Podcasts about pbq

Episode 136: Mapping Experience Part II   Here's a first for PBQ, the second of a two-part series on a single poet! We're calling this two-parter the The Maggie Wolff Experience. We delight in spending more time with Maggie's exceptional series of abcedarians, “Surveys, Maps, and Mothers”, which share an unspooling narrative of intergenerational trauma. Kathy notes the similarity to experiencing an anthology series, with each of the four poems we've discussed offering a complete experience, while added depth and richness emerges from reading multiple poems (this makes Episode 135 or Part I optional but still recommended listening!). Jason calls attention to the skillfully created sonic waves that appear in sections of some of the poems, notably “S” in this episode. We touch on the “lore” of the people in our lives (thanks to Divina for the Gen Z lingo) and Sam makes the connection with Philip Larkin's This Be the Verse (“They fuck you up, your mum and dad.”). All of that and even a quick moment referencing Billy Joel's Movin' Out (Anthony's Song) from 1977 – if you listen, you'll know why!   At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Samantha Neugebauer, Dagne Forrest, Lisa Zerkle, Jason Schneiderman, Divina Boko, Lillie Volpe (sound engineer) Maggie Wolff is a poet, essayist, fiction writer, and Ph.D. student. She recently won an AWP Intro Journal Award for her poetry, and her work has appeared in Hayden's Ferry Review, Juked, New Delta Review, and other publications. Her chapbook Haunted Daughters has just been released by Press 254. When she isn't spending her time stressing about Phd-ing, she enjoys long walks, horror movies, and hibernating at home.   Instagram @m_wolffwriter

Episode 83: Goodnight, Mary Magdalene first aired in June 2020 and features three poems by Vasiliki Katsarou, a poet and publisher. This time last year, Vasiliki published a new short collection of poetry Three Sea Stones with Solitude Hill Press. It's a great time to revisit Vasiliki's work. Dear Slushies, join the PBQ crew (which includes a freshly-tenured Jason Schneiderman) for a pre-pandemic recording of our discussion of 3 poems by the wonderful Vasiliki Katsarou's work. Be sure to read the poems on the page below as you listen.  They'll require your eyes and ears– and “a decoder ring.” The team has a grand old time explicating these artful poems. The muses are sprung and singing in us as we read and decide on this submission. Katsarou's poems teach us to read them without projecting too much of ourselves and our current preoccupations onto them. We're reminded to pay attention to what's happening on the page. But synchronicities abound! Before we know it we're ricocheting off of the poems' images and noting the wonderful convergences the poems trigger –  we hear traces of Wallace Stevens “Idea of Order of Key West” or Auden's Musee de Beaux Arts. (But first we check in with each other, cracking each other up in a pre-pandemic moment of serious lightness. We're heard that “Science” shows Arts & Humanities majors make major money in the long run. Kathy reports that “the data on success” shows that participation in Nativity Plays is a marker for career success. Samantha confesses she played Mary Magdalene in a Nativity Play. Marion might have been a Magi. And many of us were reindeer.. Also, Donkeys do better than sheep over time (which may or may not have been claimed on “Wait, wait… don't tell me!”).  Editing a Lit Mag shouldn't be this much fun, Slushies. Listen through to the discussion of the 3rd poem's deep magic and craft. And listen to our editors' cats chime in). Addison Davis, Jason Schneiderman, Samantha Neugebauer, Kathleen Volk Miller,  Marion Wrenn, and Joe Zang Vasiliki Katsarou grew up Greek American in Jack Kerouac's hometown of Lowell, Massachusetts. She has also lived in Paris, France, and Harvard, Mass. She is the author of a full-length poetry collection, Memento Tsunami, and co-editor of two contemporary poetry anthologies: Eating Her Wedding Dress: A Collection of Clothing Poems and Dark as a Hazel Eye: Coffee & Chocolate Poems. She holds an MFA from Boston University and an AB in comparative literature from Harvard University. She read her poetry at the 2014 Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival, and is a Teaching Artist at Hunterdon Art Museum in Clinton, New Jersey. Her poems have been published widely and internationally, including in NOON: Journal of the Short Poem (Japan), Corbel Stone Press' Contemporary Poetry Series (U.K.), Regime Journal (Australia), as well as in Poetry Daily, Tiferet: A Journal of Spiritual Literature, Wild River Review, wicked alice, Literary Mama, La Vague Journal, Otoliths, and Contemporary American Voices.  She wrote and directed an award-winning 35mm short film, Fruitlands 1843, about a Transcendentalist utopian community in Massachusetts. Vasiliki's website: https://onegoldbead.com/, Twitter: https://twitter.com/cineutopia , Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/vasiliki.katsarou, and Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/cineutopia/   The Future Arrives as a Redhead They talk of mothers in law but not of outlaw daughters her sun and her moon is our son her cool paleness, reflected in an eye that looks like mine, follows her curves along the shoreline her hair like copper coils from beneath a straw hat a Maisie or Daisy, a woman of Stem for whom we stem talk of servers, thumbprint keys, on an ancient island now we are all code-changers the future arrives as a redhead green, green love lays a glove on us, we no longer count in threes, a quaver sounds, and the future all sharps and flats   *   Wedding, Key West A stitch in throat saves time Infernal cough speaks through me @ the bride and groom On sand they stand to create a sand souvenir from this empty glass vessel Sunset drips from the lips of the bride As the prey is plucked from the air between her palms In the gulf beyond the photographer's camera, a capsized sailboat, but no one's looking– The Key light bedazzles and defeats us all Mouth tightly shut clench in the solar plexus   *     Waited you waited with me as the house next door emptied of its guests, then its owners, fairy tale turned animal farm minted with ash and wishes you were my kitchen elf my second thought my echo's echo cocked ear, cracked oasis your absorbent embered orbs that morning of the supermoon setting behind the barn you were quiet, then quieter still white fog settling into the hollows and a thin coat of frost everywhere and this, the simplest death you trained me well, M. I listen for your listening

Well, this could be awkward: when we last featured a story on the podcast a year ago, it also focused on parasocial relationships and included masturbation! This time around, we are again in deft hands. Marie Manilla's short story “Watchers”, set in 1968 Pittsburgh with both the steel mills and Andy Warhol as vital elements, is replete with narrative and thematic echoes that satisfy and leave us wanting more at the same time. Tune in for this lively discussion which touches on budding creative and identity-based aspirations, celebrity, performance art, pain in public and private, and much more. Give it a listen -- you know you want to! (Remember you can read or listen to the full story first, as there are spoilers! Just scroll down the page for the episode on our website.)   (We also welcome editor Lisa Zerkle to the table for her first show!) At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Lisa Zerkle, Jason Schneiderman, Dagne Forrest   Listen to the story Watchers in its entirety (separate from podcast reading)   Parasocial relationships https://mashable.com/article/parasocial-relationships-definition-meaning   Andy Warhol's childhood home in Pittsburgh (the setting of this story) http://www.warhola.com/warholahouse.html   “History” article about Andy Warhol's shooting by Valerie Solanas https://www.history.com/news/andy-warhol-shot-valerie-solanas-the-factory    I Shot Andy Warhol, 1996 film https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Shot_Andy_Warhol      ** Fun Fact 1: the original poster for the 1996 film hangs in Jason's apartment.   ** Fun Fact 2: the actor who portrayed Valerie Solanas in “I Shot Andy Warhol”, Lili Taylor, is married to three-time PBQ-published author Nick Flynn.   Nick Flynn's author page on PBQ http://pbqmag.org/tag/nick-flynn/   Dangerous Art: The Weapons of Performance Artist Chris Burden https://www.theartstory.org/blog/dangerous-art-the-weapons-of-performance-artist-chris-burden/ In her fiction and essays, West Virginia writer Marie Manilla delights in presenting fuller, perhaps unexpected, portraits of Appalachians, especially those who live in urban areas. A graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, Marie's books include The Patron Saint of Ugly, Shrapnel, and Still Life with Plums: Short Stories. She lives in Huntington, her hometown, with her Pittsburgh-born husband, Don.   Instagram and Facebook: @MarieManilla, Author website    Watchers        Zany lies amid clutter on the floor beneath the dining room windows hugging her bandaged arm. She huffs loudly enough to reach the front porch where Mom and Aunt Vi imbibe scotch. Vi still isn't used to afternoon drinking. They can't hear Zany over the Krebbs' crying baby on the other side of the duplex wall. Stupid baby. Plus Zany's little sister overhead dancing to the transistor radio, rattling the light fixture dangling from the ceiling.        The fingertips on Zany's bandaged arm are cold and maybe even blue. This is slightly alarming. She considers running to Mom but knows better. Take the damn thing off then, Mom will say.        There's nothing wrong with Zany's arm, but that isn't the point. At breakfast, without preamble, she wound an Ace bandage from her palm to her armpit. The family no longer asks what she's up to. Last week during Ed Sullivan she sat at her TV tray dripping candle wax over her fist. Aunt Vi blinked with every splat, but Mom only said: “If you get that on my rug I'll take you across my knee. I don't care how old you are.” Zany is thirteen.        Week before, Zany taped a string of two-inch penny nails around her throat at the kitchen table where Dad rewired one of Mom's salvaged lamps. “Why don't you do that in your room?”  Dad didn't like sharing his workspace. Zany shrugged and the nail tips jabbed her collarbones.  She could have done it in her room, but doing the thing wasn't the point. It was having someone watch that mattered. If no one watched, who would believe she could endure that much discomfort?        Nobody is watching now, so Zany grips a dining table leg and pulls it toward her, or tries to. It's hard to budge through Mom's junk piles, plus the weight of the extra leaf Dad inserted when Aunt Vi and Cousin Lester moved in after their apartment collapsed. Aunt Vi brought cans of flowery air freshener to hide the hoard smell—rotten food and cat piss. They don't own a cat.  Lester, sixteen, bought a box of rubble-rescued books.        “You better be setting the table!” Mom calls through the screen.        Zany hates Mom's manly haircut and has said so. “It's Gig's turn!”        Overhead, Gig stomps the floor in the bedroom they now share. Aunt Vi got Zany's attic where Mom's hoard had been disallowed, but it's begun trickling up. “No, it's not!” Gig's transistor blares louder.        “Zany!” Mom calls. “I swear to God! And close those drapes!”        Mom can't stand looking at the neighbor's wall she could reach across and touch, but Zany craves fresh air, as fresh as Pittsburgh air can be. Plus, she likes counting the yellow bricks Andy Warhol surely counted when this was his childhood home, the dining room his make-shift sickroom when he suffered St. Vitus Dance. Zany is certain his bed would have been right here by the window where he could see a hint of sky if he cricked his neck just right. She lies in his echo and imagines the day she'll appear at his Factory door in New York City and say: “I used to live in your house.” Andy will enfold her in his translucent arms before ushering her inside, not to act in his films or screen print his designs, but to be his equal. Partner, even. Zany just has to determine her own art form. It sure won't be cutting fruit cans into flowers like Warhol's mother did for chump change.        Zany's legs start the herky-jerky Vitus dance as if she's running toward that Factory dream. Her pelvis and hips quake. The one free arm. The back of her head jitters against the floor. It's a familiar thrum even Aunt Vi and Lester are accustomed to now. Mom yells: “Stop that racket!” She mutters to Vi: “We never should have bought this place.”       A kitchen timer dings and Aunt Vi comes in to disarm it. Her cooking is better than Mom's, and Vi wears an apron and dime store lipstick while she does it. Fresh peas instead of canned. Real mashed potatoes instead of instant. Vi is a better housekeeper, too, organizing Mom's trash into four-foot piles that line the walls. Every day Mom trolls back alleys and neighbors' garbage in dingy clothes that make her look like a hobo. That's what the kids say:  Your mom looks like a hobo. She pulls a rickety cart and loads it with moldy linens, rolled-up rugs, dented wastebaskets. Zany wonders if Dad regrets marrying the wrong sister. She knows he regrets not having a son, a boy who could have been Lester if Dad had a different heart. Instead, Dad got Lester on at the blast furnace, because “No one sleeps under my roof for free.” Who needs a high school diploma?        In the kitchen, Aunt Vi lets out one of her sobs. She only does that in private after Mom's third scolding: “He's dead, Vi. Crying won't bring him back.”        Zany misses Uncle Mo, too. His pocketful of peppermints. The trick coin he always plucked from Zany's ear. The last time Zany's family visited, she walked through their decrepit Franklin Arms apartment with its spongy floors and clanking pipes, but no maze of debris to negotiate. No cat piss smell or sister blaring the radio. She found Lester in his room at a child's desk he'd outgrown, doughy boy that he then was, doing homework without being nagged.  Astounding. His room was spartan, plenty of space for a second bed if Zany asked Aunt Vi sweetly enough. But no. Zany couldn't abandon Andy in his Dawson Street sickbed. Lester's only wall decoration was a world map strung with red yarn radiating from Pittsburgh to France, China, the South Pole. She wanted to ask why those destinations, but didn't, entranced as she was by all that fresh-aired openness, plus his feverishly scribbling hand.       Now, Aunt Vi leans in the dining room dabbing her face with a dishtowel. She's aged a decade since moving here and it isn't all due to grief. She targets Zany on the floor. “Everything all right in here?”        Zany has stopped breathing. Her eyes are glazed and her tongue lolls from her mouth.  She's getting better at playing dead.        “All right then.” Aunt Vi is getting better at not reacting. The screen door slams behind her.        Zany pulls in her tongue and inhales. She starts counting bricks again until Aunt Vi calls: “There they are!” as she does every workday.        Zany pictures Dad and Lester padding up Dawson. Wet hair slicked back because they shower off the stench before coming home. Zany appreciates that. Their boots scrape the steps to the porch where Aunt Vi will take their lunchpails. And there she is coming through the door and dashing to rinse their thermoses at the kitchen sink. Mom will stay put and pour Dad a finger of scotch.        Lester bangs inside and pauses in the dining room entryway. He's leaner now on account of the physical labor. Taller too. He eyes Zany's bandaged arm, not with Aunt Vi's alarm, but with the kind of baffled wonder Zany has always been after. Their eyes meet and it's the same look he gave her the day she walked backward all the way to the Eliza Number Two—not  because Dad and Lester worked there, but because it was lunchtime, and a gaggle of men would  be eating beneath that pin oak by the furnace entrance. And there they were, her father among them, not easy to see having to crane her neck as Zany picked her way over the railroad tracks.        “What the hell is she doing?” said Tom Folsom. Zany recognized her neighbor's voice.  “She's off her nut,” said another worker.       Zany twisted fully around to see if her father would defend her, but he was already hustling back to the furnace.        “Something's not right with that girl,” said Folsom.        “Nothing wrong with her,” said Lester from beneath a different tree where he ate his cheese sandwich alone.        Folsom spit in the grass. “Shut up, fairy boy.”        Lester wasn't a fairy boy, Zany knew.        Today, leaning in the dining room, Lester looks as if he can see inside Zany's skull to the conjured Factory room she and Andy will one day share: walls scrubbed clean and painted white.  Her drawings or paintings lining the walls in tidy rows. Maybe sculptures aligned on shelves. Or mobiles overhead spinning in the breeze. Lester nods at her fantasy as if it's a good one. He has his own escapism. Zany knows that too, and she looks away first so her eyes won't let him know that she knows.        Lester heads to the cellar where he spends most of his time. Mom partitioned off the back corner for him with clothesline and a bed sheet. Installed an army cot and gooseneck lamp on a crate. Andy Warhol holed up in the cellar when he was a kid developing film in a jerry-rigged darkroom. Zany constructed one from an oversized cardboard box she wedged into that shadowy space beneath the stairs. She cut a closable door in the box and regularly folds herself inside to catalogue her achievements in a notebook. Stood barefoot on a hot tar patch on Frazier Street for seventy-two seconds. Mr. Braddock called me a dolt, but I said: You're the dolt!        From below, the sound of Lester falling onto his cot followed by a sigh so deep Zany's lungs exhale, too. Whatever dreams he had got buried under apartment rubble along with Uncle Mo.       Outside, Dad has taken Aunt Vi's creaky rocker. “He's a strange one,” he says about Lester. “What's he up to down there?”        Mom says, “Who the hell knows?”        Zany clamps her unbandaged hand over her mouth to keep that knowledge from spilling.  She saw what he was up to the day she was tucked in her box and forgot time until footsteps pounded the stairs above her. She peeked through the peephole she'd punched into her cardboard door as Lester peeled off his shirt, his pants. He left on his boxers and socks. Didn't bother to draw his sheet curtain, just plopped on the cot and lit a cigarette. His smoking still surprised her. The boy he once was was also buried under rubble. Zany regretted not making her presence known, but then it was too late with Lester in his underwear, and all. Plus, she was captivated by his fingers pulling the cigarette to his lips. The little smoke rings he sent up to the floor joists. She wondered if he was dreaming of China or the South Pole, or just sitting quietly at his too-small desk back in his apartment inhaling all that fresh air. Finally, he snubbed out the cigarette in an empty tuna can. Zany hoped he would roll over for sleep, but he slid a much-abused magazine from beneath his pillow and turned pages. Even in the scant light Zany made out the naked lady on the cover. Zany's heart thudded, even more so when Lester's hand slipped beneath his waistband and started moving up and down, up and down. She told her eyes to close but they wouldn't, both entranced and nauseated by what she shouldn't be seeing. She knew what he was up to, having done her own exploring when she had her own room. She'd conjure Andy Warhol's face and mouth and delicate hands—because those rumors weren't true. They just weren't. Harder to explore in the bed she now shared with Gig. Stupid Aunt Vi, and stupid collapsed Franklin Arms.       What Lester was up to looked angry. Violent, even. A jittery burn galloped beneath Zany's skin and she bit her lip, drawing blood. But she couldn't look away from Lester's furious hand, his eyes ogling that magazine until they squeezed shut and his mouth pressed into a grimace that did not look like joy. The magazine collapsed onto his chest and his belly shuddered. Only then did Zany close her eyes as the burn leaked through her skin. When Lester's snores came, she tiptoed upstairs to collapse on Andy's echo. She caught Lester seven more times, if caught is the right word, lying in wait as she was, hoping to see, hoping not to.  “You better be setting the table!” Mom yells now from the porch.        Zany grunts and makes her way to the kitchen where Aunt Vi pulls a roast from the oven.  Zany heaves a stack of plates to the dining room and deals them out like playing cards.  “Don't break my dishes!” Mom calls. I hate your hair, Zany wants to say.  There is a crash, but it's not dishes. It comes from overhead where Gig screams.  Thumping on the stairs as she thunders down, transistor in hand. “Zany!”  Gig rushes into the dining room, ponytail swaying, eyes landing on her sister. “He's been shot!”        Zany's mind hurtles back two months to when Martin Luther King was killed. Riots erupted in Pittsburgh's Black neighborhoods: The Hill District and Homewood and Manchester.  “Who?” Zany says, conjuring possibilities: LBJ, Sidney Portier. But to Zany, it's much worse.        “Andy Warhol!”        Zany counts this as the meanest lie Gig's ever told. “He was not.”        “Yes, he was!” Gig turns up the radio and the announcer confirms it: a crazed woman shot Warhol in his Factory.       Aunt Vi comes at Zany with her arms wide, because she understands loss. “Oh, honey.”  Zany bats her hands away. “It's not true.”        Vi backs into Mom's hoard. “Is he dead?”        Gig says: “They don't know.”        Zany can't stomach the smug look on Gig's face, as if she holds Andy's life or death between her teeth. Zany wants to slap that look off, so she does.        Gig screams.        “What the hell's going on in there?” Mom calls.        “Zany hit me!” Gig says at the very moment Aunt Vi says: “Andy Warhol's been shot!”  “No he wasn't!” Zany says again, wanting to slap them both.        Mom and Dad hustle inside where Gig cups her reddening cheek and bawls louder.  “It's nothing,” Mom says at the sight of her sniveling daughter, but Dad enfolds Gig in his arms. “There, there.”        “Don't coddle that child,” says Mom, and for once Zany agrees.        “Now, Mae.” Dad cups the back of Gig's head and there's a different look on her face.  Triumph, maybe.        Pounding on the shared duplex wall, Evie Krebbs, who never could shush that wailing baby. “Andy Warhol's been shot!” she calls to them. “Did you all hear?”        “We heard,” Mom answers as the baby cries louder, and so does Gig, who won't be upstaged. Mom says: “That's the price of fame I guess.”        “Being shot?” says Aunt Vi.        “Put yourself in the public eye and anything's liable to happen. Lotta kooks in this world.”       The neighbor kids' chant sounds in Zany's head: Your mother's a hobo.        “I'd rather be shot than a hobo,” says Zany.        Mom's head snaps back. “What the hell's that supposed to mean?”        Zany doesn't fully know what she means, or maybe she does.        Dad says, “Turn up the radio and see if he's dead.”        Zany doesn't want to know the answer, and to keep him alive she runs to the basement where Andy will always be a sickly boy developing film. Never mind Lester in his bed sending smoke rings up to the floor joists. Never mind her family still jabbering overhead.       Zany dashes to her cardboard box and closes the door, her body shaking, but not from any disease. Andy can't be dead. He just can't, because if he is Zany will never make it to New York. Will never pound on his Factory door. She will never be famous enough for someone to shoot.        She doesn't know she's sobbing until Lester's voice drifts over. “Zany?”        It's hard to speak with that hand gripping her throat and her father overhead still babbling: “Turn it up, Gig.” All Zany eeks out is a sob.        Lester's skinny voice slips through that slit in her door. “Zany?”        The grip loosens and Zany puts her eye to the peephole.        There he is, Lester, on his narrow cot in the windowless cellar where he now lives. He slides his hand into his waistband and he tilts his head toward her. “Are you watching?”  Zany's breathing settles, and the overhead voices disappear taking with them the possibility of Andy's death. Her eyes widens so she can take it all in, the violent strokes, his contorting face, because she won't look away from Lester's pain, or hers.  Finally, she answers him: “Yes.” 

