DAT WHO
It ain’t just football,
it’s the music of the dead marching
second line around the Superdome.
C’est non seulement le football,
it’s homegrown defensive
lineman and levees holding their own against
tight-collared, sweaty-necked Republicans
losing taxpayer appropriations
after betting foolishly
against N’awlins.
It ain’t just football,
it’s Saint Fats and Saint Kermit,
Saint Irma and Saint Drew,
Saint Gumbo and Saint Beignet,
Hail Mary Hallelujah
and a big pot of
Jambalaya.
C’est non seulement le football,
c’est une histoire de l’amour,
with Mardi Gras beads
punctuating touchdowns
and fourth-quarter turnarounds,
celebratory Hurricanes
made with dark rum instead
of dark clouds.
It aint just football,
she’s a City, Queen
of Voodoo and Catholicism,
vampires and alligators,
a million hearts beating with
a hunger
for red beans and rice
and faith
that flood waters
always recede.
© Bryan Borland
CONTEST ANNOUNCEMENT – FAG/HAG SERIES
In celebration of the upcoming release of my book, My Life as Adam, I thought it would be fun to have a little poetry contest. My idea is to invite you, Dear Readers, to write the next poem in the Fag/Hag or Hag/Fag (or hell, Fag/Stag – Google the term “Fag Stag” if you are a straight man) series. No limit on lines, form, structure, subject matter, etc., just a poem that would fit, in your perception, under the title, “Fag/Hag (or Hag/Fag or Fag/Stag) Series: [Your Poem's Title]. Entries will be blindly judged by one of my oldest and dearest friends and the star of this series, the always opinionated MedicatedLady, who still holds a grudge against me because I won the coveted “Creative Writing” award in our senior year of high school and wants you to know that she is not, indeed, a Fag Hag.
To enter the contest, send a poem that you perceive qualifies as “fitting within this series” to my email address: PoeticGrin@aol.com
Don’t post your poem here – that will come later. I’ll collect the entries, remove the poets’ names, and present them to MedicatedLady to select a winner. Your perception of what fits into this series is completely up to you. It does NOT have to be about MedicatedLady and myself. Be creative and invent characters. Be revealing about a friendship (or more) from your past. Write a poem about the guy you knew was gay in school. Flip the script and write a poem that’s anti terms like Fag Hag. It’s all good.
The winner will receive the very first autographed copy of My Life as Adam, as well as a random object from the home of MedicatedLady.
The deadline for entry is Sunday, February 14th. I’ll post the entries on the blog after the winner has been announced, and let readers vote on a “crowd favorite” who will receive the second autographed copy of My Life as Adam and another random object from the home of MedicatedLady. (So yes, there will be two winners!)
Several examples of poems from the “Fag/Hag” series can be found by clicking the drop-down menu on the right side your screen. Other examples can be found at MedicatedLady’s website. However, entries do not have to emulate the style of poems we’ve written.
Good luck, and remember, you don’t have to be gay or a straight woman with gay friends to enter the contest! You don’t even have to be a poet! You just have to be, um, willing to experiment. Like we all did in college. Or that summer no one discusses.
Email your entries to PoeticGrin@aol.com, especially if you were going to buy Adam anyway. What do you have to lose?
- Bryan
WELCOME TO ALL THAT
He’s my pop-cultured brother
from a different mother
and father, my
transatlantic Nordic God
of all things relevant
to our mutual development
as well-informed adult
homosexual men.
He’s my politically-informed
citizen of the world,
left of left of left of center,
more qualified to serve
than my own state’s senator,
crushing any fears
that I’m the only one to have
mmmboped myself to sleep
next to pillows that,
in the glow of high definition television screens,
smell like the golden boy of
the golden age of boybands.
He’s my entertainment weekly,
my rolling stone,
my paparazzi partner, us,
the handsome leads
hiding in Hollywood-suburbia bushes
if time and geography
had made us neighbors,
surely best friends
waiting past sundown,
screaming like girls
for a glimpse of the latest
Prince of California.
