time to look at it new ways, don’t get into too much of a routine. Your routine limits you as an editor, even though it may help you as a writer.

I like the way that these little squares follow the tone of Memes like Grumpy Cat and Sean Bean Winter Is Coming squares that rushed the internet lately. They also look a little like vintage ecards with their color variations and all. That contributes to the sharability. And what is a joke, a piece of knowledge, a little inisght without sharing. Secrets don’t make friends.

The inspiration, again, was the Best New Poets blog and their way of pulling out a quote for the poet among the interviews. It was a fresh and needed look into the poem-as-moment movement that we are teetering on.

So what about that. Poem-As-Moment refers to the ephemeral quality of poetry and reading experience in a faster-paced version to fit a twitter world. We are just about to break that barrier between time and knowledge, in a matrix kind of plug the book into your head way. And while that is probably still science fiction, the idea that ideas are getting smaller and more aro-dynamic is something we live in social media without a second thought.

Shaing, knowing, being is a major part of living in the 21st century and poetry is the perfect form to dive in. I did some thesis work on this in 2012 and found most of my predictions to become true. The one waiting for the other shoe to drop is poetry, so why not start that movement here. We are ready for some poems!

These squares will be the foundation of steps 2.5 and 3.5, an effort to develop and edit poems into stages that are both memorable and sharable. They focus on the heartline (the core or inspiring line of a poem that packs the most punch or delivers on promises made in the poem) as a means of guiding the reader towards interest.

Like a preview.
Like a poster.
Like a clip.

There are many ways that the market has perfected these sensory ques and so why not poetry.


All lines should be contiguous
All lines should be full (if possible)
Image is Secondary – Always
Heartline or other valuable line featured

Simple. But effective, I hope. See the SQ’s above and others posted before. I will talk about some of the challenges and benefits in the next posting.

Keep Writing.

Introducing Square Sharables!

Hello readers!

I have embarked on a new project, A. because I have a short attention span and B. because I feel it is time to be a little more sharable!

I saw this concept as a block quoting technique used by Best New Poets, so this is definately inspired by their use of poem and imagery to make a statement.

So these are my Square Sharables! SQ’s for short. They will be links to other posts and may change slightly with the revisions of poems. In general they will take the heartline of each poem and make it an at a glance candid of the poem in total. I have the first 4 poems and a random here as an example! Enjoy and share if you’re feelin’ it!

Keep Writing.

Poem 1 - On Modern Art

Poem 1

Poem 2

Poem 3

Poem 34 - Coming Soon

Poem 126


There are rooms in the house just the way I left them.

Behind doors I will open and fall to the furniture 
My childhood home with the living room couch my mother despises
A bathroom with dry purple flowers beside the sink
The soft sunlines of a painting hung and never adjusted
Down the hall, my ran-sack room just as I left it
Even though I packed the boxes myself
Even though I drew the curtains myself
Even though I cleared the cabinets myself 
There are places in me that keep safe in their own time…
And when I must, I crawl under the covers and am then again. 

Poem 125

I swam next to a man with the most amazing map tattoo and I wished I had one too… this poem needs a bit of pruning but here it is nonetheless.

to my mother,
Why Tattoos are Glorious, and Why I’ll Never have One.
A tattoo is a scar you’ve always known,
A chosen mark only you could see
Until, of course, you carved it there
waiting until you were ready.
A tattoo is a definition of self. An expression of soul.
A deep cut to the marrow of me to see what’s underneath.
Better than a job or a school or a hobby
The lobby of my skin could be the great Gatsby of my life
In Technicolor, in black light, in white ink like lace.
Men with tattoos are attractive.
The bigger the blot the better. It’s a commitment,
A promise to the idea that even in a score, that scar
Will mean something visceral, even if he outgrows the literal
He can commit to a work of art, so he can commit to me.
If I matter enough, if I fit on his skin.
It’s a trust fall with an artist, and you hope they knew
What you meant meant meant, but you’ll only see when
We all see, and even then it’s yours. 
You put your body under a knife,
a doctor makes clumbsier cuts.
But a tattoo is every inch a masterpiece, 
and you a careless canvass.
The body, poor brute, will buckle with time, no doubt.
But I love my throat and thighs as they are mine,
No removing them when they are less than my seventeen self.
No plucking up the lines of my eyes when I tire.
We will wrinkle, and so will the mind, whether I keep
It cranial or wear it wristside.
I’ll never have a tattoo Mom, because you would feel failed.
You might write me off as a hippy or a hipster or a fool.
And in my whole life of secret tattoo envy,
I’m too afraid to choose a symbol of my own.
Not fanatic enough a fan, not clever enough a keeper
Of my secret scar.

And what if I hated it…

Poem 124

Paradise, NV
I got lost tonight.
Let the city take me southward on a current of my current state of wide
Eye’d tide. I knew the ride, when the city and my mind could shake out a compromise.
My city. Made of glitter and sand, with one hand on the wheel we rode together
In the soft glow of the other spokes going nowhere. I was headed home.
But when I looked up at my city I knew there was nothing not my own. Our night glide
Through recession hollow boom-town swallow me whole, I am a city.
With the memory in littering glittering bulbs, clustered tightly in hopes
Of making ritual the glits, but I sit pretty in my city,
Sip the skyline with a glimpse, the dim simple shadow of evening
Makes a reign of this city, which at long last I’ll call home.