Episode 123: The Catholic Episode   Dear Slushies, we have a confession. We love being close readers as much as we love being close listeners. And if you are a fan of this podcast, we know the same is true for you. We're delighted to consider Charlie Peck's poems “Cowboy Dreams” and “Bully in the Trees” in this episode. We're talking about unreliable narrators, homeric epithets, dramatic enjambments, and the difference between small “c” catholicism and capital “C” Catholicism. Confession and exultation, Slushies! Floating signifiers and The Sopranos. It's a doozy! We hope you love listening in as much as we loved considering Charlie Peck's poems for PBQ.    (Oh, and we excitedly celebrate Jason's fifth collection launching in April, Portrait of Icarus as a Country on Fire!)   At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Jason Schneiderman, Samanatha Neugebauer   Charlie Peck is from Omaha, Nebraska and received his MFA from Purdue University. His poetry has appeared previously in Cincinnati Review, Ninth Letter, Massachusetts Review, and Best New Poets 2019, among others. His first collection, World's Largest Ball of Paint, is the winner of the 2022 St. Lawrence Book Award from Black Lawrence Press and is forthcoming April 2024.   Twitter: @chip_nutter   Cowboy Dreams   Winedrunk along the river on a Tuesday, boy howdy, my life. I ignore another call from my mother because today  is about the matted grass and the skipping trout. When my brother jumps companies after the Christmas bonus, it's Ruthless. When I pillage the family silver to slick forty bucks at a pawn shop,  It's time you start thinking about recovery. Instinct makes me wreck anyone who comes  too close. You ever snapped a dog's stick just to watch his ears drop? I'm Catholic with how quick I loose my tongue to confess,  my guilt just a frequency my ears quit hearing.  One snowy May in the Colorado mountains, I stripped  to my underwear and raised my pack to wade the glacial river. Dried by a fire with a pot of beans. All night I dreamt of my lasso and revolver, riding the hot-blooded horse alone across the plains, no one in sight to hurt. Bully in the Trees   Indiana cornfields leave so much     to be desired, and lately I've desired nothing   but clean sheets and pretzel bread. For a decade    I was ruthless, took whatever I wanted:   last donut in the office breakroom, merged    lanes out of turn. I stole my roommate's    change jar, sat on the floor of a Wells Fargo    rolling quarters to buy an eighth. In this new year,   I promise I'll stop being the loudest in the room    like a bear ravaging a campsite just to be the bully   in the trees. For so long I thought my cruelty    was the world's fault, my stubbed toe blamed   on the coffee table's leg, not my stumbling in the dark.    Throwing every fish back to the river    doesn't forgive the hooked hole I caused.    Once, I undressed a woman in the giraffe enclosure,   but maybe that was a Soprano's episode. Once,    my life was so ordinary I replaced it   with the things I saw on television. I ate fifty    hard-boiled eggs. I robbed the bank and screamed   Attica! I stood in the trees cuffing the Nebraska    suburb and watched my mother set the table   through the window. A porcelain plate at each chair.    My ordinary life stranged by the window frame.   If I fall asleep before the credits, let me dream the rest.    My pockets are empty, but the metal detector still shrieks.

In this episode we discussed three very different poems by Oregon poet Lorna Rose, all three resulting in juicy conversation and resulting in three tie-breakers (none of them involving the same voting configurations amongst our team!). This was a big first for us. The episode was kicked off by a larger discussion (prompted by the first poem) around aspects of cultural appropriation and touched on facets of trauma and language. This wide-ranging discussion and the split in our voting pointed to the power and ambiguity of various elements in these poems.  In the end, a tie-breaking editor helped deliver two of these poems into PBQ's pages! Have a listen!  Note: This episode was recorded in December 2021, so there will be a bit of time travel involved.  This episode is brought to you by our sponsor Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist is A.M.Mills whose song “Spaghetti with Loretta” now opens our show.     At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Jason Schneiderman, Alex Tunney  Absentee voter for the tie-breakers: Samanatha Neugebauer    Links to things we discuss you might like to check out:    "Declaration" by Tracy K. Smith, an erasure poem of the Declaration of Independence  https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/147468/declaration-5b5a286052461    "Native Son" by Richard Wright  https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1992/07/20/the-hammer-and-the-nail    "Appropriate: A Provocation" by Paisley Rekdal  https://wwnorton.com/books/9781324003588    "How-To" by Anders Carlson Wee and retraction by The Nation  https://www.thenation.com/article/archive/how-to/    "Inside Kate Winlset's Mare of Easttown" Pennsylvania Accent, Vanity Fair  https://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2021/04/kate-winslet-mare-of-easttown-accent      Lorna is a Pacific Northwest writer and speaker. Her narrative nonfiction and poetry have been recognized by Pacific Northwest Writers Association and the Oregon Poetry Association, and have appeared or are forthcoming in Scary Mommy, Jellyfish Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, Writers Resist, and elsewhere. She's also a speaker and workshop leader. When not wrangling her two small children, she fantasizes about being interviewed on NPR's Fresh Air.     Author website                  Leaving Libya    I flood my lungs   with the wet stench of fish and bodies and fuel.   Dinghy motor whines against the night.      Salt air grinds my skin ‘til it's threadbare and   there's no sitting since leaving Sabratha.   Body clenches tight to its bones      and shrill muscles shriek and weep and lock up.   Damp t-shirt clings to goosebumped flesh under a   tattered orange life jacket. But what life?      Next to me a shaking woman holds her boney baby   and cries. She has shit herself.   Behind me a man mumbles and mumbles for water.      His eyes roll hollow,   mouth slacks open.   From his breath      I smell the thick stink of rot,   the gray smell of   forgotten humanity.      Lights of the Italian coastline appear and   my heart races,   vision blurs.  From somewhere behind there's a jolt.   Yelling.   Floor tilts.      And the lights of Lampedusa go black.        Surviving the Rush    No music plays in   the general store in Circle, Alaska,   which is full of mukluks and      Wonder Bread.      Villagers fish the Yukon,   memorize river rise,   bet on      breakup.      Long ago miners arrived from Outside  to sift, chip   rip fortunes     from earth.      Stilts were drilled into permafrost and   structures were imposed and   all bustle and      rage.      Then claims fell dry and   no patience and Circle started to     wither.     The locals   picked up pieces of buildings, tried to   heal the      pock-marked ground.      Today a tourist's crisp dollar might   mean something,   except the locals would have to tolerate      the perfumey tourist.      Villagers fish the Yukon,   memorize river rise,   bet on breakup. The soil smells of      fool's gold and blood. 

Did you know using metaphors and distinctions in coaching sessions can improve your impact and results? When we communicate ideas and concepts through metaphors and distinctions, they become easier to understand and accept by our clients, and thus, more effective for creating mindset shifts. In today's episode, Coach Ajit shares the recording of a live coaching session by master coach Jason Goldberg, where he coaches an audience member who is struggling with self-worth using metaphors and distinctions. This conversation was recorded in front of a live audience at Mindvalley University 2019.  Jason Goldberg is an entrepreneur, transformational speaker, trainer, host, and author of the best-selling book “Prison Break.” Listen in on this episode to hear how a master coach coaches live and learn the powerful tools of metaphors and distinctions to create profound transformation.    Key Insights: How to coach using metaphors and distinctions. Demonstration on how the power of distinctions can help clients see new perspectives on their challenges. The importance of adding playfulness in life and business. How to use the PBQ coaching tool “Prison Break Questions."  Dive deeper into Metaphors & Distinctions with Jason Goldberg inside the Evercoach Membership.   Connect with us! IG: @officiallyajit IG: @evercoach.mindvalley FB: Evercoach by Mindvalley Website: www.evercoach.com Thank you so much for checking out this episode of Master Coaching with Ajit. If you enjoyed this episode, please leave us a rating and review on your favorite podcast app, and don't forget to subscribe to enjoy every new episode, every single week.

In anticipation of the Collingswood Book Festival, we thought it might be nice to have some of our senior editors and a couple of festival participants sit down for a proper chat about poetry and community, the anonymity of sending work out into the void and the anonymity of masks, and of course, bears and bathrobes. Enjoy and let us know what you think! Has the pandemic made writing more universal or melted our minds so terribly that our relationship to literature has changed? Will readings stay virtual and/or can we find a happy relationship between Zoom and IRL? This episode includes these special guests: Cynthia Dewi Oka is the author of Fire Is Not a Country (2021) and Salvage (2017) from Northwestern University Press, and Nomad of Salt and Hard Water (2016) from Thread Makes Blanket Press. A recipient of the Tupelo Quarterly Poetry Prize and the Leeway Transformation Award, her writing has appeared in The Atlantic, POETRY, Academy of American Poets, The Rumpus, PANK, Guernica, ESPNW, and elsewhere. In collaboration with Philadelphia Contemporary, Friends of the Rail Park, and Asian Arts Initiative, her experimental poem, Future Revisions, was exhibited at the Rail Park billboard in Philadelphia from July to August 2021. She has taught creative writing at Bryn Mawr College and is a 2021-2022 Poet in Residence at the Amy Clampitt House in Lenox, MA. She is originally from Bali, Indonesia.  Rogan Kelly is the author of Demolition in the Tropics (Seven Kitchens Press, 2019). His work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in New Orleans Review, The Penn Review, Plume, RHINO, and elsewhere. He is the editor of The Night Heron Barks and Ran Off With the Star Bassoon. We thought we'd include our bio's here, since we never do: Jason Schneiderman is the author of four books of poems, most recently Hold Me Tight (Red Hen 2020) and Primary Source (Red Hen 2016). He edited the anthology Queer: A Reader for Writers (Oxford UP 2016). His poems and essays have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including American Poetry Review, Best American Poetry, VQR, The Believer, and The Penguin Book of the Sonnet; he is a co-host of the podcast Painted Bride Quarterly Slush Pile. His awards include the Shestack Award and a Fulbright Fellowship. He is an Associate Professor of English at the Borough of Manhattan Community College and teaches in the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College.  Kathleen Volk Miller has written for LitHub, NYT Modern Love, O, the Oprah magazine, Salon, the NYTimes, Huffington Post, Washington Post, Family Circle, Philadelphia Magazine and other venues. “How We Want to Live,” an essay, was chosen as the penultimate piece in Oprah's Book of Starting Over (Flat Iron Books, Hearst Publications, 2016). She is co-editor of the anthology, Humor: A Reader for Writers (Oxford University Press, 2014). She is co-editor of The Painted Bride Quarterly and co-host of PBQ's podcast, Slush Pile. She has also published in literary magazines, such as Drunken Boat, Opium, and other venues. She holds “Healing through Writing” and “Writing and Neuroplasticity” workshops, and other memoir classes. She consults on literary magazine start up, working with college students, and getting published in literary magazines.  She is a professor at Drexel University.  Marion Wrenn is Director of the Writing Program; Senior Lecturer of Writing and Literature and Creative Writing at NYU Abu Dhabi. Marion C. Wrenn is a media critic, cultural historian, and literary editor who writes essays and creative non-fiction. She earned her PhD from NYU's Department of Media, Culture, and Communication and has received grants and awards from NYU, the AAUW, and the Rockefeller Archive Center.  Recent work on satirical news and citizen audiences have appeared in Poetics. Her essays have appeared in American Poetry Review, South Loop Review, and elsewhere. She co-edits the literary journal Painted Bride Quarterly (pbqmag.org) and has taught writing at NYU, Parsons, and the Princeton Writing Program.  This episode is brought to you by one of our sponsors, Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist  A.M.Mills, whose song “Spaghetti with Loretta” now opens our show. 

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Fala meus consagradoooos! Tenho uma noticia um pouco triste para falar para vocês. Infelizmente o Podcast de Baixa Qualidade acabou (pelo menos por enquanto) de vez. Eu sei que quase todo mês eu falo que desisti kk mas dessa vez aconteceram coisas que me fizeram tomar essa decisão. Quero agradecer todo mundo que curtiu e deu risada ouvindo eu, Fabricio e Bagre falar bosta, foi um projeto foda de 2 anos que dediquei a minha vida. Não posso continuar gravando o PBQ sozinho, pois não faz sentido nenhum! Pensando nisso, criei um outro projeto em que me dedicarei da mesma maneira, onde poderei ter a liberdade de gravar sozinho, falando groselha ou refletindo algum assunto. Também chamarei convidados para trocarmos ideia. Hoje gravaremos o ultimo episódio com a galera do grupo do picpay. É isto, espero que entendam e continuem me apoiando nessa nova fase do meu conteúdo. Vocês iram curtir muito o Sozim Podcast. Um abraço e amo vocês ❤️ --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/menesdebaixaqualidade/support

POEMS BY KAILEY TEDESCO THREE POEMS ACCEPTED April 28, 2020 Bloomwards & Eggsome   What’s your background, Slushies? Sounds like a loaded question, right? But it’s really a reference to your choice of green-screen background Zoomery. This episode opens with a larking conversation about our current delight in Zoom’s capacity to allow us to upload virtual backgrounds for our physical spaces. (The discussion of poems starts at 8:01 if you want to skip the banter). Kathleen’s surrounded by tulips (while she’s actually holed up in her 3rd floor garret, with a dormer ceiling making her look like Alice in Wonderland). Jason is perched in front of IRL bookcases. Samantha is podcasting with her kitchen over her shoulder. Opting for a plain white wall, Marion nonetheless dons a seriously fringed top in honor of Jason’s signature leather jacket. And Alex Tunney, long-time PBQ editor inducted by our dear pal Daniel Nester a million years ago, joins the podcast for the first time and rocks a Piet Mondrian background. (Nicely done!). All of which serves as a perfect set up for an episode dedicated to poems submitted by Kailey Tedesco. Tedesco’s poems are full of magic and mysticism, shadows and spells. Her work moves across a range of styles—from an ekphrastic poem inspired by Hilma af Klint’s magnificent paintings to a reconfiguration of creepy childhood legends (like Bloody Mary) while playing with forms. We were drawn to the process-based mysticism, speculative feminism, and feminist horror coming through these poems. And Kathleen jumped in and read #7, because…#7.   THE DISCUSSION BEGINS AT 8:49   Recommended Reading: Marion’s raving about Bernardine Evaristo’s Girl, Woman, Other https://groveatlantic.com/book/girl-woman-other/   Samantha’s loving Carmen Maria Machado’s memoir, In the Dream House   Jason’s devouring Brenda Shaughnessy’s So Much Synth https://www.coppercanyonpress.org/books/so-much-synth-by-brenda-shaughnessy/   And we are supremely grateful for the poetry of Eavan Boland, who passed the day before we recorded this episode. Here is her masterful poem, “Quarantine.”    This episode is brought to you by one of our sponsors, Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist is A.M.Mills whose song “Spaghetti with Lorraine” now opens our show.  At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Jason Schneiderman, Marion Wrenn, Samantha Neugebauer,  and Alex Tunney Kailey Tedesco is the author of She Used to be on a Milk Carton (April Gloaming Publishing), Lizzie, Speak, and the forthcoming collection, FOREVERHAUS (White Stag Publishing). She is a senior editor for Luna Luna Magazine. You can find her work in Electric Literature, Fairy Tale Review, Gigantic Sequins, and more.    Her Instagram & Twitter is @kaileytedesco   7 adulthood after Hilma af Klint   you’ll remember me  as a zygote scrambling towards cronehood  on its haunches; i grow bloomwards. my teeth outstretched  on the front lawn  during the violet hour, spelling spells disguised  as poems. hermit to hermit; we kiss  to form  a single nautilus, sistering divinity. tell me when was it  you last  heard from your spirit?  my guides  have abducted  me quite  violently  from the tulips i’ve found myself asleep in.  it is all but true; my eggs  have clasped in my womb  like pearls.  my intention  is not to create life, but death. though, i misspoke — my true intention is  to create life out of death.  find me in the portal  on the left, right next to the electric  fences of my  darknesses, all  clumped.  inside the beheaded apartment   the sky whispers something eggsome then breaks its rain, thick & frozen. i crave the cigarettes  i’ve never smoked; not marlboro. i picture you before the time everything could kill you, glamour   in your beehive & twiggy dress, smoke haloing the mini-chandeliers. i beckon for you  to gemstone through me, egyptology — my lipstick glyphs on the edges of your sink. there are    teeth in the walls, did you know that? whole fangs, pulled clean at the root, & toenails, too,  flaking from the ceiling. i lived with estate sale busts of nefertiti, estate sale victorian lace,    bagged & labeled with the year, estate sale chaises of green velvet. green because it reminds  me of france, where i have never been, but where the sun is a vintage wallpaper. in the window    across the way, women in mourning bonnets have st. columba hands holding tight  to the dogs in their rosary chains. the plexi glass cracks in the shape of a crown or witch hat. there    is no bathroom but the one with the freckled clawfoot. the cats have become anxious with the  roach-scroll of the floorboards. we say they perform theatrical productions  — one ophelia,    lounging in wet lavender sogging the carpet-shag, one desdemona, clawing at tissue for  handkerchiefs. something is crawling in me, teeth in the walls of boning. i wear the whole house   that used to be yours like a corset. this place is no good for us, i tell your lack of existence. all  the bodily fluids of every other tenant filth me — all the living hosts whispering in tune with the    mold water-logging my pillows. bring me my peacock & she-bear, my estate sale saints. it is time i sic them on my landlords, bring back your sight & my seeing. i shall go ahead    and make my own kingdom out of deadbolts. bloody mary x 3    there goes my top skull jack-in-the-boxing from your suzy-talks-a-lot eyelids. maybe i’ve been dead a long time. maybe i’ve been dead never ever. live with me forever in the medicine cabinet   where my limbs smoke ring doll-wards through your own reflection. spinning my head  all the way around is what i do for a pageant talent. every time you call my name,    you put a knife in it—my face wounds towards yours. i become nothing but a blood-aura  on your tooth fairy bedding. unlike yours, my wedding gown will lack knuckle-buttons & i envy.    you should have made me more opulent in the story where i’m saint-corpsed with gumball rings on every finger. let me live display-cased at the dead mall, cradling the body you’ve made us.     i’ll hold you too, if you’d like. we can lace together, spine glued to spine, a jar of our parts  now puzzled. then my head, free by comparison, can decapitate & become a locket    facing the wrong way. the backstage of night is what i’d like to see most—everything zombifying from the dirt of sky.  i see the same stars as you.   there goes my head. i’m coming back to life.     An array of relevant links:    Hilma af Klint at the Guggenheim https://www.guggenheim.org/exhibition/hilma-af-klint And here is the Guggenheim on No. 7 Adulthood:  https://www.guggenheim.org/audio/track/group-iv-the-ten-largest-no-7-adulthood-1907-by-hilma-af-klint   (Or this link, too, for more images)  https://arthistoryproject.com/artists/hilma-af-klint/group-iv-no-7-the-ten-largest-adulthood/ The legend of Bloody Mary Debunked:  https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/bloody-mary-story/ And scienced up: https://u.osu.edu/vanzandt/2019/04/17/bloody-mary-from-the-bathroom-to-the-laboratory/