© Bryan Borland
FAG/HAG SERIES: FREUDIAN TONGUE
Lately she’s been misspeaking,
mother instead of matter,
milk instead of tea.
Yesterday she admitted
to having a new fetus
instead of the fetish she intended,
which is a ravenous interest
in twenty four year olds.
When gay men come out
later in life,
they often experience
a second adolescence,
as they never had a first.
It’s the same, really, for her.
She buys sexy lingerie,
shakes out her luminous hair
and prowls,
thirty-one divided by two
is the new fifteen and a half.
The cougar by moon,
in sparsely furnished apartments
or short drives to different zip codes,
is by day, by Freud,
calling to invite me to a pregnancy
instead of a picnic.
She just laughs at her oral
slips and fucks.
Her biological clock is ticking
like the girl’s got Tourette’s.
© Bryan Borland
COINCIDENCES AND SYNCHRONICITIES
I have to remind myself
he’s no longer there,
an hour and a half south,
when I see the weather
taking a turn for the worse.
For the first time
in a hundred years,
there’s not a Borland
in Desha County, tending to
the cotton fields, monitoring
the gin and the farm books. The heart
of the land is how the preacher
described my father. The day before
he died, my husband and I
brought furniture to our home,
the bedroom suite my great grandparents
gave to my grandparents
as a wedding gift. We first slept
in the arms of chopped and fallen
family oak
the hour my father returned to them.
Things have happened like this.
I could list them, coincidences
and synchronicities, but for now
I’ll simply tell you of how
Cullen and Ropa cradled
their great grandson
the night he became
head of their house.
© Bryan Borland
SNOW
We don’t often get
snow in Arkansas,
but when we do,
we take advantage
of our inability to drive on slick surfaces
and stay in bed,
under blankets and
flurry-white guilt,
non-essential
employee guilt.
I watch the families sledding
on accumulation
that would make a Yankee laugh.
I trudge outside
in Nike shoes, feel my socks
dampen cold, the opposite
of a baby’s wettening diaper.
Winter days like these
are my adolescent Februaries,
my bedroom window
fogging over from the inside,
from heat on the pane,
jealous of friends
throwing ice-packed bombs
that leave marks
on the arms
of neighborhood boys.
© Bryan Borland
MAJOR ANNOUNCEMENT – THE UNVEILING OF ADAM
On December 20, 2009, my father died unexpectedly from injuries he received in a motor vehicle accident. On November 25, 2009, I gave my father a copy of my manuscript, My Life as Adam. My Life as Adam is a portrait of my family as we struggled to accept both my sexuality and the death of my older brother, who similarly died in a motor vehicle when I was thirteen years old. Because the poems of Adam are extremely personal and intimate as they relate to my family, I asked my father for his blessing prior to moving forward to publish my first full-length collection.
He told me I didn’t need his blessing, but that I had it.
As an early Christmas gift, my father provided me with the funds to hire prominent New York-based author, editor, and book designer John Stahle to create my own imprint. Thus, in his last act of love to me, my father enabled me to bring Adam to the public. Two weeks before he died, I told him, “Dad, you’ve made my dreams come true.” His generosity culminates with the announcement that my first book, My Life as Adam, will be published in early 2010 by Sibling Rivalry Press.
After lengthy counsel with mentors and friends, I made the decision to bypass a partnership with a traditional publishing house. Though there are many wonderful independent presses in existence and many benefits to walking the road commonly traveled, I believe that my potential audience could best be served if I maintained a level of involvement that is so often impossible within the constraints of traditional publication. I wanted to be intrinsically involved with every aspect of Adam, from the look and feel of the book to how it is marketed and promoted. In the spirit of Whitman, Poe, and Wilde, My Life as Adam will come to the masses with its author in complete control, live or die.
