It’s been ages since I’m updated this blog, mostly because all my attention’s been on finishing my second novel, Ramblin’ Fever. Well, I just finished it, and am going to try to get a publisher for it, which I’m not expecting to be able to do, given that the book isn’t about Dracula or the FBI or CIA or Russian Oligarchs, etc., etc. It’s about me and a lot of crazy but very real workingclass people in Florida. People don’t want to read stuff like that, do they? Anyway, I’m very happy with the way it turned out. I consider it to be the Nevermind to my last novel, Fortuna Berlin, which was Bleach (Nirvana reference). I’ll say more about it later, I still have to touch it up a bit. In the meantime, here’s a poem I wrote this morning. It feels great to be writing poetry again. Gonna do it for a while, maybe a year, before I get into my next novel.
The Glockenspiel Queen
Clapped together with butterfly valves
and barcarolles, she enters this obsidious gin palace by quivering
glare of purpling lamp, the long hairs
of her mink coat glittering iridescent blue, her heart’s lambent
love-tingling voice muttering in a haze
of torn-open shadows and burning violins.
And of sharp-fringed sow thistle or the crash with the tanker
truck in Sierra Leone she will not speak. But it’s no secret
she ferments poisons
in a steam turbine foundry in Westphalia.
And it’s no secret she’s been seen flipping tarot cards
in the Reeperbahn,
nor that she buried two exes, a drunken refrigerator
repairman and a Moldovan ball bearing
manufacturer, both of whom died of mysterious causes.
She slips off her coat, gives it to the man and moves across the floor,
her eyes like melting honey, her hips
with more power in them than electrical
storms. She moves across the floor through the deepest shades of Erebus,
a scythe of pink light curling around her throat, a field of lilacs
and piston rings and Italian madrigals at her feet.