At the table: Warren Longmire, Addison Davis, Jason Schneiderman, Kathleen Volk Miller, Samantha Neugebauer, Marion Wrenn, &  Joe Zang   This episode is brought to you by our sponsor Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist is A.M.Mills whose song “Spaghetti with Lorraine” opens our show.    How big is an alligator heart, Slushies? Have seen the wingspan of a Sand Hill Crane (a bird once mistaken for the Jersey Devil)? And what happens when you put Mentos in your soda? Life and its peculiarities, its soaring losses and aching beauty, and its utter, utter absurdity come barreling at us in “a flood of images” in Ryan Bollenbach’s poems, 2 of which we consider on today’s episode. Bollenbach has us recalling Willem Defoe at Sgt. Elias in Oliver Stone’s Platoon and envisioning Florida’s “serrated coast.”  Cue Samuel Barber’s “Adagio for Strings.” Bollenbach’s second poem “My Lover Squawk Squawks and then Explodes” demands we take it on face value; the title is on point. Listen for a fabulous meta-reading and feel the way the poem wants you, too, to be Seagull.  We couldn’t resist – a la Dillard’s “Living Like Weasels”-- and spun out into our own squawking flock. Listen in as we welcome longtime member of the PBQ fam Warren Longmire to the podcast. His good work has a wide reach these days, keeping poetry thriving via The Nick Virgilio Writer's House and Blue Stoop.   Poetry discussion starts at 3:30   Author Bio Ryan Bollenbach is a writer with an MFA from University of Alabama's creative writing program where he formerly served as the poetry editor for Black Warrior Review. He reads for SweetLit: A Literary Confection and Heavy Feather Review. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Timber, Colorado Review, smoking glue gun, Bayou and elsewhere. Find his tweets @SilentAsIAm, more writing @ whatgreatlarks.tumblr.com       POEMS BELOW.   Adagio For Strings     No one wanted this smoke. Not Willem Dafoe or the albatross Whose wings Willem borrowed as splint for his splayed arms As if real bullets ripped through him. Not the wisteria Planting its tendrils on the ground’s sweaty palm Like the sun taking pennies as a return investment on heat. I drove my truck at forty miles per hour over the grey-blue asphalt And looked into the eyes of some Sandhill Crane Crossing the road unfazed by the wind whipping off my steel bumper. On the radio, there was a composer giving a talk about the hope he found In the last note of Sam Barber’s “Adagio for Strings.” As if of body memory, Mark’s corpse rose from a bare patch of sand On the side of Interstate 75! As is of body memory, Chris’s corpse rose from the gated-in parking lot Of a pain management center in Northeast Tampa! The ground swallowed every traffic sign in immune system response After swallowing them both on the same road. I drive that interstate northbound to escape the gulf and the ocean Overtaking Florida’s serrated coasts. I keep only the smoke, The Blackhawk’s wingspan, and the violin notes Piled on top of each other like bodies to be burned. I remember The way the Sand Hill Crane did not flinch. I cannot put my tongue around that. Under the trees where I slipped into dreams, I woke skewered By what the composer said, and the question the crane’s eye’s asked in response. From my morning stomach, I pulled speakers made of the hearts of the alligators I have eaten. Placing them in between the saw palm bushes, I started them Broadcasting “Adagio for Strings” in a staggered order.  In the clearing, there were bushes of Pentas and Evolvus In the shape of soldiers kneeling to the sound. There were squirrels kneeling. Snakes bending their bodies to kneel. Bobcats kneeling. Chris kneeling. Mark kneeling. The dusk sun made shadows Of the withered tops of trees. The wind blew its violin trills And all the hearts I planted fell on their side in unison, Restarted in unison from the top. Just as the shadows started to grow, Blue smoke rose from the grasses.   My Lover Squawk Squawks and Then Explodes      We spent the morning before just talking.   He said your body is slick like construction equipment, how it can move the sand to make a runway for my unhurried strut.   He said your body is like a French fry on a laminated paper plate.   In the high noon sun, I said you have a survivor’s disposition. It makes you gray.   Slick and survivor made us think of our own days of darkness, his coated in motor oil on the gulf coast in search of something white, mine coated in olive oil, garlic, sea salt tears and smooth jazz.   I told him his gray feathers and white food made me think of marbles.   I told him that it seemed odd that he prefers dark drinks when we come out to the beach like this.   He sipped his diet soda and said you just don’t understand, but I saw the white shining in the furthest reaches of his black eyes, that look as if he was already gone.   He walked toward me for a kiss, then changed direction. Sprinted to the white pearl beached in the sand.   I yelled to him as he passed me that I could see how, after living in all that oil, the clean sand, the white, could feel romantic, but inside I was hurt.    He picked the piece from the sand with an instinctual fervor then gave a soul-curdling squawk.   He swallowed the Mentos and exploded like a fourth of July firework over Coney Island.

This week on Dr. Dawn on Careers, we're joined by two fantastic CEOs who share their best advice for navigating a job search and why performance reviews are more important than ever right now. Plus the PBQ goes off the rails! See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

This week on "Dr. Dawn on Careers" we talked with Kelley Steven-Waiss, CEO and Founder of Hitch Works, a company that is revolutionalizing talent mobility through AI and machine learning. The future of work is here! Plus, listener success stories and the PBQ! See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Thrilled to have America's Personal Finance Expert on "Dr. Dawn on Careers" this week! Suze Orman shares tips on how emotions drive money decisions, tips from her podcast "Women and Money" and how you can rebuild your emergency savings. Plus we talk about ghosting and breadcrumbing (as it relates to a job search!) and the PBQ! See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

This week on "Dr. Dawn on Careers" it was OPEN CALLS all hour with special guests Mark Herschberg, Author of the Career Toolkit and Scott Miller, Senior Advisor at Franklin Covey. Plus the PBQ is back and we're having more fun than ever! See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Dr. Dawn on Careers is back LIVE taking your calls at 844.942.7866 ALL hour each Thursday at 12ET/9amPT. This week we welcomed Eric Furda, former Dean of Admissions at UPenn and author of "The College Conversation" and Beth Hendler-Grunt, Founder of Next Great Step to share career tips for high school and college students considering what's in store for their careers. Plus the PBQ is BACK! See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Show Notes: Background and how Jason became an international and transformational speaker, trainer, coach, author and host "Don't have to be a prisoner of circumstance, but a self leader in my life" transformational theme that when actually practiced has massive implications for how life feels How he got through the challenging, intense periods? His own coaching experience "What I know to be true is that resistance to change is the #1 reason transformation doesn't occur "sitting in the fire" Lowering the resistance to what it may look like. When we lower the significance, than it doesn’t have to feel like fire, it may be uncomfortable, but if it's looked at through the lens as speaking a new language it will be much lighter. Remove some significance: "if I never change anything about myself I am still fine. I am enough." I remove all the heaviness of transformation and I can just play with it. Let's play with transformation instead of let's overcome every obstacle. Levity. Help client look at their own situation in a humorous way, make fun of their own fears. His most powerful coaching experience from his own coach: So much compassion for what you're putting yourself through right now. "There's never been anything in my life I've gone through that I haven't gotten through" There's a lesson in everything Byron Katie's The Work "Sometimes we overthink things, they are just the way they are." How Jason navigates out of "problems" Increase level of consciousness so we have creativity to solve it. Once that happens, there may actually be no more problem to solve. Story of Barbie doll "Transcend the fact that you think it's a problem" Present but irrelevant: having a feeling be present, but not a relevant part of my experience. Analogy of driving a car with an anxious person in the passenger seat. No matter how that person feels, the car still works the same. It doesn’t have to affect how I drive the car. As long as it's not an in order to . If we try to eliminate the symptom than it's motive based. If I accept it so I can get rid of it, than I haven't really accepted it. Jeff Foster - Falling in Love with Where You Are: "It's not about immunity from stress, but navigation of them when they show up. The less we make them a problematic thing we have to get rid of, the sooner they'll move on on their own." Why Advise s against trying to let things go because it still has a implication of trying to make something happen There's not a right and wrong way to transform "Every system is perfect for the result that it's getting"If you like the result than don't change anything, if you don't than change the system. PBQ's : Prison Break Questions A format for a question that takes something that is a problem and makes it no longer problematic If I knew x, what would I do….How would I show up/respond differently? "if you're experiencing anxieties, its because you're engaging with life, doing something in the world." Usually it’s a good sign because it's something triggered because there's a next level of leadership for you to step into Whenever you feel you're in a funk, go be of service What to look for in a coach the way they see the world is a way you want to see your world. The right coach will ask a question like: "why do you want a coach?" What's the hard part? I'd love to do x, but it's hard to do y

Faaaaaaaaaaaaaala meus consagrados começando mais um PBQ com a presença do NbCast mais uma vez. Neste cast falamos sobre dilemas da vida no qual envolve nossos anús, então bote o fone e veha conosco nessa aventura. Bancada: Will Marques, Fabrec's e Eduardo Ritalino Nosso Picpay: Picpay.me/willzeruela Nossos quadros e bottoms: https://www.tasecia.com/menes-de-baixa-qualidade-que-vao-fazer-voce-chora

Fala meus consagrados começando mais um PBQ aqui da Menes de Baixa Qualidade. Abordamos desta vez um tema bad para você que é um homem inseguro se identicar, bota o fone e venha chorar suas magoas com a gente. Bancada: Will Marques e Fabrecs Picpa: picpay.me/willzeruela Bottoms e quadros: https://www.tasecia.com/menes-de-baixa-qualidade-que-vao-fazer-voce-chora

Timothy Maurice(@timothymaurice) Webster is the author of four brand leadership books, one leadership memoir and consults & speaks on the science of Human & Brand Behavior.  His research and focus are based on three influence pillars; Brain Potential - Behavioral Science and Brand Influence.  Timothy has worked in Africa and emerging markets for the past decade. Timothy’s education is in Business Management, Branding, Psychology, and Applied Neuroscience from Brookstone College in the US and Massachusetts Institute of Technology- MIT.  In this episode, we discussed: - Personal branding - Authenticity - Cancel culture - Social media and more This episode is proudly brought to you by Crypto University: https://www.cryptouniversity.co.za/

Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaala meus consagrados começando mais um PBQ especial com o Ritalino la do NBCast e também com o Fabrecs, nosso novo integrante. Neste cast falamos das mais tristes histórias de fracasso amoroso, profissional e de outras coisas dessa vida de merda que temos. Bote seu fone de ouvido e venha chorar com a gente. NBCast: https://open.spotify.com/show/2gu2t5c5GqNBCDju5lXnhC Quadros e bottons do PBQ: https://www.tasecia.com/menes-de-baixa-qualidade-que-vao-fazer-voce-chora

Faaaaaaaala meus consagrados começando mais um PBQ, porém dessa vez a qualidade está altissima pois convidei o ator Filipe Bragança para trocar aquela ideia. Falamos sobre politica (quem diria?), cinema, teatro, atores fodas e muito mais. Ouve e compartilha pra fortalecer o rolê porque esse papo está sensaciona. Nosso PicPay: picpay.me/willzeruela Bottons e quadros: https://www.tasecia.com/menes-de-baixa-qualidade-que-vao-fazer-voce-chora

Dear Slushies, join the PBQ crew (which includes a freshly-tenured Jason Schneiderman) for a pre-pandemic recording of our discussion of 3 poems by the wonderful Vasiliki Katsarou’s work. Be sure to read the poems on the page below as you listen.  They’ll require your eyes and ears-- and “a decoder ring.” The team has a grand old time explicating these artful poems. The muses are sprung and singing in us as we read and decide on this submission. Katsarou’s poems teach us to read them without projecting too much of ourselves and our current preoccupations onto them. We’re reminded to pay attention to what’s happening on the page. But synchronicities abound! Before we know it we’re ricocheting off of the poems’ images and noting the wonderful convergences the poems trigger -  we hear traces of Wallace Stevens “Idea of Order of Key West” or Auden’s Musee de Beaux Arts. (But first we check in with each other, cracking each other up in a pre-pandemic moment of serious lightness. We’re heard that “Science” shows Arts & Humanities majors make major money in the long run. Kathy reports that “the data on success” shows that participation in Nativity Plays is a marker for career success. Samantha confesses she played Mary Magdalene in a Nativity Play. Marion might have been a Magi. And many of us were reindeer.. Also, Donkeys do better than sheep over time (which may or may not have been claimed on “Wait, wait… don’t tell me!”).  Editing a Lit Mag shouldn’t be this much fun, Slushies. Listen through to the discussion of the 3rd poem’s deep magic and craft. And listen to our editors’ cats chime in). Addison Davis, Jason Schneiderman, Samantha Neugebauer, Kathleen Volk Miller,  Marion Wrenn, and Joe Zang

Be warned. We love the writers who submit to PBQ, slushies. We love doing this podcast. And we love you; we love that you listen to us discuss and deliberate. In short, slushies, as Mister Rogers would say: “1-4-3.”  One. Four. Three. (I. L-o-v-e. Y-o-u). (Get it?!). We do. It’s hopeless. We’re hooked.  We discuss 3 poems by James Pollock in this episode. Join us for this wonderfully raucous discussion of craft and precision, technology and point of view, and big ass fans™. Addison is sleep deprived (too much late night coffee). Jason is in his jammies (sleeping in after hosting KGB’s open mic Monday). Marion is a cheerful maniac in Abu Dhabi, and Samantha calls in from Dubai.  Reminding us of Pinsky’s First Things to Hand, Pollock’s poems spin us around, bathe us with craft, and make us re-see things, especially the power of poetry. Yup: That sentence actually refers to all 3 of the seamlessly crafted poems Pollock shared with us--   “Ceiling Fan,” and “Shower,” and “Spectacles,”  And yup, by calling your attention to it, we just exposed our seams. (Ugh. Craft is hard. For poets and coffee roasters. “Form makes the language seem inevitable,” sayeth Jason (who is also “completely obsessed with tap water”). And great coffee should have a proper name. Ask KVM. Listen to the end of the show when she describes naming a new coffee for “Cup of Bliss” coffees in Collingswood, NJ. Spoiler: “Be My Neighbor!”). At the table: Joe, KVM, Samantha, Addison, Jason, Marion

Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaala meus consagrados começando mais um PBQ, com a bancada classica demais. Neste episódio falamos sobre tragédias de 2020 que aconteceram depois da morte do Gugu. Bota o fone de ouvido e venha teorizar com a gente. Nosso PipcPay: picpay.me/willzeruela

Well before we found ourselves in the COVID 19 pandemic, we had the sniffles on this episode, slushies. But neither head colds nor hangovers will keep us from the great pleasure of discussing Daryl Jones’ “Not Your Ordinary Doppleganger.” The poem’s gentle humor and delightful details have us in stitches:  the poem puts the “P” in poetry, the “P” in PBQ. (There is a badly delivered dad joke buried in that sentence, slushies, apologies-- trust us, the poem does it better). Listen in as: Jason reveals his mother was actively trying to gaslight him when he was 5; Samantha reveals the science of scent and stepmothers; and we trade Shakespearean puns and tips on slankets. All of which made us think about father and fatherhood, those we’ve had and those we miss.  Daryl Jones recently retired from a career in academic administration and rediscovered the passion for writing that he had set aside more than twenty-five years ago, after receiving an NEA Fellowship, serving as Idaho Writer-in-Residence, and winning the Natalie Ornish Poetry Award from the Texas Institute of Letters for his book Someone Going Home Late. Since courting the muse again, he has published poems in The American Journal of Poetry, The Gettysburg Review, New Ohio Review, Poet Lore, The Southern Review, and elsewhere.

Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaala meus consagrados começando mais um PBQ, dessa vez com um convidada FODAAAAA. Estou batendo um papo hoje com o Waley Santana, apresentador do Ta Certo? da Tv Cultura. Ficou excelente a conversa. Bote teu fone de ouvido e aprecie mais um episódio especial aqui do nosso cast. Nosso PicPay: picpay.me/willzeruela Canal do Warley:https://www.youtube.com/user/WarleyChannel

Faaaaaaaala meus consagrados, começando mais um PBQ com a participação especial do Bigos e do ator Mauricio la do Plantão Inútil. Neste cast contamos as melhores histórias de carnavrau e MULHERES! Sim, mais uma vez falamos dessas maravilhas lindas. Ouçam e apreciem. PicPay: picpay.me/willzeruela Plantão Inútil: https://open.spotify.com/show/689R8dmHHV5UVlsGDwc7Au

Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaala meus consagrados começando mais um PBQ triste e depressivo, pois nele contamos histórias desgraçadas de MUIÉ junto com os caras do Betoneira Lixosa. Aproveite esse quarentena e ouça este maravilhoso episódio enquanto chora lembrando de tuas ex namoradas. Enjoy! Nosso PicPay: picpay.me/willzeruela BetonaCast: https://open.spotify.com/show/516aXsK5klwRtnmLBV9Q8b

Faaaaaaaaaaaaala meus consagrados começando mais um PBQ lindo e fofo para vocês! Neste cast, reuni os melhores momentos selecionados por vocês para ficarmos com boas lembranças, pois no dia 16 de fevereiro fizemos 1 ano de Podcast

Hello Slushies! Today, we put the “pee” in PBQ when Jason reminds us not to over-hydrate (it’s a thing!). Marion is in the Philadelphia Studio and Samantha in Portland for the Tin House Summer Workshop, which triggers an epic donut-discussion. Must-try doughnuts: VooDoo Doughnuts in Portland, Federal Doughnuts in Philadelphia, and Dough in New York City.  After daydreaming about desserts, and resisting the bullying power of nutrition Apps, we dive into three poems by Tanya Grae. These poems are included in Grae’s book Undoll (YesYes Books, 2019).  All are ekphrastic, allusive, homage poems-- and we pour over the way Grae is adapts, innovates, remixes, and recreates poems across these poems.  We’re drawn to the layered conversation and formal prosody and synchronicity she sets up-- our thumbs are flipped, our heads are spun. The first is after Lorca’s “The Unfaithful Housewife” (translated by Conor O’Callaghan). The second is an intriguing and baffling poetic rant,  “Duchess, A Found Poem.” And the final, the tripendicular “Dear Ozy,” triggers the sound of thinking from the Slush Pile crew:  we ponder maps and palimpsests, spirals and dimensions, Google searches and precarious empires. Samantha reminds us that someone, maybe Twain, said “history doesn’t repeat, but it often rhymes.” Associative spirals make this conversation a joy.    Short bio: Tanya Grae was born in South Carolina while her father was stationed at Shaw, and she grew up moving to random Air Force towns like Little Rock, Minot, Tucson, Panama City, and Homestead. This survivalist training prepared her for a litany of jobs, academia, and parenting three humans, two of whom are now adulting. Her debut poetry collection, Undoll, is forthcoming from YesYes Books in fall 2019 and was a National Poetry Series finalist. Her poems and essays have appeared in AGNI, Ploughshares, American Poetry Review, Prairie Schooner, Post Road, and other journals. She now lives in Tallahassee with her youngest daughter who loves her despite her inability to help with advanced math, certain her mother’s attempts could bring about the apocalypse. Spotting bad store sign grammar is her superpower; kvetching about it is her weakness. Find out more at: tanyagrae.com   At the Table: Kathy, Marion, Brit, Jason, & Samantha 

Faaaaaaaaaaaala meus consagrados, mais um PBQ foda com colab do caralho do Plantão inutil. Neste cast, falamos de histórias desgraçadas de ex namorada e no final do cast, ainda tem um história bad, porém engraçada do Xassa. Bote o fone e bom cast. Apoie nosso Podcast: picpay.me/willzeruela Plantão inutil:https://open.spotify.com/show/689R8dmHHV5UVlsGDwc7Au BetonaCast:https://open.spotify.com/show/516aXsK5klwRtnmLBV9Q8b

FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALA MEUS CONSAGRADOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOS começando mais um PBQ feito com muito carinho para vocês

Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaala meus consagrados começando o ultimo PBQ do ano. E para este gran finale,não podiamos deixar que fosse um cast normal, trouxemos conosco o Bigos la do Plantão Inútil e também a volta do Lucas Cego, que estão aqui para falar merda com a gente e prever acontecimentos para o ano de 2020. Coloque o fone e venha se aventurar. Bancada: Will Marques, Victor Coqueti, Lucas Cego e Bigos. Plantão inutil: https://open.spotify.com/show/689R8dmHHV5UVlsGDwc7Au Apoie nosso cast: picpay.me/willzeruela

Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaala meus consagrados, começando mais um PBQ e hoje vamos entrar no mundo dos covers e na mente genial de Bruce, O Artista que ficou famoso no Brasil todo por ser proibido de fazer o cover do Luccas Neto. Neste cast entrevistamos esse mito que quase fez seu proprio filme. Bote o fone e vem com noixxxxxxxx. #LiberdadeLuccasNetoCover Bancada: Will Marques, João Sujo e Bruce, O Artista. Nosso Apoia.se: https://apoia.se/podcastdebaixaqualidade

Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaala meu consagrados começando mais um PBQ hojeeeeeeeeeeeeeee mais um episódio foda em que constamos nossas experiencias com bebidas alcoólicas. Ouve essa porra caralhooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!! Bancada: Will Marques (@willzeruela), Victor Coqueti (@victormanga1) e João Sujo (@joaosujo) Nos ajude no Apoia.se: https://apoia.se/podcastdebaixaqualidade

Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaala meus consagrados, começando mais um PBQ pra vocês. Neste cast, falamos de coisas merdas que a gente adora, então coloca o fone e cola com a gente. Bancada: Will Marques, João Sujo e Eduardo Ritalino. Apoiase: https://apoia.se/podcastdebaixaqualidade

Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaala meus consagrados tudo bom? começando mais PBQ e PUTA MERDA, este é o cast mais especial que ja gravamos. Bate papo bom demais com a triz Bia Arantes (gente finissima demais). Nesse podcast falamos sobre como hidratar o cabelo em casa, MC Gui, decepções amorosas e muito mais! Bota o fone agora e ouça porque esta lindo demais. Bancada: Will Marques e Bia Arantes. Nos ajude pelo Apoia-se: https://apoia.se/podcastdebaixaqualidade

A Toilet in Denver or Florida is for the Fraught On today’s episode, we realized that the sound studio needs some naked art! We never thought about it before, but after the Abu Dhabi team and Jason “showed off” about the art in their offices, we got jealous. Joe said we could BYOA, so we’re gonna. Stay tuned. This got us right off on a tangent about Icarus, a sad one, as he apparently is outside of BMCC, warning students “not to aim too high.”  We had our first vote of the day and it was a loud and long “Booooooooo” re: the sheer meanness of its message. We started with “Shops Like That” which immediately began a conversation on sense and syntax. Which lead us to a conversation of the image system of the poem, the descriptive scene, and whether this poem would have appeared in Fence in the 90’s (ask Jason). KVM didn’t tell anyone, but she loves the poem for its Wooly Bully reference. We spent at least 15 minutes dissecting the piece, only to have our vote---end in a tie!!!! We moved on to “Travel Light.” We were smitten by its sprawl and humor, maybe especially the couch catapult (you’ll love that image too). The poem is so dense, KVM thinks there could be chapters and chapters. And the tangent we went on with THIS poem’s was—toilets! (Listen—it will all make sense.) The next poem we discussed was “Planet’s Climate Reversal.”  Spoiler alert: iguanas abound. You’re about to learn a lot about iguanas and to see an image that you might not be able to shake. You’ve been warned. This poem doesn’t only have iguanas, now, it also has state mottos and led us on one of our two-hour journeys through the swamp lands, filled with rehab scams and Disney World factoids. The poem gave us the chance to recommend “Dumb People Town,” the podcast where Joe Zang learned that all crimes committed in Florida must be publicly reported. Stay tuned when the show sounds like it’s over to hear the crew respond to Addison’s silky smooth voice. And more after-the-show news: The poem that ended in a tie was ultimately rejected, BUT, the poem we didn’t get on air, “Egypt” has been accepted! Look for them all in Issue #100 of PBQ!   Alicia Askenase’s poetry jaywalks across the streets of American poetry casting a gimlet eye at every word she encounters. Undaunted, she juxtaposes her greatest joys and disenchantments through sonorous and rhythmic landscapes of unexpected insistence.  She confronts the world we live in with daggers and oyster forks, swallows it and returns it to the reader in covert scores.  For her, language is primary.  Meaning evolves organically from the stolen seeds she sows.

Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaala meus consagrados, começando mais um PBQ sagrado para vocês

This week, we are bringing you an extra special podcast! That’s right, we recorded LIVE for the first time ever at Philly’s PodFest in the National Liberty Museum. Well...most of us. Marion joined us via Zoom from chilly Cork, Ireland, instead of her usual home base of Abu Dhabi. However, everyone else was on stage in front of old, and new, Slushies! Jason Sneiderman traded up his yellow Parsons table in New York for a yellow Honda, to join us in the flesh. On the other hand, poet and professor Laura McCullough joined us by way of a blue Honda. (And no, Honda did not sponsor this podcast. Unfortunately…) Lastly, present were: Kathleen Volk Miller, Tim Fitts and Joseph Zang (who for once, had the opportunity to just sit back instead of pulling all the strings behind the scenes). Okay, now onto the incoherent babbling and “sweaty festivities.” Jason reminisced on how he came to join PBQ, back in the dinosaur ages of the early 2000s, when he was a graphic designer finding his way in the world. Next, we discussed how online publications were looked down on back in the day. In fact, Jason pointed out a huge contrast to publications today, from online posts being as good as sticking flyers on a bulletin board, to “if it didn’t happen online, it didn’t happen.” Now, podcasting has caught on with just as much speed as online journals. That is why Slush pile has become one of our most prized platforms, as it’s given us the opportunity to broadcast our democratic process that takes place behind the scenes. Joe expressed hopes that our podcast has made submitters realize that we strive to be gate-openers, rather than gatekeepers. In fact, we encourage all writers out there to do what they want with their personal work, first and foremost, and then let people appreciate their ideas. See, we might be more open-minded than you think! We went on to deliberate over the “Iowa Method.” This technique is practiced in “brutal workshops” in which peers talk and give their opinions, while the writer stays silent and bares the heat. Do you, Slushies, believe this method is outdated? Or necessary for growth? Laura went on to give those who may have received a rejection letter from us, or other publications, some encouragement. She told us a story about how editors messaged her saying they cried over a piece she had written, but funny enough, this came in the form of a rejection letter. The point is that some pieces may need some further revision, but it does not mean they are not worthy of being published, one day. Also, just because your piece does not fit the theme of what one publication is looking for, does not mean another will not fall head over heels in love with it. Laura joined us from an extremely unique position: She had her own poetry discussed on an early episode of Slush Pile. Jason had the audience rolling in laughter when he told us the story of a friend who received a rejection letter for a children’s book. This mother of 2 was told that she clearly had no experience with children. To conclude our babbling, we encourage writers and readers to visit our “naked meetings,” in which you could meet our editors in a relaxed environment. In fact, we have a public reading coming up September 9th, 2019! All upcoming events can be found on our Facebook page (@painted.quarterly). ON TO THE POEM! BJ Ward was so brave that he allowed us to read his poem, “Madagascar” in front of a live audience. Tim Fitts described this piece as being “so close to being stupid that it’s not stupid” and “sentimental without being cheesy.”  We praised the film allusions to Citizen Kane and Solaris. As a matter of fact, Marion said it best: The poem is like an “invitation to think cinematically.” (Side note: When Joe said, “Mad At Gascar,” did you find yourself laughing with him, or at him?) Tim pointed out a possible “Gen X image system” in reference to Van Morrison, Rosebud (Citizen Kane) and... duct tape? Can a generation really claim duct tape?? The popular joke of duct tape might have resurfaced a few years ago, as prom dresses and wallets, made from this magical-fixer-of-all-things, started popping up on social media. It seems the Millennials might have reclaimed it as their own as they’ve done with Polaroids, high-waisted jeans and anything else to make themselves look more “hipster.” Our podcast came to an end with a vote from not only the usual panel, but the entire audience. Imagine that, a wave--no, a TSUNAMI--of thumb flippin’! Well Slushies, if you missed this event, your loss. Just kidding! Look out for another live podcast next year. In the meantime, we’ll be back in our regular recording studio every other week. Until then, read on!     BJ Ward is the author of four books of poetry, most recently Jackleg Opera: Collected Poems 1990-2013 (North Atlantic Books), which received the Paterson Award for Literary Excellence. His poems have appeared in Poetry, American Poetry Review, TriQuarterly, The New York Times, and The Sun, among others, and have been featured on NPR’s “The Writer’s Almanac,” NJTV’s “State of the Arts,” and the website Poetry Daily. He is the recipient of a Pushcart Prize and two Distinguished Artist Fellowships from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts. He co-founded the creative writing degree program at Warren County Community College in NJ, where he teaches full-time.   

This week we welcomed a special guest: “busy writing lady,” poet and food journalist for the Midatlantic region, Tammy Paolino. Headlining the discussion on poems by Kyle Watson Brown, were standing desks. Yes, the giraffe of desks! We talked about it all: Drexel’s lottery system for standing desks, Jason’s makeshift standing desk, and DYI portable desks being an indication for becoming the President of the United States and leader of the free world. After desk-related helpful tips, we moved on to discuss the first poem, “Too Many Funerals.” This one had us floored by its “weird” (Jason’s word), syntax and word choices. This piece prompted a diverse conversation on the term “junkie” and its evolution from a label to a condition. Then, to give you whiplash, the discussion switched to sunscreen. Usually, the only new member of our podcast meetings are the poets being discussed, however, this week we welcomed a special guest: “busy writing lady,” poet and food journalist for the Midatlantic Region, Tammy Polino. Headlining the discussion on poems by Kyle Watson Brown, were standing desks. Yes, the giraffe of desks! We talked about it all: Drexel’s lottery system for standing desks, Jason’s makeshift standing desk, and portable desks being a qualification for becoming the President of the United States and leader of the free world. After enough talk on these wooden objects, we moved on to discuss the first poem, “Too Many Funerals.” This one had us floored by its peculiar syntax and word choices. Moreover. our editors felt as if they were in a maze. Listen in to hear if we found our way out! This piece prompted a diverse conversation on the term “junkie” and its evolution from a label to a condition. Then, just to give you audio and intellectual whiplash, the discussion switched to sunscreen. Thank you, Marion, for taking the reins and attempting to steer us back in the direction of the actual poem. Unsurprisingly, we ended up in Ocean City, Maryland, despite her best efforts. (Look, we told you Tammy Paolino lives in NJ—of course the shore—any shore--makes sense.) Joe Zang, our outstanding sound engineer, helped us out in regards to nails and teeth, as well. Listen in and it will all make sense. The second poem, “Cornerwork” also provoked conversation on drug addiction. Then, Jason tried his best to culture some of us “lazy Americans” on how the word “love,” used in tennis, ionderived from the French. The more you know... The final poem discussed was, “Cagelight.” After reading the first two poems on drug-addiction, this one will surely have you a bit bumfuzzled on how to interpret it. (And you’re right, bumfuzzled is not a word---yet---but we’re trying.) The editors of PBQ are curious: Why do some submitters remove their poems within days of submission? Should we point the finger at workshops? Or too many drinks at 3 AM? Speaking of too many drinks, have you ever ordered something off Amazon at midnight and forgotten all about it the next day? And still failed to recognize the purchase once it arrived at your front door? If not, Kathleen will have to explain that one for you. Slushies, please consider writing more poems with “conspire” in them, as per Tammy’s request. Also-if you missed the “Whitman at 200” events, make sure to mark your calendar for 2119!  Until next time, read-on!     Kyle Brown-Watson one of the grumpier baristas in Philadelphia. He has read poetry and fiction on stage for Empty Set Press and the Breweytown Social. He's contributed poetry to Yes Poetry and Luna Luna Magazine. Before that, he worked in advertising, software development, and heaven forgive him, television. He infrequently updates his newsletter Terminal Chill and is working on a graphic novel.     Too Many Funerals   My undertows are not the ones I show you   Sheets of ice stained with salt and  SPF 78 gunmetal grease runoffs sucking back the xenon haze    No shells No towels No balls of greasy dough Not even the quiet closure of junkie needles in you heel to Mark the hours passing   that vanishing point Where fingernails and necks and teeth  Conspire to meet, Blind on February shores.       Cornerwork   I’d start with the fat veins Work South The empty weeping chirps of  valves closing    All the gaps and discs and tremors  that make me From tooth to toenail    Black on carbon black suspended in silence   The stupid red haze of your eyelids and nothing else.       Cagelight   Sugarblasted doorframes so light you can press and   Drop   To fly in the space where the boredom of transit makes even a wander into a magswipe   clogged-artery anonymity of Mifflin streetlamps to rest your face  in bars and shadow they make for you chilled and cold rolled and waiting for you.        

Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaala meus consagrados, começando mais um PBQ pra vocês. Neste podcast ensinamos os melhores metodos para se depilar, quando se deve peidar na frente da namorada e muita besteira como sempre. Enjoy :) Na bancada: Will Marques, Victor Coqueti, Lucas Cego, João Sujo e Pavan. Siga a Menes de Baixa Qualidade em todas as redes sociais para fucar por dentro de todas as atualizações do nosso Podcast.

