Show Notes:
Show #1! Guest: Micah Zevin. Post date: Oct. 8, 2018
Micah Zevin on Some Say... Podcast! on SoundCloud!
Micah Zevin on Some Say... Podcast! on iTunes!
Micah Zevin on Some Say... Podcast! on YouTube!
Micah Zevin dropped by the foyer to discuss poetry, risks & influences that drive him to write (almost) every morning.
Check out his bio and info:
Micah Zevin is a librarian poet living in Jackson Heights, Queens, N.Y. with his wife, a playwright. He has poems and reviews at The Otter, the Newtown Literary Journal and Blog, Poetry and Politics, Reality Beach, Jokes Review, Post (Blank), the American Journal of Poetry, The Tower Journal, Five2OneMagazine, the What Rough Beast Series at Indolent Books, The Heavy Feather Review, and Tupelo Press. He created & curates The Risk of Discovery Reading Series at Blue Cups Cafe every 3rd Tuesday from Sept.-June in Queens, N.Y.
Website: https://micahzevin.weebly.com/
Twitter: @MicahZz, @RiskMz (Risk of Discovery Reading Series)
Facebook: @RODReadingSeries
https://www.indolentbooks.com/what-rough-beast-poem-for-december-18-2017/
Sept. 2018: https://www.tupelopress.org/the-3030-project/
The Story Does Not Have to Be True to Be True, or It Is What It is Until It Isn’t
by Micah Zevin
Do we covet juggling acts in a hurricane?
I will say my face is not my face in front of your face,
and that I have many faces yet to go through.
I was forged out of you, pockmarks and perfections.
I cannot hear prayers, I can only hear screams
on a hot Monday morning two minutes before noon.
The price of being direct can be silence
if delivered with judgments and paradox.
The gunshots are not gunshots; the delusion is not a delusion.
The protesters are not protesters but fake news actors
Working to eat one more day.
Will you let us be? Will you continue to bother me?
Why isn’t anything clearer looking in a mirror?
I am fascinated by your teeter-totter of views and actions.
Incumbent, you will be pickled and left to think about what
you have done until you become pickles crunched out of existence
at a holiday barbecue where no one is campaigning for you.
The forgotten are being forgotten again and before their funerals.
My hypocrisy is your hypocrisy; I am the last butterfly.
It is what it is until it isn’t (anymore).