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BIG N E W S

 

I know most of my Facebook friends don’t read my blog. Heck, most  FB friends don’t ever comment on any of my posts (HUGE appreciation to those who have done so and continue to do so.).  I’m cool with that. According to my WordPress stats, even less of my Twitter followers read my blog. Okay with that, too. But some of my blog followers regularly check this place out, and have even left a comment. So… because this blog has served as a literary evolution of sorts for me, I want to let you know that my second book (which may come out before my first book) can now be pre-ordered here, here, here, on Amazon. It doesn’t come out until March, but I want to let you know before I do the whole FB, Twitter, tumblr, etc. thing. It’s called When Kerosene’s Involved and it’s a book of prose poems. I wrote most of the poems in the book from fall of 2010 – summer of 2011. Thank you to those who pre-order it, and thank you for your support. I never intended to write a book, but feel quite accomplished and thankful.

Best,

Daniel Romo
author of Romancing Gravity and
When Kerosene’s Involved 🙂

 

WKI

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Most recent spam

 

I comment when I appreciate a post on a site
or I have something to add to the conversation. It’s caused by the passion displayed in the article I browsed. And after this article I don�t play� � Box Scores and Luchadores� and Poetry. I was actually excited enough to drop a comment :) I do have 2 questions for you if it’s okay.
Is it simply me or does it look as if like some of the remarks come across
like they are coming from brain dead people? :-P And, if you are writing at other online sites, I would like to keep
up with anything fresh you have to post. Would you
list the complete urls of your shared pages like your Facebook page, twitter feed, or linkedin profile?

More or Less

 

More:

writing fiction,
cardio,
Jamba Juice,
poetry readings no-show

 

Less:

Facebook,
reality TV,
watching baseball,
reading poetry,
weights,
sleep,
writing poems,
#CholaThursday tweets

 

And you?

Fred Astaire’s First Ever Would Be Tweet to Ginger Rodgers

@GingerRodgers-shitted. showered. shaved. shall we dance?

(an actual published piece here)

Checking Out

 

“It’s not MJ most people are mourning. It’s their own childhoods. Realization that icons they grew up with are mortal as they are is hard to face.”  –random Tweet from Twitter

“My best friend died yesterday.
Last week it was my sister.
And then there was Michael Jackson.
This has been a horrible month for me.”

It was one of those times you don’t know what to say
Like being told your fly is down in church,
Or your soul mate no longer loves you.

Perhaps my disdain for the combination of khaki and red
Contributed to my lack of sympathy.
Or the fact I didn’t know those people,
And June was quite a pleasant month for me.

But apathy slithered to annoyance.
And I hoped my inability to humor people
And lack of patience wouldn’t cause me to snap:
Belittling her 12 item only line,
6 articles in the fitting room at a time,
Minimum wage sentiments.

Am I a monster for simply wanting to just pay
For my teriyaki beef jerky and curtain rod?

Because when was the last time
She even saw her best friend?
How well did she really know her sister?
And can she say how many consecutive weeks Thriller
Was number one on the top 100 charts?

I don’t have a bf.
Every Sunday I go swimming at my brother’s house
In the ugly city with the pretty name.
I always related more to Tito.
And it was 17 weeks…

As a kid I danced in my bedroom,
Loudly proclaiming to the neighbors off key
As if it were true,
Billy Jean was not my lover,
She’s just a girl,
And I was adamant the kid is not my son.

Over the years, I often wondered
Who this Billy Jean was.
Why she didn’t practice safe sex.
And through the years,
I’ve read poems dedicated to me realizing,
She’s the only woman who truly meant it when she
Claimed that,
I was the one.

“I’m sorry. I hope things get better,”
I said to the crestfallen cashier,
Paying my condolences and $15
Collecting my change.

Because there is something humbling about
Putting up a curtain rod,
And the death of one’s childhood.