Let’s start by celebrating our democratic editorial policy by seeing which of the many titles we came up we should use! “Bag O’Wigs,” “Just the Tip,” or “I Find it Aching (Oh, Yeah)?  This week’s podcast consisted of three of our “well-hydrated” original members, the OGs, Kathleen, Marion and Jason, along with the co-op, Britt. At the center of our table were poems by Sarah Browning, who allowed us to dissect her poems like a turkey (see below) on Thanksgiving.  The first poem up for discussion was “For the turkey buzzards,” which Marion described as “ghasty but beautiful” (both the buzzards themselves and the images in the poem). We’ve provided you with an image so will understand why Britt would never want to be reincarnated into one. This poem possessed metaphors that had our crew members meeting at a crossroads. Be sure to listen in to find out our destination (aha-see what I did there?).  We skipped the main course and jumped right to desert as we discussed the poem “Desire.” Let’s just say Kathleen was a little too excited to volunteer to read this one! This brought back childhood memories for Britt, as it reminded her of evocative songs like Candy Shop by 50 Cent and Ego by Beyoncé. It even had us playing the roles of relationship counselors as we tried to get into the head of the woman going through such terrible heartbreak.  Lastly, we deliberated “After I Knew,” a soap-opera-like piece that will certainly get you in the feels, if you were not in it already.  Just when we thought things could not get anymore steamier, Kathleen brought up a dream by Bryan Dickey’s (a family friend of PBQ) partner, but that is one you must listen in to learn more about. We are so excited for you guys to tell us your interpretations of this scandalous dream. Furthermore, should this dream be turned into a poem or has enough been said?  Is purse slang for the vagine? Could Marion’s cat sitter be no ordinary cat sitter, but…a spy?  Okay, okay! You have read enough here; go listen.    We are SO SAD we have bruises from beating our breasts, but “Desire” was snapped up by Gargoyle before we got to Sarah!!! We’ll put the hyperlink here when it goes up, but until then, check Gargolye out anyway.  We are SO HAPPY that Sarah agreed to our edit of “Turkey Buzzards” that the neighbors complained about our dancing (to “Candy Shop” and “Ego,” of course.  Until next time, Slushies!       Sarah Browning stepped down as Executive Director of Split This Rock in January 2019, after co-founding and running the poetry and social justice organization for 11 years. She misses the community but not the grant reports… Since then she’s been vagabonding about the country, drinking IPAs in Oregon, sparkling white wine in California, and bourbon in Georgia. She’s also been privileged to write at three residencies, Mesa Refuge, the Lillian E. Smith Center (where she won the Writer-in-Service Award), and Yaddo. She is the author of Killing Summer (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2017) and Whiskey in the Garden of Eden (The Word Works, 2007) and has been guest editor or co-editor of Beltway Poetry Quarterly, The Delaware Poetry Review, and three issues of POETRY. This fall she begins the MFA program in poetry and creative non-fiction at Rutgers Camden.       For the turkey buzzards   who rise ungainly from the fields,             red heads almost unbearable   to regard, crooked and gelatinous,              how they circle their obsession   on the scent of the winds, always             circling back, returning to settle   on that one dead thing that satisfies,              the past to be pecked and pondered –   forsaken fare for others, but for              the scavenger the favored meal –   like us, the poets, who eat at the table             of forgetfulness, ask the dead   to nourish us, beg forgiveness             as we circle and swoop, descend,   fold our wings, bend to the maggoty flesh,            gorge on the spoiled, glistening feast       Desire   I took your large hand and raised it. Just this, I said, the tip of a finger or two –   just to the nail or so – into my mouth, which had dreamed of just that. You made a sound   I hoped was a gasp and I wanted – as I had for 30 years – to do it: open my   mouth and take your two large fingers all the way inside my throat, the size of them   filling me. But I stopped, in shame and desire – I blush writing – because you said we would   say goodbye inside my rental car outside your hotel: Even now, days later, miles apart,   I am hungry for such thick and full.       After I Knew   I drove alone through the farmland of central New York – the open vistas and steep drops – towns with names like Lyle unexplored, their secrets hoarded, as I was hoarding my own secret then. I-88 was empty as always and I followed its long high valley, driving away from you. We had not yelled or broken mere things. I did not cry. I drove fast, but not recklessly.   I stopped for a nap before Albany, a middle-aged woman sleeping alone in an aging Geo Prism. For a few more miles I hoped I could just drive away.      

Between 1946 and 1993 a bunch of countries dumped 85 PBq* of radioactive waste into the ocean. Slurries, solids, reactors - you know, the stuff you find lying around and just want to put in the ocean.** It was terrible, and it seems we've mostly stopped it. But that shit is still down there... So we explore! * I don't really know how much a PBq is, but it's a lot more than 'nothing', and 'nothing' is the correct amount of radioactive waste that should go into the ocean ** No, you don't find it lying around and you don't want to put it in the ocean, you're a good person listener. The Wholesome Show is Dr Rod Lamberts and Dr Will Grant, proudly brought to you by The Australian National Centre for the Public Awareness of Science!

It was a blustery day in Philadelphia when this podcast was recorded. That is how we learned that Tim is one of the few people who can say that the wind works for his hair. To add to this trying weather, most of the crew was suffering from a terrible case of jet lag, as they had just come back from AWP's conference in Portland, Oregon. After some light reminiscing about rooftops and candy in Portland, it was time to get into the poems! Get your buttered popcorn ready for the first piece written by Erin Kae, "Q&A: (Of World's Anatomy At The End)." This one opened the way for one interpretation after the other. However, the most important question remained: What would you do if you knew the world was about to end? The next piece was by Amy Bilodeau. Due to its smart wording, "(It’s warm here inside the fierce)" many of the gang liked it before even trying to fully understand it. It just had that pa-zazz, you do not see too often in the world of poetry. Kathleen teased that she was stealing it for the title of her next album. (Even funnier if you ever heard Kathleen sing…) Also, Marion thought that the color schemes of this poem resembled that of Reginald Shepard's "You, Therefore." Do you agree?   Out of curiosity: What's your definition of fierce?   Somehow, the conversation took a complete one-eighty and went back around to Tim's hair, or should I say the lack thereof. Can't a balding man just live in peace around here? We keep him around for so many reasons, one of them being his ability to make nutball connections, like Amy’s poems reminding him of Ginger Baker, the drummer from CREEM.   Once we were able to get back into discussion mode, the second poem, "(The morning makes me nervous)" led to a discussion on the mysteries behind sleep. Tim pointed out how "everything changes at night" as the right brain takes charge and causes humans to show their true colors. Remember to ask your loved ones or wannabe’s to reveal their secrets once the sun goes down. Today's recommendation is brought to you by Marion. She suggests that you all read "The Carrying" by a Ada Limón, a long-time friend of PBQ. Even better, finish it in one sitting and if possible, on a plane with a glass of champagne, or on a rooftop in Oregon. Whatever butters your popcorn!       Q&A: (OF WORLD'S ANATOMY AT THE END)   True/False:     It is required that the Earth crack open, burst            its yolk before the end. Is there a certain sound you need            to hear? An anguish of language melted down inaudible—or fevered            droning spread over all corners?   True/True:      Disregard the temperature, it’s only            going to get worse. You avoid the sun, bed            into the mantle, mark out a spot for all            to see you have had this dance before—licked            flames off old boxing gloves & waltzed            into fractured fault line breach.   False/False:     There was the proverbial flash/bang & then             everyone was served popcorn while waiting             for it to be their turn. Of course it was buttered, extra             buttered—this is the end of the world.   False/True:     You thought it would be much grander;             there’d be more splendor in this. Are you really putting hope             into structural integrity at a time like this? Act smart;             call it a crevasse—that sounds scientific enough.             If all else fails remember the real estate market             for lava is looking pretty good right now.   You/You:        In the movie-version of what happened          you’ll call it Fissure Island.          How much more literal a name do you need? Toe          around it all you want, but at the end, the only way off          this rocky body is down. Bring a shovel          & your best dancing shoes.   Born and raised outside of Rochester, NY, Erin Kae is a proud graduate of SUNY Geneseo. Her poetry has been featured in Vinyl, Sonora Review, Crab Fat Magazine, andFugue among others. She was recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize by Aster(ix) Journal, and was selected as a finalist for the 2017 Locked Horn Press Publication Prize for their issue Read Water: An Anthology, 2019. Her first poetry chapbook, Grasp This Salt, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press in 2019. She currently resides in Somerville, Massachusetts.    (It’s warm here inside the fierce)   It’s warm here inside the fierce Blithe belly of the beloved The wedding was entirely gray The way I like it There were guests A cold colorful wind Though we didn’t want them The ring is gray on the Gray mottled counter and the floor Also gray The walls etc The tender sky... You can imagine       (The morning makes me nervous)   The morning makes me nervous Some days Until the music starts Being jumpy isn’t dancing I guess But maybe I’m playing the strings so beautifully eerieIn my head I’m moving me with it Coffee helps and saying Quiet to all the no ones When the bold nights fight for me I’m not certain Who to root for I know what a forest looks like The inside of the beloved’s mouth Shadows and pale reds and a threat The dogs inevitably want back in The coffee being cold by the last Drink of it       (I am definitely getting younger)   I am definitely getting younger I know because Laughing inappropriately And uniform of twelve year old boy I haven’t decided what will happen When I’m born But if it’s something good You can believe I will stuff my blue pockets Grin dumbly   One last thing Slushies: The final piece by Amy Bilodeau, "(I am definitely getting younger)" was voted YES!   Amy Bilodeau's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Connotation Press, DREGINALD, DMQ Review, RHINO (runner-up for the Editor's Prize), Two Hawks Quarterly, and others. Her full-length manuscript was a finalist for the Four Way Books Levis Prize in Poetry, and her chapbook manuscript was a semi-finalist in the Black Lawrence Black River Chapbook Competition. Her work has also been nominated for inclusion in Best Small Fictions. She lives in Indianapolis, Indiana.

Career Talk is celebrating small business week with two of our favorite small biz owners - Marty Wolff and Bob Courtright - LIVE in studio. Learn how to source, hire and interview the best candidates to join your small or growing business, plus what industries are struggling to find great talent and the advantages joining a small business can have for your career over a large organization. Plus, callers and lots of fun with the PBQ! #switchers See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Are you spending time with people who energize you and live your shared values, or people who drain you and shatter your confidence? The people you surround yourself with matter when it comes to your success! In this episode, Dr. Ivan Misner shares tips from his new book including how to say "no" (while preserving the relationship!), how to stay connected to new contacts, and the famous 12X12X12 networking strategy. Plus a PBQ fit for geography buffs! @bizradio132 #switchersUPDATED REPLAY TIMES: Friday at 9pmSaturday at 4am and 2pmSunday at 10amMonday at 1pmTuesday at 2amWednesday at 6am See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

In 2019, over 58% of people will be looking for new jobs. In this episode of Career Talk, Dr. Dawn interviews Kathryn Minshew of themuse.com who shares research on what next gen employees value most (hint: it's NOT money), why your company reputation matters, and the lasting impact of the candidate experience. All this, plus Dion nails the PBQ on Jelly Beans! @bizradio132 #switchers See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

The Dean of Penn Undergrad Admissions, Eric Furda, joins Dr. Dawn to share tips about picking a college, considerations for your major, accessing resources, and taking a gap year in this lively episode of Career Talk. Plus, what do monopoly, beer and a paper bag have in common? Find out when we answer the PBQ! #switchers See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

On this episode of Career Talk, Dr. Dawn talks with Wendy Merrill, Author of "Path to Impact: The Rising Leader's Guide to Growing Smart" to share tips on dreaming big, building executive presence, taking risks and the impact of mentors. Plus, Dion's winning streak with the PBQ continues for a third week in a row! #switchers See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

One of the things we love about our podcast is that it  brings together speakers from all over the world. Getting to see and hear Marion and Samantha is our main reason to love modern technology!  The topic of discussion rotated around three poems written by Anne V. Devilbiss (apologies again, Ann!  Maybe it’s a nice thing that Kathleen saw your name containing “bliss?”  ).  More about the poet: Ann V. DeVilbiss has had poems in BOAAT, Crab Orchard Review, The Maine Review, Pangyrus, and elsewhere. She is the recipient of the 2017 Betty Gabehart Prize in poetry and an Emerging Artist Award from the Kentucky Arts Council. Via the Love in the Street project, Ann has a poem forthcoming on a sidewalk in downtown Louisville, Kentucky, where she lives with her partner and two perfect cats.    It was a wonder how Kathleen was able to function normally after drinking enough to coffee wake up a classroom full of college students during finals week. In fact, she was quick to volunteer and took on the task of reading the first poem, “Spelled to Cultivate Gentlemen.”  Within this poem, there was one word that got everyone talking, “skink.” Everyone proceeded to “call up” Tim Fitts, one of our main editors, who was not able to make this recording.  We all assumed to know what a skink is, as he always refer to his Florida chidlhood. Marion went as far as to do an imitation of Tim.  They consense was if they have alligators, they must have these baby-alligator-like creatures as well, right?   Overall, the poem was described to be smooth in its wording and calming to the ears. These “spells” worked on us.   Kathleen reminded the audience about part of our editorial process. Very few of our staff ever see these poems before they get to the table.   Kathleen claimed her own  witch potential. She gave us chills as she described how lights sometimes flickered when she entered rooms (maybe she’s a ghost?) and the things she thinks sometimes come into fruition (or maybe she’s God? God is a woman, after all). Then, Marion was revealed to be an unintentional witch, which had us wondering if Kathleen and Marion’s friendship was a pure coincidence?  Maybe our answer could be found in the book “Witches, Sluts, Feminists: Conjuring the Sex Positive” written by Kristen J. Sollee, a suggested read by Samantha.  Next up was “Spell to Begin Again” in which Marion described the techniques used by Anne as “f***ing brilliant.”  We would like to interrupt this summary with a tip for our readers: Were you baking cookies, only to realize that you were all out of sugar? No worries! Just grab that molasses everyone has in the back of their pantries for no apparent reason and save yourself a trip to the store! (Ask Google if you don’t believe us.)  Unfortunately, Jason had to take off early from the podcast. As soon as he left, Marion and Kathleen, proceeded to gossip about him. They joked about his stealing Kathleen’s satin pajama pants. However, Kathleen admits that his butt looked great in them and Jason must have known it too, as he shamelessly shared pictures of the crime.  The next poem read was “Spell for Empty Hands,” which was the last of Anne’s poems to be voted into publication. I guess those incantations really do work!  To end this podcast, we would like to give a BIG congratulations to PBQ editors, Samantha Neugebauer and fellow poet Amna Alharmoodi for winning second place in the UAE for creativity in Literature We’ll share more details on that soon!  Read on! 

Dr. Dawn welcomes expert guest Marc Miller to this episode of Career Talk to share advice on how to repurpose your career in the second half of life. A six-time career pivoter and self-described multi-potentialite, Marc shares how to switch careers by taking full advantage of the opportunities all around you. Plus, lots of callers and Dion gets the PBQ correct for the second consecutive week - don't miss it! #switchers See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

On today's episode of Career Talk, Executive Coach Lilly Linton joins Dr. Dawn to share tips on how to forge your own destiny, paving the way for bigger opportunities at work. Learn why visibility is critical to success and how to get noticed, why measuring your contributions is key to boosting your value, and what actions sabotage your chances of moving up the ladder. #switchers Plus, Dion nails the PBQ! See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Dr. Dawn welcomes back Mike Manoske, Silicon Valley Recruiter, to Career Talk for our Valentine's Day Special! Learn how the job search and dating overlap, and strategies to succeed (at least in landing a job ;->). Plus, Michelle answers the PBQ correctly and our Twitter poll (spoiler: Halloween won 76% to 24%!). #switchers See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Career Talk welcomed Paul Carney, HR Executive, Speaker and Author of "Move Your Ash: Know, Grow and Show your Career Value" to share expert tips on how to build a successful career through techniques like the visioning concept and building your EQ. Plus, a deeper than anticipated discussion on the PBQ, and we wrapped up Career Talk Music with the fantastic Ja-Tun and Random Acts of Soul, featuring our very own DION on drums, performing "Go Hard.' Learn more here."This excerpt from CAREER TALK was originally broadcast on SiriusXM Channel 132, Business Radio Powered by The Wharton School." See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Lots of laughs this week as Dion, Michelle and Dr. Dawn answer the PBQ on Career Talk. If you are a fan of The Twilight Zone, you'll definitely want to take a listen. #switchers"This excerpt from CAREER TALK was originally broadcast on SiriusXM Channel 132, Business Radio Powered by The Wharton School." See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Is 2019 your year to join the millions of career #switchers who are living their dreams? If yes, then you'll want to tune into this episode of Career Talk with Hall of Fame Hockey Coach, Joe Battista who will share his top tips from his book "The Power of Pragmatic Passion." Lots of callers, a fun holiday song preview and Dion gets the PBQ correct (well, kind of). Don't miss it! See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

We always manage to have fun on Career Talk, especially when Dion is answering the pre-break quiz (PBQ)! Can you guess what you'll spend 6 mos of your life doing in your car? Listen in to find out! #PBQ #careertalk #switchers See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

This week’s episode of Slush Pile sees a newcomer to the table, but not a stranger to PBQ. John Wall Barger's poems have appeared in many journals and anthologies, including The Cincinnati Review, Subtropics, The Malahat Review, and he has published two collections, and most importantly, to us, he is now an editor for Painted Bride Quarterly! After John drops a quick bombshell about his new book coming out in the spring of next year, Jason laments about the supreme court striking an arduous blow to his union. When everyone is done grieving over the absence of beloved editor Marion Wrenn (where in the world is she now? Florence?) the gang dives right into three poems by two different authors starting with Karen Neuberg’s “Same House.”  Karen Neuberg’s poems and collages appear in numerous journals including 805, Canary, Epi-graph Magazine, and Verse Daily. She’s a multiple Pushcart and a Best-of-the-Net nominee, holds an MFA from The New School, is associate editor of the online journal First Literary Re-view East, and lives in Brooklyn, NY. Her latest chapbook is “the elephants are asking” (Glass Lyre Press, 2018)  “Same House” sparks an in-depth discussion about memories and nostalgia. Several of the editors comment on pieces of language that they admire as well as how their own nostalgic experiences can relate to the narrative. After a quick vote the board moves onto two poems written by Sadie Shorr Parks labeled “Lunacy” and “Good Sleep.”  Sadie Shorr-Parks grew up in Philadelphia but currently lives in Shepherdstown, West Virginia, where she teaches writing at Shepherd University. Outside of creative writing, Sadie dabbles in calligraphy, painting, stop animation, embroidery, and puppetry. She likes to start her day by doing the NYT Crossword and hopes to enter the American Crossword Puzzle Tournament in 2019. Sadie’s creative writing can be found in Witness Magazine, Sierra Nevada Review, Appalachian Heritage, and Blueline, among others. Her book reviews can be found with Los Angles Review of Books, Southern Literary Review, and Iowa Review. The gang begins to explore the pieces by Sadie Shorr-Parks discussing the risks and interesting qualities of her pieces. Kathleen and the gang do a great job at breaking down some of the intricacies of Sadie’s work. Will these pieces make the cut? Listen and find out! The group ended the episode in their usual manner: Tim Fitts challenged ANY LISTENER to challenge our co-op, Ali, to an MMA battle, while Kathleen and Jason happily discussed their last visit to The Big Gay Ice Cream Shop. (And don’t forget to celebrate 1970’s National Geographics and the French Revolution. Whaaaaa?)