There are stigmas associated with self-publishing that I intend to shatter. Perhaps the strongest stigma is that self-published books suffer from a lack of professionalism or quality. I guarantee you that my book will aesthetically hold up to, if not surpass, the looks of other poetry books on the market. I’ve selected the cover art, a portrait by the talented gay artist Seth Ruggles Hiler. John Stahle, who many will recognize from his work on the top-of-the-line journal Ganymede, has worked tirelessly to coordinate the book’s layout and production. I asked gay art guru Philip F. Clark to write an introduction, which he did, and folks, it blew me away. The team I’ve assembled continues to impress me, and I can say, unequivocally, that when My Life as Adam steps out of our collective imaginations and swaggers seductively into your hands, you will not be disappointed.
In the end, my father made this decision for me. He taught me that so often, we waste time by not seizing opportunities. The world of publishing is changing and, indeed, has changed. I could have waited. I could have spent $25.00 per manuscript contest entry and tried to catch the eye of a publisher. I could have done back flips to win over expert panels. I could have sent My Life as Adam out to mainstream press after mainstream press and, yeah, I might have eventually been picked up. I might have been paid an advance. I might have been assigned cover art I abhorred. I might have received little-to-no promotion or support from my publisher. I might have gone out of print after a year. I might have grown old waiting for something to happen to me rather than making it happen myself.
It seems the only argument I could find against self-publishing a book of poetry came primarily from MFA programs and their administrators, many of whom believe in only one path to literary success. Self-publishing apparently kills one’s chances to become an academic. I think I killed those chances myself long ago.
With the advent of Sibling Rivalry Press, the champagne of success or the blood of failure is completely on my hands. My Life as Adam is, more than anything I’ll ever publish, my story. But it’s also the story of the kid in Nebraska, or Illinois, or Alabama, or New Jersey. It’s our story.
My Life as Adam is soon to become a reality. I want to express a great appreciation to so many who have helped me on this journey, including my husband, Christopher Baxter, and friends Loria Taylor, Stephen S. Mills, David Koon, and Jessie Carty. I want to thank Philip F. Clark for the hours of communication and motivation. I want to thank the readers of this blog whose feedback transformed me into a poet. But mostly, I just want to thank my father, the man who made the first thirty years of my life as Bryan truly wonderful.
FAG/HAG SERIES: SPLATTERED
I’m pretty sure this isn’t the DNA
her grandmother thinks we share,
nor the romantic meal:
chocolate chip cookies and pretzels
mixed with Coca-Cola and stomach acid,
a potent molotov cocktail
that wiped away my new car smell.
This is a story we’d tell our children
if we were parental material.
Instead we’ll tell great nieces and nephews
about the time their aunt erupted,
about how the middle-aged vomit in one’s thirties
is so different than the party-fueled vomit
of one’s twenties. And just like the twenties,
when I’d tell drunken, stumbling beaus
Just take off your clothes
I say the same to her
but add, removing
chewed chunks of carbohydrates
from the tiny hairs
on my arm, Ain’t no boundaries
left to cross.
Rest in peace, purse and pocketbook!
Goodbye cell phone
that called me repeatedly
as it went haywire throughout the afternoon
and hazardous waste
dripped deep into its data.
Farewell all the ways I’ve wronged her:
we’re even now.
Yesterday she spewed
and I stared in horror.
Today I gave her another ride
and when she looked down
and saw I’d missed a spot with the cleaning rag,
we gagged hysterically
and I wrote this poem.
© Bryan Borland
THE CHANGE INTERVIEWS LINKED FROM THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS WEBSITE
“The Change Interviews” project I told you about a few days ago has been linked from the Library of Congress website, which I think is pretty cool.
AT LEAST SHE’D ONLY EATEN PRETZELS
I can confirm that the rumors are true. Yes, MedicatedLady did just projectile vomit in my car. Not to worry, though, Dear Readers, because most of the vomit went directly into my passenger’s side air vent. I will leave it to you to picture what happened when I turned the air conditioning on full blast.
There will be a poem about this in the near future. For now, I have cleaning to do.
Until then, enjoy the irony of this post.
