Calling for Submissions

Dear Writers and Friends,

Rusty Wheels Media will be releasing the second of the Worked Stiff Series “Short-stories to Tell Your Boss” in the next month or so. For those of you who read the poetry book “Worked Stiff: Poetry and Prose for the Common“, this second and third will not be the same.
I am interested in alternating between the short-story/short/novelette collections and poetry books for the Worked Stiff Series from now until I die.
The first poetry book focused on the plight of modern man, blue collar troubles, and political common sense. While I am happy that this was the first in the series, themed-based books are going to be the norm.
The second, due out soon, is a short story collection that focuses on the working class and the fictional world in which they live. Some of those stories I posted on my blog as an experiment.
The third Worked Stiff: Back to the Land, we are calling for submissions here: This will focus on nature. Of course, anything loosely involving nature: working the land, camping, hiking, hunting, fishing, quiet moments in the forest…you get the idea. RWM will consider unpublished poems, short-stories, essays, etc.
As with Letters Never Meant to be Read, RWM believes in profit sharing with percentages based on poems/works that make it into the book. Some of you who are receiving your first royalty checks in the mail now from the Letters Project are not retiring to the Bahamas just yet, but it’s a start.
I will of course be taking letters as well and would like to put out the second in May/June. Some of you have already submitted new letters which is encouraging.

Send your poems and letters to:

rustywheelsmedia@gmail.com

or

Rusty Wheels Media, LLC

PO Box 1692

Rome, GA 30162

I look forward to your submissions and I will show you mine one way or another.
-Marc
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A Visit with Poet and Letter Writer Brandon Lawrence

Here is a spotlight  on one of our letter writers behind the recent book Letters Never Meant to be Read.
letters
Brandon Lawrence is a young poet, musician, songwriter, nerd, lover of all things nerd, and a hobbyist. He loves to delve into new interests as any curious human being. Brandon lives in the deep dark of Pennsylvania. We all need someone, or at the very least, something of someone to relate to. Brandon takes that approach to heart and hopes to achieve that goal with you through his letters and poetry. Below you will find a bit of magic in a poem or three.
A Knight in Shining Tinfoil Armor
Ride in from the horizon, sun glimmering off of him.
Looking chivalrous as ever, as rich a king.
Until he came closer to view, and the light had grown dim.
The horse was not a horse at all, and he had not a shield, nor a sword, or ring.
Instead he had a dog, one of great mange.
Tied to his fingerless gauntlet, bound to him by chain.
On him a thin metal, not armor, but silver and strange.
Not made of mail nor plate, full of rips yet no scratches no dings, had not one blood stain.
A man, from a far, seeming capable of the greatest feats.
Not wearing a helm, but a strange resemblance, a sort of metal hat.
Yet from personal space, not owning a pair of boots for his feet.
Looking much like a knight, but one of great shame at that.
He was a man of great respect, kindness and thanks, never asking for more.
A knight of the Templar he was not, but instead a knight in shining tinfoil.
I Am
I am the man in the shade, the man of shadow.
The monster you fear worst, devourer of souls.
Lacking of heart, of breath, no longer hanging.
Having a hunger, endless void, far from shallow.
I am, that which haunts you, glowing eyes, fearful.
Kneel and pray that as above, is not as below.
For you have entered into my death.
I am that which comes to drag, in your blood
you drown, too much to swallow.
But I am what you need, in fear.
Pain and agony, you must wallow.
Free yourself of sin, hear my howl.
Ask not who I am, for by no name need I follow.
But ask what I am, and find I am fair but foul.
I am truly a man made of monsters,
hidden beneath this cowl.
Mother Earth:
The expanse and wonder, to the love and mirth.
Brought to us, but so many lack the respect and love for her.
Her generosity endless, but our care is returned in numbers dearth.
From the sky, the mountains, plains, valleys, sands, and immense land disperse’.
From oceans, to lakes, ponds, creeks, and firth.
Our food and drink, to the very knees that hit the dirt.
To the endless reaches of space, far beyond Jupiter.
A place of infinite creation, an amazing place of berth.
That, to our mother, it gave birth.
Allowing feats of that unheard.
And she has, far beyond, proven her worth.
But we as the apex predator,
have continued to fail with repaying her.
There’s no place in this solar system, quite like Earth.
And there are no parents in this universe.
Quite like Father Sun, Mother Earth.
So we must stop our selfishness, and end this pointless nuclear purge.
We must combine our forces, create a plan to reimburse.
And do our best to save.

“Feast or Famine” -Twitter Experiment with a Poem

This work is about the problem that many of us face when we have money, and then all of a sudden, we do not have money. No, it doesn’t likely rhyme and there are no fairies. Get the notions of High School Poetry out of your head. I recently transitioned from being self-employed to a 9-5, with a kicker 5-9 job to boot, and the change has caused quite a panic. What was living feast to famine has become a slow, dragging form of simple malnourishment. Of course, I am only referring to my bank account and my mounting millennial debt, and not my actual lack of food, not there yet. If this message were on Twitter, like the poem is in mutated form, I would hashtag 1st world problems.

People usually love Twitter or hate it outright. I myself hated this form of expression at first but have become interested in both the power and emptiness that exists within. The same can be said for poetry. There is a lot of garbage on Twitter and a lot of garbage poetry. If you adjust who you follow on Twitter, it can become a nice place to visit throughout dreary days and in the between when we find ourselves craving to be connected. I find myself going down various rabbit holes and in the act of reading more on Twitter than say, Facebook, but both have their moments.

For this experiment, I tweeted a stanza at a time and added to adjust to the form of our modern birdy marvel. Various hashtags and my link to this site were even added if they fit. If not, then not. Probably what I like most about Twitter is the brevity, something I could use even now. Giving yourself less to work with, word-wise can be a nice challenge. I often dream of small snippets of existence in the night and wonder if they would fit within the character limit. I have fun with the act of deleting unnecessary words and getting the message just right.

This poem can be found @marcdcrepeaux in backwards with various hashtags, sent into the oblivion, or below in the traditional format. Both have their interest. Although I did not write this poem for Twitter, I will likely try this again. Your feedback, as always Dear Reader, is appreciated.

If you like my poetry, more can be found in Worked Stiff: Poetry and Prose for the Common

 

Feast or Famine

 

I work hard with fear of a friend called death at my stern

Good to remember these lost moments of worry

Yet I fail, time and time again

 

Then, the fruits of labor from nowhere

Seem to somehow fall right into my lap

An oblivious result of my frenzied panic

 

At once, I feel flush and act as a fool

Remove the famine from my hideous thoughts

What reprieve has befallen me!

 

The cavalry has crested the hill

See them there to free me from bewilderment?

I always knew they were riding, so fast, so strong

 

I peel off the dollars as the lucky ape that I am

My eye turned away from the famine

Groceries fall from the sky, into my belly

 

Old debts paid, lines in the sand forgotten

Wet tide of safety washes over

A cocoon lay with a hole in the bottom

 

This leak spills money in droves, so flush, so willing

Only a matter of time before fear swells in with the tide

Small panic sets in and a hasty recount is made

 

Oh no! There is little left to keep a forever feast

Time is against my dwindling fortune

Bills already sent, prices paid for noncompliance

 

Oh no! Fear eats away at my reserves, chews from my pile

In the night the sea has swelled

By dawn, waves subside and reveal the ugly truth

 

I have nothing, am nothing once again

That is why I must work

Feared frenzy fills my wretched veins all over

 

My old friend, what took you so long to set at my bedside?

Can you hear the cavalry over the hill?

No, not yet, better for us to keep going