This episode is particularly special as present in Drexel’s Korman Studio is a very special friend of PBQ, Elizabeth Scanlon. Elizabeth Scanlon is the Editor of The American Poetry Review. She is the author of Lonesome Gnosis (Horsethief Books, 2017), The Brain Is Not the United States/The Brain Is the Ocean (The Head & The Hand Press, 2016) and Odd Regard (ixnay press, 2013). She is a Pushcart Prize winner and her poems have appeared in many magazines including Boston Review, Ploughshares, Colorado Review, Crazyhorse, and others. She lives in Philadelphia. After short introductions, and some technical difficulties in which our Abu Dhabi team is lost to the internet for just a brief moment, the gang jumps right into the work of Elizabeth Cantwell and her works “Housewarming” “Emergency Queen” “The People Who Live in Boats”. Elizabeth Cantwell is a poet and high school teacher living in Claremont, CA. Her first book, Nights I Let the Tiger Get You, was a finalist for the 2012 Hudson Prize; she is also the author of a chapbook, Premonitions. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in a variety of journals, including The Cincinnati Review, DIAGRAM, The Missouri Review, and Hobart. Her first piece “Housewarming” had the editors reflecting on the pieces excellent use of reassuring imagery and line spacing. After some short discussion and a vote, the gaggle of editors move on to the second poem “Emergency Queen,” which is rife with ,”“delicious words according to Kathleen. After exploring the intricacies of the piece the gang moves on to the final piece of the batch “The People Who Live in Boats”. Structured into a giant prose block, this piece doesn’t even slightly resemble the form of the poems which preceded it. With this piece, Elizabeth takes us to what can be referred to as image school. The editors practically have a gleeful field day, it’s so much fun deconstructing all of the intricacies of this final piece. What do you think? Do all of these pieces make the cut? Or will time devour them as it does everything else? Listen and let it be revealed!

To find out the TRUE answer to the PBQ, check out the full episode here! See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Sex tape? Kardashians? This week's podcast has a little bit of both as the gang, consisting of Kathleen, Tim, Marion, Jason along with his partner Michael and Ali the new PBQ co-op, examines the work of the talented Jameka Williams.   Jameka Williams is an MFA candidate at Northwestern University hailing from Chester, PA, fifteen miles southeast of Philadelphia. Her poetry has been published in Prelude Magazine, Gigantic Sequins, Powder Keg Magazine, Yemassee Journal, and Tupelo Quarterly. Muzzle Magazine nominated her poem, "Yeezus' Wife [when asked what do you actually do]," from their June 2017 issue for "Best of the Net 2017" and the Pushcart Prize. She resides in Chicago, IL.     The team touched upon Sex Tape’s  structure,  praising the stanza’s execution and how the lack of punctuation worked well for the first poem. After talks about a variety of gods (yes---gods and sex tapes—listen, you’ll see) the vote was completed and the crew dove right into her second piece, The Kardashians for a Better America     The second speaks of illumination and even sympathy for the muse the poet had tried to connect with, providing a different perspective to the editorial board. One of the most interesting points of the discussion came from Michael, who had made connections to a video game relevant to the context of the poem. As the episode was winding down, Marion linked the subject of the piece to an essay she had read previously and everyone voted once again.     How does talk of botched iced coffee orders lead into discussions of poetry? How does desire possibly relate to the very topic Williams’ poetry? What dictates the moments in pop culture that “stick?” Did both make it through the editorial process? Plug in and find out, as these questions are bound to keep listeners up at night, much like the antics of the Kardashian family.         

More fun with the Dream Team on Career Talk where Dion proclaims, "I am not a statistic" and Michelle gets the answer correct for the pre-break quiz (PBQ)!"This excerpt from Career Talk was originally broadcast on SiriusXM Channel 111, Business Radio Powered by The Wharton School." See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Hear why I am SHOCKED about Dion's response to this week's PBQ!"This excerpt from CAREER TALK was originally broadcast on SiriusXM Channel 111, Business Radio Powered by The Wharton School." See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Slush Pile is back in the studio! For this episode’s micro editorial meeting, Kathleen and Joseph recorded from the studio for the first time since… June? April? A long time! Marion called from her office at NYUAD, looking out over a dark campus with a giant new microphone! For this episode, we discuss three poems by Michele Wolf. We were, in fact, early adopters of Michele! She was published way back in Issue 63, just one issue before our first print annual! Check out what she wrote, but because we’re rebuilding our archives, you’ll only find it here (along with access to Issue 63, if you’re up for some digging).   Michele Wolf had a friend in Painted Bride Quarterly early on, when we first published her poems and her chapbook, The Keeper of Light, in 1995. Little did she know then that an Amazon rare-book seller would now offer this special booklet for $75 (!). Note to the world: Michele would be delighted to make one yours for $5.   Fun fact: Michele was raised in Florida, and she loves not only the ocean but also Disney World—almost as much as PBQ editor Kathy Volk Miller does.   On the poetry front, Michele has gone on to publish two full-length collections—Immersion (Hilary Tham Capital Collection, The Word Works) and Conversations During Sleep (Anhinga Prize for Poetry, Anhinga Press). Her work has appeared in Poetry, The Southern Review, The Hudson Review, North American Review and many other literary journals and anthologies, as well as on Poetry Daily and Verse Daily. A contributing editor for Poet Lore, she teaches at The Writer's Center in Bethesda, Maryland. She lives with her husband and daughter in Gaithersburg, Maryland.   You can read more of Michele's work on Poets.org; on Poetry Foundation; and on her website. Listen in on our discussion of Michele’s poems, and check them out below! Our conversations brought up whether or not man landed on the moon (which we could debate, we suppose), deer’s bedtimes (7:00 PM, right?), and poems that make you go “WOWZA!” Our engineer, Joe, shared a story about finding a paper crane on his windowsill with “as if you could kill time without injuring eternity,” by Henry David Thoreau, but attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson. He recognized the handwriting, and thinks he might know who left the mysterious missive. Listen in to hear all about this “beautiful world” sort of story, then Kathleen and Joseph have a mini cook-off on air. Tell us what you like to bake! Is baking better than cooking? Let us know your thoughts, and, as always, keep reading!   Present at the Editorial Table: Kathleen Volk Miller Marion Wrenn Joseph Kindt   Production Engineer: Joe Zang ------------------------------- Michele Wolf To Orbit the Earth                                           The steel capsule, ridged and riveted—an oversize Can—rests suspended at street level, docked Inside the Air and Space Museum’s entrance. A bounty of white lilies mingled with spider mums, Placed yesterday, honors the trail of pilot John Glenn, Dead at ninety-five. In ’62, even a second grader, Gripped by the grainy blastoff in black and white, Knew that the compact can was a bleak conveyance, That that helmeted dad, a human Superman laced up In a silver suit, could at any moment be lost in flames. And yet we launch from terra firma, compelled to behold The blue orb—its panorama of oceans as they curve From continent to continent. It knocks you down, This vision, your ache to enfold the globe in your arms. It is that child who slips into the darkness, sounding A cry you cannot ease, although you circle round and round.   Expecting Snow Against a sky and lake bleached icy gray, the solid Surface edged with snow and spindly bones Of leafless trees, four silhouettes, a single file Of ash-brown deer—two adults, two adolescents— Halt their slow-mo synchrony of steps At the middle of the lake, its top layer hardened To host weightlessness, not illusion on elegant legs.     Beauty is no help. The starving deer, weary of feeding On bark and road salt, resume their lake-top trek.    From spring through fall, the white-tailed locals feast On roses, carry ticks. One after another, they meet Your eyes, and yet they leap onto the road— At the same bend where that drunk teen driver Bashed the fence, then flipped. Nature Holds you. When it drifts, it breaks your heart.   Zebras in a Field The younger woman—hollowed out, reduced To a shadow wrapped in skin—allowed The older one, nearly her duplicate, To enfold her. They had both seen the knife, A small, glinty blade with a pearlized handle, When it was set beside the younger woman’s Thigh. “But you are not dead,” the older woman, Unable to speak, had wanted to say, “although It may seem so. You will live an abundant life. Someday you will drive, after seventeen hours Aloft, along a paved road edging a clutch Of tumbledown farms when a herd of zebras Will race to meet the wooden fence—whinnying, Tails flapping—oscillating your vision, the total scroll Of what you know, with the whirl of their stripes.”  

Kathleen and Marion were so blown away by Rooftop Rhythms, the well-respected spoken word event held at NYUAD, we asked its host Dorian Paul Rogers to sit down with PBQ and talk about poetry, performance, and creating one of the liveliest poetry scenes we've ever seen. Learn about the world of spoken word poetry in the United Arab Emirates, the tricky project of curating the series, and roots of Dorian's faith in the transformative powers of spoken word. Marion's interview with Dorian is the second in a 2-part series celebrating Rooftop Rhythms. Check out the first episode here.   For more information on Dorian: http://www.bbc.com/news/av/world-middle-east-31986646/working-lives-uae-arts-impresario https://www.thenational.ae/arts-culture/welcome-to-rooftop-rhythms-abu-dhabi-s-poetry-scene-1.633366 For more information on Salem el Attas (one of the poets who read at the event we saw) https://man.vogue.me/entertainment/interviews/emirati-slam-poet-salem-al-attas-something-say/   Production Engineer: Joe Zang

This week’s episode of Slush Pile sees the editorial table discussing George McDermott’s “Frames Per Second” and Gabrielle Tribou’s “The Loneliness of Mothers.” On this episode, we also say goodbye to Sharee Devose as PBQ’s Co-Op and welcome Joseph Kindt as the next… This week’s episode of Slush Pile sees the editorial table discussing George McDermott’s “Frames Per Second” and Gabrielle Tribou’s “The Loneliness of Mothers.” On this episode, we also say goodbye to Sharee Devose as PBQ’s Co-Op and welcome Joseph Kindt as the next, but don’t worry–Sharee has an open invitation to join us for any future podcasts we record, so she’ll be around! As lit lovers, our conversation trying to find the right word to describe Joseph’s training experience led to some hammer banter about  Game of Thrones character, Gendry, before starting our editorial meeting with George McDermott’s work. George McDermott has been exploring the Merry-Go-Round Effect. Many years ago, he left high school English teaching to become a speechwriter and screenwriter. Some years later, as a sort of penance, he became a teacher again. Most recently, he’s co-authored a book with a woman who was a student in one of his eleventh-grade English classes. He’s hoping that traveling in circles can add up to progress.  See more  @ www.gorge-mcdermott.com; www.facebook.com/WhatWentRight and Twitter: @McDwrite We really enjoyed reading George McDermott’s “Frames Per Second.” Tim Fitts enjoyed it so much, in fact, that he is tempted to steal some of the lines. Then, speaking of plagiarism, Jason mentioned a recent plagiarism scandal involving a former Canadian Poet Laureate taking work from Maya Angelou and Tupac Shakur! Naturally, then, Marion transitioned us to talking about Cinema Paradiso’s25th anniversary, and talks of obsoleted technologies led us to our vote! Listen in to hear the results before we moved on to Gabrielle Tribou’s “The Loneliness of Mothers.”   Gabrielle Tribou Gabrielle Tribou currently lives in Hue, Vietnam. When she’s not working, she splits her time between the different cafes in her neighborhood, visiting an average of three per day. She’s a fan of vegetables and public green spaces.   “The Loneliness of Mothers” got us into deep discussion about the role of mothers and parenting. After two poems dealing with various family matters, we shared stories about our parents, and Kathleen and Sharee bonded over a friendly parenting tip for all to enjoy: Take your kids to The Home Depot! Tim reminded us not to forget to get some Honeycrisp apples while they’re in season, and Jason shared a list of good reads for you to look into. Tune in to hear all about it.     Present at the Editorial Table: Kathleen Volk Miller Tim Fitts Sharee DeVose Jason Schneiderman Marion Wrenn Joseph Kindt   Production Engineer: Joe Zang ---------------------------    George McDermott Frames Per Second   Sorting old photos and cans of home movies          she comes across a yellowing shot of a laughing girl her younger daughter the one who moved to Arizona or who knows where ’cause truth be told               they haven’t talked in a very long time   About ten in the picture probably ten                                 when they sang together every day before the eyes the defiant shoulders the silent years when it seemed they met only on stairways passed only in doorways and the cameras were pretty much packed away   She puts the photo back safe in its folder opens a can and threads the projector and the reel of film flickers to life ratcheting through from moment to moment enough pictures to create the illusion of motion enough motion to create the illusion of progress playpens and sandboxes bicycles and then   the interstitial flash of white just six or eight light-struck frames dividing what came before from what will follow   Gabrielle Tribou The Loneliness of Mothers   is louder than any afterschool clamor. The mother hears it in early fall. One lane over: an Escape’s exhaust is bleeding, mixing into air, thin city air, hot with end-of-summer heat. Strum of a stilled, unmoving carpool line. The mother’s child, in the school, doors away, will soon be late for the meet. The mother hears it at the dinner table, in waiting rooms left to wait, left to listen to clock scratching, stranger to the strangers she created once, at night, during many nights, at morning, midday, among angry sheets, or no sheets, dog brushed from bed, pawing behind closed door, the first baby asleep, sleeping, and later, held to breast, howling for warmth, that intangible, ungraspable mother warmth, gone before you know it. Outside, car doors grunt and close, children disappearing within. Along the horizon, meek clouds disperse.   Hold her, in the echoing emptiness of her darkened house, in the thin-stretched minutes of carpool lines, at the sink, between the scrape and rinse of dishes; Listen to her when she speaks, to her repeated stories, those rehearsed and practiced complaints, and handle gently the bolted fabric of her days.

PBQ is back with the first episode of 2017! In this episode we talk about two poems by Taylor Altman and one by Heather Sagar. First, we discussed Taylor Altman’s poems, “How to Break Without Falling Apart,” and “Contra Mundum.”   PBQ is back with the first episode of 2017! In this episode we talk about two poems by Taylor Altman and one by Heather Sagar. First, we discussed Taylor Altman’s poems, “How to Break Without Falling Apart,” and “Contra Mundum.” Taylor Altman taught herself how to juggle while studying for a calculus exam in college. She won her school district's spelling bee in 4th grade (the youngest student ever to do so) and was excused from spelling homework for the rest of the year. She has synesthesia, so she sees letters and numbers as being different colors; for example, "D" is green and "7" is purple. Find her on LinkedIn, Medium, or Blackbird.   Next, we read Heather Sager’s poem, “Green.”  Heather Sager finds happiness in reading the Russian Symbolists and in spending time with her outgoing son. Feeling mildly adventurous, she might wander out to snap a too-close photo of an ornery snapping turtle, an oversized praying mantis, or a suspiciously quiet pigeon. You can find her poems or stories in places like Bear Review, Fourth & Sycamore, Naugatuck River Review, BlazeVOX, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, NEAT., Minetta Review, Untoward (forthcoming), Jet Fuel Review, and elsewhere. From the global to the personal, from surviving terrorist attacks to kissing frogs as a child, this conversation had all of us thinking critically about the relationship of a writer to the world around them, or, the world against them.   Were these poems accepted or rejected? Did Kathy ever kiss a frog? Listen and find out! See Tim’s novel, The Soju Club, here. Check us out on Facebook and Twitter and let us know what you think with the #kissingfrogs Thank you for listening, and read on!   Present at the Editorial Table: Kathleen Volk Miller Marion Wrenn Jason Schneiderman Tim Fitts Sara Aykit Miranda Reinberg   Engineering Producer: Joe Zang ----------------------------    Taylor Altman How to Break Without Falling Apart She trades in antiques at the end of Adeline Street. Her shop is like the inside of a dream, with carpets and African masks and rings and earrings encased in glass as though within a tide pool. From the armoire of her mouth all sorts of things come out in the Kentish accent thirty years in California hasn’t shaken— what lives she has led, what other people she has been, how she learned to break without falling apart. A cool breeze comes through the back door, from the alleyway, and she says she works as a nurse for the elderly to afford a new passport with her maiden name, and to fix her teeth, small spans of darkness between gold.   Taylor Altman Contra Mundum Under the burnt-out tree where the nightingale sings, where a magpie made its nest   of wedding rings, the singed olive trees that once bore waxy fruits, where are you?   John Walker Lindh, now called Sulayman, rocks back and forth, reading his Quran   in Terra Haute. The tile halls of the madrassa are empty, the fountain stopped. Somewhere you are just waking up, in some other city, someone else’s skin. Our house was filled with books, corners of pages   torn off for gum, small surface wounds that bloomed like carnations. Everything is   complicit. A bird goes up the scale, notes like glass beads crushed underfoot. It’s you and me   against the world. In the bazaar, we passed the birds in cages, seedcovered, shitcovered, the white bars   scratched to copper. Clocks going off in every direction, faces faded and filled with sand. You read the papers   every morning; the news was neither good nor bad; you had been in Srebrenica. IEDs exploded   in the streets, bombs full of nails. A little boy was breathing blood. There was nothing we could do for him,   his lungs expanding like balloons. You proposed that night, gave me the ring from the magpie’s nest,   then disappeared. So many nights I watched you fight sleep. So many nights you woke up drenched in sweat   as the imam’s cry flew over the rooftops and minarets. You said, Lindh’s father visits him in prison. He believes   in his innocence. I watched your hips grow wider, the age spots appear on the backs of your hands.   I painted and painted this fragment of window. Finally, the urgency of lovemaking   left us. But our names remain on the lapels of your books, hybrids of our names, Punnett squares.   Heather Sager GREEN After staring down those amphibious creatures, their sad-mute eyes dimly reflecting my own, I picked one up, and smacked him on the lips.   Into woods, ponds I’d chase, collecting and admiring tone of skin, angling of protuberances, the feel of shifty, leggy treasures. Nearby,   Hard-shelled soldiers rose, showing dilapidated orange mouths.   My father ran at me with a shovel, once, to free a pinched limb— I wiggled free, he tapped the large shell. Still, there I remained— watching my parade, sentient, croaking, green.    