STONED
A stoner friend calls from out of the smoke,
he’s flying back from California
and wants to see me. He won’t show,
no, but it’s the thought that counts,
the one hazy moment I floated
around his brow and rose
to consciousness. Dude
he says, and laughs,
when I remind him of the time
our fishing boat sprung a leak.
The hardest I ever saw him
work was rolling a joint at nineteen,
the way his fingers maneuvered like
linemen on the graveyard shift,
tired eyed, relaxed but precise,
spit to seal the ganja in the paper.
He’s not who I remember,
I tell my husband, who doesn’t believe
he’ll forget me in a heartbeat
when Nacho Cheese Doritos come into view.
© Bryan Borland
THERE’S TALK OF SELLING THE HOUSE
There’s talk of selling the house.
We had a five-year plan, this little
starter we’ve grown
to outgrow in four years this month.
The downpour was impressive
the weekend we moved in,
when the garage door opened
like the wet mouth
of a clumsy new lover
and we nudged in furniture
with broad shoulders
and our lower backs.
We’ve bonded with these walls,
whimpered in ecstasy
and wailed in grief, cowered
once beneath a mattress
when a tornado bullied
our property line. Three
cats turned to four here,
trees planted, some thrived,
others pulled up by my sorrowful hands
at the base of their puny trunks. The value
has increased in time,
fences added, poems conceived,
birthed on the pages of journals
and in crowded but sophisticated bars.
Birds have become recognizable
with each passing winter
of tossed sunflower seeds
and plump, greedy squirrels.
We’ve learned words like
escrow and mortgage
and how to hang curtain rods
and bolt address plates in concrete.
Still, this is a home
meant for a young family
and we’ve become comfortably mature,
the first gray hairs,
more money in our pockets,
inherited objects in bulging closets
and under more beds than we use.
We love your body, House,
your curves and curbside appeal,
the way our music
reverberates off your
fathering roof,
but our bones ache
for hardwood floors
and a fireplace
as another family
looks at their two-bedroom apartment,
calculates what they can afford,
and daydreams of you.
© Bryan Borland
THE CHANGE INTERVIEWS/ALICE SHAPIRO
My friend and fellow writer Ray Sharp and I were recently invited to take part in a project coordinated by author Alice Shapiro called “The Change Interviews,” a series of audio recordings in which Pushcart Prize nominated poets discuss how their nominations impacted their lives. Thanks to Alice for including me in her brainchild, which was particularly meaningful for me because it allowed me to express gratitude at my parents’ pride in my writing ten days before my father’s death. Thanks also to voxpoetica for nominating my poem “Weeds” for a Pushcart Prize. It takes a village to find any semblance of success in poetry.
Alice Shapiro studied poetry and playwriting briefly with William Packard at NYU. Her first collection of poems, Cracked: Timeless Topics of Nature, Courage and Endurance, was published by TotalRecall Press (2009) with a preface by Suffolk L.I. Poet Laureate David Axelrod, and was nominated for a 2010 Pushcart Prize. She is also author of a chapbook, Seasons of the Heart, published by Scars Publications (2007). Two more volumes are due out in 2010 and 2011. Shapiro is also winner of the Bill C. Davis Drama Award for a short verse play (Four Voices).
“The Change Interviews” project was made possible by Evoca. If you haven’t discovered Evoca yet, check out their website. The experience of recording the audio could not have been easier.
JUSTICE OF THE PIECE
I read about straight boys marrying
like I read the obituaries,
morbid curiosity
with a sense of pity.
This one died of cancer,
that one got her pregnant,
this one went peacefully in his sleep,
that one signed away his life
on euphoric leave from Iraq.
Silly boy,
you always love them like that at first,
you always want to fuck their brains out
after you dodge bullets
and step off the plane on American soil.
You’ll go back to your war
but I promise her lips aren’t as soft
as those of us who moisturize.
I can see a tombstone
that marks your body
of judgment and youth,
and a smudged print on granite
of a single goodbye kiss.
Another statistic
either way it goes.
© Bryan Borland