In Episode 017, we spoke to Jim Hanas about the value and perhaps impracticality of today’s slush piles. This week, M. Rachel Branwen, editor of Slush Pile Magazine, was happy to talk about her thoughts on what the slush pile is really about, disagreeing with Hanas unapologetically.   Welcome, welcome, welcome to Episode TWENTY of Slush Pile! We thank all of our listeners, writers, and guest speakers for supporting this podcast and its mission. We first launched Slush Pile at the end of March at the 2016 AWP Conference. We were thrilled with the enthusiastic response, yet confused athow many times people asked if we were related to Slush Pile Magazine, also debuting at 2016 AWP! We had never heard of this publication, so we hunted down their booth and were blown away by the ladder and a very tall stack of papers.   Author Jonathan Weinert at Slush Pile Magazine's AWP booth We had the pleasure of meeting M. Rachel Branwen, Slush Pile Magazine’s founder and editor, and we invited her back to our booth for some boxed wine and great conversation! Then, we convinced her to come on air. M.Rachel Branwen is the editor of Slush Pile Magazine, the longtime senior reader of fiction at Harvard Review, and the former fiction editor of DigBoston. Her work has appeared in The Missouri Review, The Adirondack Review, The Millions, and elsewhere. She is fond of: bougainvillea, red wine, mashed potatoes, unexpected conversations with oversharing strangers, long road trips, learning new languages, walking up hills for exercise, the thesaurus, her dog (Nigel, a pug), and the movie "When Harry Met Sally." She dislikes:headaches, mosquitoes, and the sounds people make when they're chewing. Feel free to look her up on Facebook here, here, or on Twitter: @slushpilemag. In Episode 017, we spoke to Jim Hanas about the value and perhaps impracticality of today’s slush piles. This week, M. Rachel Branwen was happy to talk about her thoughts on what the slush pile is really about, disagreeing with Hanas unapologetically. Branwen tells us about the history of Slush Pile Magazine, “championing” and “curating” works that Branwen believes deserve the world’s attention. After explaining her magazine’s history, Branwen probed us for the history and executions of Painted Bride Quarterly. Kathy and Marion reminisce about their introduction to a group of people who work on magazines like Painted Bride Quarterly and Slush Pile Magazine simply for the love of literature. Then, we have veteran reader Tim Fitts and brand-new reader Sara Aykit discuss the democratic nature of PBQ’s voting that not only empowers young readers, but keeps the perspectives of older readers fresh. M. Rachel Branwen embodies the pleasure of reading poetry and short stories like they are the only thing that matters. We had a great time discussing her more optimistic views on slush piles and the “staggeringly interesting” Slush Pile Magazine. Check out the Issues Marion raves about here and here! We would love to know how you feel about slush piles: are you Team Hanas or Team Branwen? Let us know on our Facebook page or @PaintedBrideQ with #TeamHanas or #TeamBranwen! Thank you for listening and read on!   Present at the Editorial Table: Kathleen Volk Miller Marion Wrenn Tim Fitts Sara Aykit M. Rachel Branwen   Production Engineer: Joe Zang

This episode is extra special because we had Erika Meitner, winner of the National Poetry Series and professor at Virginia Tech. She is currently working on a “documentary poetry project” on the 2016 Republican National Convention...   Welcome to Episode 18 of the PBQ’s Slush Pile! This episode is extra special because we had guest, Erika Meitner, winner of the National Poetry Series and professor at Virginia Tech. She is currently working on a “documentary poetry project” on the 2016 Republican National Convention in Cleveland for Virginia Quarterly Review.   All of the poems we’ll consider on today’s episode were submitted by Maureen Seaton: "West Ho," "West Ho 2," & "Love in the Time of Snow." Maureen Seaton currently lives in three states of art—Florida, New Mexico, and Colorado (ocean, desert, mountain range)—all bordering on our next-door neighbors, the world. We start with the “West Ho,” and Tim points out that the poet’s use of specific facts ultimately aids the piece. The wonderful descriptions of sunshine from Jersey to Colorado warms us up to this poem. We go on to discuss “West Ho 2,” a seeming counterpart. This poem brings nods to the Jersey accent, and leaves us wondering who Lizzy Tish is. The “constellation of places” keeps us “tawlking” about this one for a bit longer than “West Ho.” We were all a little intimidated by the French in “Love in the Time of Snow,” but Erika reads for us using her “Jersey French.” We love the historical allusions in this poem, and Jason, who grew up in a military family, recounts for us the story of Lafayette in the Revolutionary War. You can listen to Maureen read her poem “Hybrid” at the University of Miami here, and at a POG reading with collaborator Sam Ace here. Listen to find out which poems we accepted and comment on our Facebook event page or on Twitter with #WestHo! Sign for our email list if you’re in the area, and even if you’re not! Send us a self-addressed stamped envelope, and we’ll send you a PBQ Podcast Slushpile sticker! Read on!     Present at the Editorial Table: Kathleen Volk Miller Erika Meitner Marion Wrenn Jason Schneiderman Miriam Haier Tim Fitts   Production Engineer: Joe Zang   PBQ Box Score: 3=0  -------------------------   West Ho Colorado ties with Texas for 6th sunniest state in the USA. Who cares? The sun’s   not racing against itself, why should it? I will not be buried in Elizabethport nor   one of the Oranges like the rest of my clan. My body will not be flown home in a crate   to be clucked over by who knows which Irish relatives. The way the sun rises here,   clanging its huge cowbell, easing the East right out of you, you’d think everybody’d   be tinted silt and rouge and worshipping The Bright Solar Prince of the Solar Palace.   (Who?) I’m but one who recently drifted from old New Jersey, the 27th sunniest state   where the sun shines 56% of the time. Don’t underestimate the operatic trill and maw   of this western sun as it blazes over you and laughs behind the Rockies. It will draw   you to it and sear you like a steak, Jersey girl, Golden Guernsey, little pail of milk.    West Ho 2 I also live in the state of New Mexico, the second sunniest state, and in Florida, the eighth. I live in three places but I don’t have three faces. This is not exactly a metaphor, yet I can see the metaphor coming at me, a satellite in the hard dark sky.   Deputy Azevedo placed Dexter’s head in an evidence bag and took it out to his cruiser: the last words I read as I fell asleep last night.   Here in Colorado everyone skis obsessively on Sunday. People break their legs and arms and sometimes their necks.   I’m feeling a little Jersey today.   Don’t get me talking about dogs or coffee.   There are no real characters in this poem, only those who have escaped from Totawa.   Lizzy Tish, for example.   Lizzy will not be buried in Totowa nor Newark nor Hoboken. Her musical body will be laid to rest somewhere on the plains of Colorado.   Personally, I both do and don’t believe in the efficacy of death and dying.   Eggcream, potsy, stoop, stickball.   These are some of the words a Jersey girl might remember while under the influence of the Colorado sun.   Her musical body will be buried in Boulder Valley under the lid of a baby grand piano, her soul accompanied into the afterlife by a flashmob of multigenerational percussionists.     Love in the Time of Snow Poem Lafayette, Colorado   People who live here speak very little French.   Lafayette, nous voilà! they sometimes say.   Although Lafayette, famous Hero of Two   Worlds, (our world et le monde de Lafayette)   never skied much past the bunny slope and   few remember him slip- ping bourbon in cocoa   after snowboarding— in fact, few remember   him at all—it’s still historical as hell here,   a veritable winter love- fest de la révolution,   hippies and nobles lug- ing down the Rockies.

Instead of discussing submissions from our own slush pile, we talked about whether a “slush pile” is even the best way to find writing and writers at all! Joining us is Jim Hanas, author of the essay “Let’s Kill the Slush Pile”... Today we have a very different episode; instead of discussing submissions from our own slush pile, we talk about whether a “slush pile” is even the best way to find writing and writers at all! Joining us is Jim Hanas, author of the essay “Let’s Kill the Slush Pile,” which details how open submissions really work, under what premises, and the advantages of scouting for work over open submissions. In a world where Facebook and Wordpress have made sharing writing easier than ever, does a slush pile still have the value that it once had? Are Editors who strictly pick from submissions nothing more than literary Gatekeepers? We sit down for this episode ready to defend our democratic slush pile as the obvious way to go, but Jim’s arguments left us questioning our own methods (unless you’re Jason). Jim Hanas is certainly not a new face to the publishing world. Currently, he works for HarperCollins as the Senior Director of Audience Development and Insight but he’s done it all, from freelance writer, to professor, to editor. He no longer submits to the slush and is trying to conquer the full-length novel. Look for his collection of short stories titled Why They Cried: a surreal look into the strange and beautiful present in everyday life. We here at PBQ aren’t slashing our slush pile any time soon, but Jim leaves us contemplating the function of the slush pile and with an uncertainty of its future in the ever-changing world of publishing. What do you think? Do you agree with Jim? What are your experiences with slush piles? Don't forget to rate and subscribe to us on iTunes! Let us know on our Facebook event page or tweet us@PaintedBrideQ. Thank you for listening and read on!   Present at the Editorial Table: Jim Hanas Jason Schneiderman Kathleen Volk Miller Marion Wrenn Caitlin McLaughlin Tim Fitts   Production Engineer: Joe Zang      

Today we discussed fiction for the second time: Hunger by Kerry Donoghue. You can read the story before or after you listen to the podcast, but: SPOILER ALERT; you will hear us discuss all of the major plot points!   Hello and welcome to Episode 16 of our podcast! Today we discussed fiction for the second time: Hunger by Kerry Donoghue. You can read the story before or after you listen to the podcast, but: SPOILER ALERT; you will hear us discuss all of the major plot points! Kerry Donoghue once launched a falcon from her arm so it could snatch a pigeon head in mid-air, which seems really random to mention to you right now, but when you’ll read the story you’ll see: she’s obsessed with consumption: what we put in our mouths, all the different infidelities we allow. She lives in San Francisco with her husband, her little girl, and a distressing capacity for cheese (See? It’s all connected.)  We know you’ll want more of Donoghue, so we’ve made it easy–The Pinch, The Louisville Review, The South Carolina Review, Potomac Review, and Harpur Palate. We loved the way that Donoghue was able to paint such misguided, inept characters without judgement. From Buick’s competitive eating to Glory’s obsession with childbearing, the story held enough elements of reality for us to believe in and truly care about these characters. Sex, food, beauty salons, brothers, baby shampoo, and tricep dips–the visceral details here drive this piece. If you read it, you will immediately want to share it–just like us! We then decided to fully rip off one our favorite podcast’s, (Pop Culture Happy Hour) and Kathy asked each of us what’s been making us happy. Tim mentioned that he’s re-reading George Orwell, while Caitlin brought up the Spider Man/Deadpool Marvel comic, and so her happiness dealt with anticipation. (Once again making us love the diversity of our staff’s minds.) Jason is loving former PBQ author Kristen Dombek’s book, “The Selfishness of Others: An Essay on the Fear of Narcissism,” and admits that his currect gulity pleasure is the Netflix series, Stranger Things. (“Reason to watch=Winona Ryder.) Kathleen ended the podcast with a call for memoirs written by people under 30 who are not celebrities and have not suffered huge life tragedies. Do any exist? Let us know on our event page! As always, let us know what you think—of the story, our conversation, or the podcast in general, on our Facebook page! Don’t forget to rate and subscribe if you like what we’re doing! Read on!   Present at the Editorial Table: Kathleen Volk Miller Tim Fitts Jason Schneiderman Caitlin McLaughlin   Production Engineer: Joe Zang  

On today’s podcast we discussed four poems, all part of a “polyvalent” poetry series by Jayson Iwen. These poems were unique because they could be read two different ways, horizontally and vertically.   Hi and welcome to Episode 15 of the PBQ’s Slush pile.  On today’s podcast we discussed four poems, all part of a “polyvalent” poetry series by Jayson Iwen. These poems were unique because they could be read two different ways, horizontally and vertically. Jayson lived in Beirut, Lebanon for four years where he served as the “Hare-Raiser” for the Beirut Tarboush Hash House Harriers (yeah, we had to look it up, too). He wrote his first two books on a Smith Corona WS250 when he was in high school, and dropped out of pre-med to become a writer. In college he played Petruchio in an S&M, black box version of Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew (eat your heart out E.L. James). You can check out Jayson’s website here; you’ll want to, after your hear and read these poems. We started with  “.1.4.1,” which was the first in the series of “polyvalent” poetry. We started by reading the poem vertically and then moved on to horizontally. We were impressed with the way in which the meaning of the poem became clearer when we read the poem horizontally, like magic. Tim was able to connect with the feelings associated with new parenthood, while Jason questioned our ability to trust such an unconventional voice. We decided to move on and read all of the poems before we voted, so it was on to “.1.4.2.” We found again that the horizontal version was more accessible to us, and admired the strong images the author’s language conjured. Next was “.1.4.3,” and we really dug the “creepy” tone that progressed through the first two poems to this one, and when we moved on to “.1.4.4,” we looked forward to seeing where the story that was woven through the first three poems went. You’ll have to listen to see which poems we ultimately accepted from the series! Don’t forget to rate and subscribe on our iTunes, then let us know what you thought on our podcast Facebook page. Read on!     Present at the Editorial Table: Kathleen Volk Miller Marion Wrenn Tim Fitts Jason Schneiderman Caitlin McLaughlin   Production Engineer: Joe Zang   PBQ Box Score: 3:4 ---------------------------      .1.4.1 You have descended from animals                                  Who descended from angels Who alone have descended                                              From the darkness of their own choice Where nothing holds its shape for long                          Hold out your hand And feel for rain                                                                  The pain of sex   My great grandmother taught my grand                        With a knife My grandfather taught my uncle                                      Respect with a pitch fork No one arrives at insanity alone                                       It’s a social conclusion Like finding the baby                                                          Waiving goodbye from the top of the stairs .1.4.2 In the night you lean                                                           Over the baby, to make sure it’s okay The baby wakes terrified                                                    A dark animal shape looms From the fear within you                                                   Modeling itself in the child The only way out of possession                                        To dispossess your thought, you remember   You’ve been so baked you couldn’t stand                       No one ever mentioned the crystal THC With which they’d laced the pot                                      Those nights were long affairs Watching the submarine calm of the ceiling                In the extra bedroom Watching fire light flicker on the tent flap                    Listening to everything speak your name   .1.4.3 You might dream of a poolside party                               Where you bump into an old classmate You thought had died years before                                   With whom you’d never spoken Our military was so strong                                                  It would break its own neck She said                                                                                  I’ll be in the last room on the left         And left                                                                                  You might wake to find the baby Sitting up in the dark                                                          Staring at a shape in the moonlight Why did you never come to me                                         It says You might have found me                                                  The high & holy center of the Earth                                                                                                 .1.4.4 I was my mother’s will                                                         Sent out into the world For bread or cheese or meat                                               A vapor trail unforming Against the morning light                                                  The sound of a struck bell Slipping into the background                                           To live beyond scrutiny   Your glorious brain, my little humon                              Is a globule of fat Dangling from the nerve tree                                          We call universe That’s right, son                                                                   Daddy’s drinking again His life is a dead end                                                           That tastes like mother’s cup

Welcome to Episode 14! We’re having so much nerdy fun with these and hope you are, too. This week we discussed one poem a piece by Hilary Jacqmin, Keith Woodruff, and Kierstin Bridger, each submitted for different issues. Another Slush Pile first!  Welcome to Episode 14 of our podcast! We’re having so much nerdy fun with these and hope you are, too. This week we discussed one poem a piece by Hilary Jacqmin, Keith Woodruff, and Kierstin Bridger, each submitted for different issues. Another Slush Pile first! First up was “Private Lives”  by Hilary Jacqmin. Hilary S. Jacqmin earned her MA from Johns Hopkins University and her MFA from the University of Florida. Inspired by Baltimore performance art group Fluid Movement's elaborate water ballets, Hilary aspires to learn synchronized swimming. This summer, Hilary has kept busy by going to entirely too many concerts (including Beyoncé, Weezer, and Jason Isbell), baking a sour cherry pie in honor of her Door County, Wisconsin family heritage, and seeing Hamilton on Broadway Her work has appeared in Best New Poets 2011, edited by D.A. Powell, The Awl, Pank, Subtropics, Passages North, AGNI, and elsewhere. You can also read her article on "killing your darlings" here! This poem struck a chord with everyone at the table. It’s hard to write a poem about boredom that isn’t, well, boring! We were right there with her in her grandparent’s house, trying to pass the time.   Next we discussed Keith Woodruff’s  “Bride of Frankenstein Blues,” submitted for our Monsters issue. Keith “from the Black Lagoon” Woodruff has a Masters in creative writing from Purdue University, and lives with his wife Michelle and son Whitman in Akron, Ohio. His work recently appeared in The Journal, Quarter After Eight, American Literary Review, and is forthcoming in Wigleaf. His haiku have appeared in Modern Haiku, Frogpond, Mayfly, Acorn, A Hundred Gourds, and in Big Sky: the Red Moon anthology. We all sympathized with poor Frankenstein trying to find love in the modern dating world, but this poem also sparked discussion of “pick-up” artists. We wondered what Frankenstein’s Bride would say about his pick-up methods? Regardless, the poem was accessible to all of us.   Last, we read “To the Girl From the Reformatory Town” by Kierstin Bridger, submitted for our Locals issue! Kierstin is a Colorado writer and winner of the Mark Fischer Prize, the ACC Studio award and was shortlisted for the 2015 Manchester Poetry Prize in the UK. Western Colorado is full of incredible writers, and for the past several years they’ve been performing Literary Burlesque! This year they pulled a switch-a-roo on Oh Brother Where Art Thou. They changed it to Oh Sister and combined themes with The Odyssey. Kirsten says, “It was a smash, and so very collaborative.” You can listen to Kierstin read from her book, Demimonde,  here. We were intrigued by the imagery in Kierstin’s poem. Although none of us grew up in a “reformatory town” the emotional language put us in the mindset of the “girl.” Over the years, PBQ often accepts work, contacts the authors, and then gets told there’s been a revision. Almost always, the original is better than the revision. We discussed why this might happen, and how difficult it is to know when your own work is “finished.” Let us know what you think—do you continue to work with your work once you’ve sent it out? You can find PBQ on Twitter @paintedbrideq or on our Facebook. Don’t forget to visit our Facebook event page to discuss this episode, and subscribe to our iTunes account! Read on!     Present at the Editorial Table: Kathleen Volk Miller Marion Wrenn Tim Fitts Jason Schneiderman Caitlin McLaughlin   Production Engineer: Joe Zang   PBQ Box Score: 3:0 -------------------------   Hilary Jacqmin Private Lives   They have retired to lost pines and BurgerTime. When our tan Malibu grinds up the switchback to their mock- Tahitian Village in the Texas hills, the grandparents can barely stand to touch us. But “Little David,” they cry out, until my father blushes. Kindness is cold champagne coupes at 5 and 6 o’clock, then Jeopardy. A walk through bull pine, clearing brush. Whatever can be done with us? My sister’s fist is purpling with cactus spines; my mother’s stomach bites; this week, I will not bathe. The grandparents shy from our commotion. Secretly, we flip through The Handmaid’s Tale. Our shared air mattress crackles like a seed. We’re trapped: now that we’ve come, they won’t let us go out past the dry creek bed. Next year, they’ll never even leave the house. Why is their clubhouse impermeable, a miniature Pentagon? And why can’t we order malteds at Lock Drug? Mother says “We can’t ask why.” Inside, we play endless Rummikub. Uno, uno. “There ought to be a religion for people who don’t know what to believe,” grandmother frets, her bad eye winking like a cut-up moon. Outside, a loop of fire ants works a burnt-out stump, persistent as pump jacks, and night’s an oil field. We are too young to know what granddad did with catalytic crackers at Shell, too dumb to talk duplicate bridge hands, Gravity’s Rainbow, or split stock, but we think hard about the hardwood in the Lockhart smokehouse and how granddad’s bread machine vibrates like a Gravitron. Sometimes, they notice me. They say, “What are you writing? Are you writing about us?” They say, “That makes me so nervous.” I want to tell them there is so little that I can write. Almost nothing. Perfume like propane. A tickless clock. How quickly they both turn away.   Keith Woodruff Bride of Frankenstein Blues   Consider the moon, my friend, how its absence conjures this unromantic air. Here in the bar, smoke unwinds  like bolts of slow lightning across the gauzy light; everywhere you look mouths, small dark graves, chew on drinks. Now the music gropes its way through the crowd looking for phone numbers, drags itself onto the wooden dance floor. This is no night for finding brides. Still, you try, touch her wrist during “talk” & spring the classic recoil. Her black eyes, twitch like nerves, the head cocks bird-like, spindly arms jerk back from your touch & clasp up her breast sacs as the goose hiss splits her blue lips. These damn castles are cold. Some nights, alone again, arms outstretched on the stairs, you think you might prefer the murderous torches. Anything to light you up.   Kierstin Bridger To the Girl From the Reformatory Town You wrestled against the clutches of brothers and cousins, etched lessons in your muscle, broke tendencies, rerouted synapse with unwritten chapters entitled, Risk, Pain, and Tolerance. Though pale and tender as your own, you clawed your way into their flesh; red scratches and waning moons of bruise. You carved a language of ferocious prey and warning but more startling than the DNA that curled from under your nails was the power which made you surge, the breathless current of survival that ran like a lightning rod through the center of your axis as you spun in and out of years knowing blood tracks would either catch up with you or become abandoned to faster byways and untranslatable modes. So you walk, never looking over your shoulder, one step in front of the other, past the fermenting bumper crop yard-fruit. Never mind the dirty shoelace untied, the frayed, grey string dangling over the trestle bridge track. You need this grip of heat, the hot rail under your feet. It's like the static warmth the addicts wear like skullcaps, the chokecherry buzz after needle pierce and plunge. Keep your hair blown back, baby, and charged with the horizon line. Ignore the periphery of prison men in orange. Their 40 ounce cans and spent shells are their business not yours.  Disregard the jackrabbit carcass and its fur which still clings but will sail away soon like dandelion seeds. Remember it's not a charm and their sentence is not your sentence; you can't do that kind of time. Keep going, never say, it'll all blow over someday because lies like that scatter, fade, sink back to soil. They'll transform into fragments so sparse, so swallow-drunk, the next generation will skip the deciphering stone, misspell the story of you, digitize and archive it on some pixelated and odorless, dot com.  

Today we discussed three poems by Dana Sonnenschein, all submitted for our Monsters issue! Dana is a professor of English at Southern Connecticut State University. Her manuscript, Bear Country was selected as winner of the 2008 Stevens Poetry Book Manuscript Competition.  On this episode we discussed three poems by Dana Sonnenschein, all submitted for our Monsters issue! Dana is a professor of English at Southern Connecticut State University. Her manuscript, Bear Country was selected as winner of the 2008 Stevens Poetry Book Manuscript Competition. Her writing can also be found in Pith Journal and Poemeleon. Dana love wolves, ravens, black cats, Universal horror films, folklore from around the world, and the kind of cookbooks that feature ingredients like mummy and shavings from human skulls.  And yes, she does wear white glove when she handles manuscripts! You can ‘like’ Dana’s author page on Facebook. These poems were part of a series that put a twist on old horror stories. First up was “The Secret” and we were seriously scared. From eyeballs in hands to some Shining-esque twins, we knew that we were in for some creepy stuff in the best way. We moved on to discuss “Creature from the Black Lagoon,” a prose poem. This poem particularly resonated with editor Tim Fitts, causing him to recall a neighbor he had with serious boundary issues. Last, Sonnenschein took us to Egypt with her poem “The Return of the Mummy.” Somehow, this poem related the mummies we all fear with another fear we all have--in relationships. Although the authors we’ve asked to participate in our podcast have been overwhelmingly supportive, we have had a few authors who declined to be a part of Slush Pile. We discussed some of the emotional responses we received so far, and some of the reasons our podcast might scare authors, even when we’re not talking about the Creature from the Black Lagoon! You can find PBQ on Twitter @paintedbrideq or on our Facebook. Don’t forget to visit our Facebook event page to discuss this episode, and subscribe to our iTunes account! Read on!     Present at the Editorial Table: Kathleen Volk Miller Marion Wrenn Tim Fitts Jason Schneiderman Caitlin McLaughlin   Production Engineer: Joe Zang   PBQ Box Score: 1:2 -----------------------   The Secret Two boys of nine or ten in yellow slickers.  The first time I saw them, one stood high on the bank, watching the water, hands in his pockets; the other ran down the hill, holding his eyes out in his palms.  Drops ringing.  Grass shining wet with rain, rock dark like a rook.  A broken oar split the surface of the river.  The next night they came down from their stone keep and sang sweetly, holding hands, We are the eyes from the Eye Tower.  Then the river flowed under and the road gave in one sweeping curve.  I had to know.  So I took a whirlpool down, cool and smooth as metal.  Came up spiraling, my mouth full of blood.  I spit on the causeway, put my fingers where my teeth had been, and told no one what I’d seen.  But you know the river I mean. Creature from the Black Lagoon My neighbor leads a life of fiction and once in a while invites me in—to make believe she's got a spotless apartment, a couple kids, religion.  It's hard to keep up with the plot.  The radiator hisses like a cast-iron snake.  Or the kitchen faucet drips, and a roach slips out from under a plate.  She changes her age like her clothes, every few days.  Sometimes she stares where water scales the wall and says she'll give up booze.  One night the building’s old pipes ring and then my phone—I heard you typing.  I'm writing a novel, too, she says, about some people I know.  I sigh and lean on the wall we share.  Soon she’s breathing into my ear, So you think it's your honey, forgot his keys, no, drops the keys, he knocks and calls, louder, because you were in the shower, yeah, and you let him in, but   he's   not   your   honey.  He’s a man in flippers and a black rubber suit.  Universal Studios, 1954.I roll my eyes.  But then I think of her, hunched over, listening behind her door, as keys jangle onto hardwood, as this thing between a man and beast slithers in.  I say, Sorry, I left the water running. You'll have to stop by tomorrow and tell me how it ends.  When I hear her slippers in the hall, I shiver and pretend there's no one home.   The Return of the Mummy At midnight, it's Kharis, clutching his heart and game leg trailing:  he needs a good start,   but he won't stand still for his priestess's goods being touched.  Her ghost returns to girlhood   or a handful of dust, but he remains, cursed, rag-wrapped, limping through reels without words   *   Once we swore, Cross my heart and hope to die, and stared into glass cases where mummies lie,   holding hands, our monstrous fascination taking in needles, death, and devotion,   a toe dark as a raisin, the Rosetta Stone, eternal pyramids, copulating oxen.   *   When we unlocked dead tongues and tombs, it was because we knew the future loomed   beyond chill doors.  We held onto love like a balm. We didn't want to be left alone after all   and couldn't quite believe in sky-blue heaven or living on without our flesh and bones.

Hello and welcome to Episode #12! For the first time on our podcast, we are discussing fiction! Today, we will talk about a short story, “Prufrock” by Terry Dubow. We were nervous about discussing this longer format, but super excited to try it out.  Hello and welcome to Episode #12 of PBQ’s Slush Pile! For the first time on our podcast, we are discussing fiction! Today, we will talk about a short story, “Prufrock” by Terry Dubow. We were nervous about discussing this longer format, but super excited to try it out. ] Dubow has been writing fiction for twenty years or so—it’s his secret identity without exciting parts. No super powers. No spy stories. No second family in Idaho. In addition to writing 250 words a day, he works at an independent school in Cleveland and does his best to help his two daughters and his one lovely wife stay happy, healthy and fed. A story collection was a finalist for the Autumn House Fiction Prize in 2011. Currently, he’s working on his third novel. We want more, and after reading this story, we have a feeling you will, too. Read another story, “Wyoming” in Witness. We advised our listeners to go read Prufrock first, but of course, we can’t know that they did--it’s all an experiment, right? We dove right in: raccoons and a cat and teenagers and mother-in-laws, oh my!!! This story packs so much into thirteen pages; we laughed at moments, and while we may not have cried, we winced at all the right parts. This story made us think about fatherhood, T.S. Eliot, incapacitation, indecision, and whether we should be paid by the hour. Once again, Tim schooled us on the real habits of the wildlife of North America, and we could have discussed the story for another hour. We had some dissension about how the piece ends and even more about what happened to Prufrock; please read, listen to this show, and cast your vote! Marion suggested that we might provide a synopsis of the story at the beginning of episodes that discuss fiction, which sparked a discussion of recap podcasts and the ways we consume longform media. With such an overwhelming amount of media coming at us in so many ways---how do you consume? You can let us know on our Facebook event page and our twitter @PaintedBrideQ. Don't forget to subscribe and rate us on our iTunes  page! As always, thank you for listening, and read on!   Present at the Editorial Table: Kathleen Volk Miller Marion Wrenn Tim Fitts Denise Guerin Alexa Josaphouitch Caitlin McLaughlin   Production Engineer: Joe Zang   PBQ Box Score: 1:1  

In this podcast, we discuss three of Laura McCullough’s poems. The box score above is the spoiler alert: though today’s podcast crew spanned from the east coast to Iowa, included an undergrad and people who’ve done this work of editing for more than two decades, we were unanimously enamored of all three poems.   Welcome to Episode 11 of PBQ’s Slush Pile! In this podcast, we discuss three of Laura McCullough’s poems. The box score above is the spoiler alert: though today’s podcast crew spanned from the east coast to Iowa, included an undergrad and people who’ve done this work of editing for more than two decades, we were unanimously enamored of all three poems. “Leafless” moved us and took us on a journey that also spanned decades. “Reclaimed Wood” told a tale we only want even more of, and “Maggot Therapy” simply left us thunderstruck. Read along and listen in—these poems are even more breathtaking aloud. . She hates the word feminist and she’s no stranger to PBQ! Laura McCullough is an award-winning poet with six (!) poetry collections which include her most recent, Jersey Mercy, which narrates the lives of two people affected by Hurricane Sandy. Watch a brief interview after her first book or watch part of a reading from this past spring.Check out more of her work on her website. The fact that we were going to discuss Laura’s work and we’ve known her for years, spurred us to invite Jennifer L. Knox to join us for this episode, as Jennifer fits a similar profile: she’s a poet whose work we admire and the added bonus—we can call her a friend. We discussed the conundrum many of us find ourselves in—how difficult is it to be a poet who wants to send work to journals she loves and respects, but whose editors she knows well. No one wants to be published out of obligation or to put her friend in an awkward position. The flip side is just as bad: no editor takes pleasure out of rejecting anyone, let alone a friend. Our discussion focused on social ties and aesthetic taste—or, as Jennifer put it, discerning the “heart-to-brains-to-balls ratio” of any given magazine or press in order to find the right home for your work. Listen in as we explore our practices, then chime in on our FB event page and share your own. Sign for our email list if you’re in the area, and even if you’re not! Send us a self-addressed stamped envelope, and we’ll send you a PBQ Podcast sticker. Follow us on Twitter @PaintedBrideQ and Instagram @paintedbridequarterly.  Don't forget to subscribe and rate us on our iTunes page! Read on!     Present at the Editorial Table: Kathleen Volk Miller Marion Wrenn Jason Schneiderman Alexa Josaphouitch Tim Fitts Jennifer Knox   Production Engineer: Joe Zang   PBQ Box Score: 3:0 ------------------------   Laura McCullough Leafless In the end, my mother’s shoulders, barely covered and quivering, were like birds.                         Once, I made a dress   for her, the fabric creamy white, the print a single brown tree spanning the width, with stark branches.   It was 1974.    I was fourteen.                       Each night, I taught myself to sew,                                   feeding the fabric through the foot,                 thinking how surprised she would be.              I remember   seeing her in it, how we’d both loved the gesture, the achievement, and though it fit poorly, the print was enough for us.      She wore it once and never again, let me see her walk out the door in it.             Maybe love’s architecture is exposed when we try and fail at what we mean.   Outside the hospital, winter had flayed everything, the trees charcoaled against the sky, their shadows thumb smudges on the institutional snow hid lawn, and inside the air was redolent of shit, flowers, and chlorine.   The first time I changed her clothes, peeling back from her shoulders the blue flecked cotton gown, then sliding a clean pink one up her arms, we held each other in the oily light, spent. Reclaimed Wood I confess now I have begun to henna             my red hair gone dull in parts and penny bright in others.             And I always tried to subdue its wildness. But when the hull of our             marriage busted rock   and began to leak, we both thought             it was a good idea to renovate the kitchen, together, by ourselves.             We closed up the hall to the back rooms to create more             privacy and took down a load-   bearing wall in hoped of opening             the “flow.” My husband looked like Christ hauling the salvaged             timbers from a warehouse deep in the Piney woods one by one             up the front stoop, laying   them in our suburban living room,             posing as a Brooklyn loft. We framed the new wide space:             one as header, two as column braces, then sat on the floor cross-legged             looking at our work in progress,   the way the wood had aged,             the colors and striations, notches and hammered pegs. We felt our             fifties ranch had a new story now, something with weight, and we             held hands a little while before   getting up, heading to the shower,             falling back into our routine.     Maggot Therapy   Near death, sometimes the hands curve             into themselves like claws. I held my mother’s open, smoothing             the fingers, trimming the wild nails.   Once, years before, my husband and I awoke             to a fawn caught in the family compost, a hole on its back end festering with worms,             and he pinched each one out   swiping his little finger in the bowl             of the wound, then coating it with antibiotic salve. I loved him,             and how he saved this small thing.   It’s a story I have told over and over.              Today though, I’m thinking of the medical uses for maggots: biodebridement and extracorporeal             digestion, their enzymes liquefying   dead tissue in wounds, and wonder,             do I feed off the dead who live inside me? When my mother was dying,             she had a vision of her non-corporeal   father, brothers, sisters. Her last words,             Why have you left me alone? She never opened her eyes again,             her chest a drowning well.   The bodily signs of death:             the skin mottling as blood flow slows; breathing, open mouthed; jaw, unhinged.             I won’t recount the signs of a dying marriage,   but he left two days after her funeral. Physically,             he returned but told me he’d fallen in love with someone else,             that his love for me had passed.   Above my mother’s body, orange mist             had exhaled and dispersed, a light bulb busted open, its luminescent gas escaping.             The word fluorescent is so similar   to the word florescence, meaning flowering,             and somewhere between these two, there is a splendor I can barely stand.             Inflorescence refers to flowers clustering   on one branch, each a separate floret,             but if they are tightly clustered as in the dandelion seed head, they look incomplete             alone, though the whole is an illusion.   The word for this—pseudanthium—means “false             flower.” Infrutescence, its fruiting stage, gives us grapes, ears of corn, stalks of wheat,             so many of the berries we love.   This morning my hands ache             as though in the night I’d been trying to claw my way out of a hole             I am down in, having lost the body   I came into this world through, and my husband’s             as well. It’s almost as if my body had come to believe his was a part of its own,             a connection he would have to break or die.   Medical experts say it takes two moltings             for maggots to do the job well, to feed enough to clean a wound. I do not feel             clean at all, though in our shower,   my husband and I still huddle some days,             hunched into the spray. We call it watering.  When we do, we scrub each other, grateful             for the living, dying flesh, but trying to get clean   of each other. That fawn he saved way back             when we were new in love was released into the wild. Surely, it had a scar             identifying it, evidence of what flesh   my husband was willing to enter             in order to keep something alive. Lately, he seems more clear-eyed, and it is as if a cicatrix husk             is cracking. Neither of us know who   will emerge, but he seems luminescent,             a kind of light created by the excitation of the smallest elements, and not giving off warmth,             but a cold glow that at least illuminates.  

Welcome to Episode 10 of the PBQ’s Slush pile! Episode 10!!!! Can you believe it?  Thus far, we have released 10 episodes of our podcast.  We’d like to say thank you to our listeners, supporters, authors and editorial board!   Welcome to Episode 10 of the PBQ’s Slush pile! Episode 10!!!! Can you believe it?  Thus far, we have released 10 episodes of our podcast.  We’d like to say thank you to our listeners, supporters, authors and editorial board! First up is Jen Karetnick, who submitted the poem “The Physics of Falling Mangoes” for the Locals issue. When we asked her if we could discuss the poem she said, “I love the idea of the podcast editorial meeting, although it might prove to be a little nerve-wracking. But I'm sure my students, who get put through the workshop wringer all year long, will consider it more than just! So for their sake alone, I am delighted to say yes.” Side note: It’s mango season, so we thought what better time to discuss this poem than now! Perplexed at first by a few “scientific” words, we grew to appreciate the intimacy of the vocabulary. Karetnick beautifully and authentically captured the atmosphere where mango trees grow; it’s as if she lives among the trees that she describes. In fact, Jen Karetnick lives in Miami Shores on the last acre of a historic plantation with her husband, two teenagers, three dogs, three cats and fourteen mango trees. This poem will make you want a mango, and to read more of her Jen Karetnick’s work: she released the poetry collection American Sentencing (Winter Goose Publications, May 2016). You can also see more   @ TheAtlantic.com, Guernica and her website.   The next poem was submitted to our Monsters issue, but you probably would have guessed that. When we first asked Tria Wood she said she was “excited and intrigued” also a “little nervous.”Keep up the bravery poets! Immediately, we noticed the contrast between Godzilla’s graceful swan-like nature and his belly collapsing like a flat tire. The imagery in the third and fourth stanzas also had us close to speechless—which loyal listeners know takes a lot!  Every detail had us captivated (even Godzilla's cocktail)! A pleasant surprise for all, we quickly fell in love with this re-imagined Godzilla. Make sure to watch Tria read “Godzilla Walks Into a Bar” herself! Tria Wood’s poetry, fiction, and essays have appeared in Rattle, Literary Mama and other publications. Check out one of the public art projects in Houston that features her work.   In this podcast, we also clarify some things that have been happening in our podcasts. Even after our tenth episode, we can still be surprised by the outcomes. We’re sorry to learn that “Brazillian” was accepted elsewhere, but we are glad we still got to discuss it in Episode 8. We also discuss a few questions that arose due to Episode 9: Do you consider the work posted here as published? Is there a difference between posting and publishing work? Listen and then chime in! We’d love to know what you think; let us know on our FB page! Sign for our email list if you’re in the area, and even if you’re not! Send us a self-addressed stamped envelope, and we’ll send you a PBQ Podcast sticker. Follow us on Twitter @PaintedBrideQ and Instagram @paintedbridequarterly. Don't forget to subscribe and rate us on our iTunes page! Read on!   Present at the Editorial Table: Kathleen Volk Miller Marion Wrenn Jason Schneiderman Miriam Haier Tim Fitts Isabella Fidanza   Production Engineer: Joe Zang   PBQ Box Score: 2=0 -------------------------  Jen Karetnick The Physics of Falling Mangoes If a Haden mango, full with sun, and an ovoid Irwin, that ornament of dawn, drop at the same time from panicles equivalent in height, will they accelerate identically despite degrees of heft, of maturity,   the knowledge of their own ripeness? Physics says yes, despite mass, even if it’s a late-season Beverly, still green, set upon too early by a squirrel sitting on its stem, or an Indian mango five pounds large, swaying all summer,   too big for the basket of the tool I wield like lightning to strike a singular fruit. The damage, then: That should be equal, too. But all things considered, there is no free fall. Air, on a humid whim, can change   its resistance, and there is no formula to adjust for the destructive means of a mango during descent, helicoptering sap through the day’s work of spiderwebs, a season of boat-shaped leaves that bear those burns until they themselves release,   and the twigs it breaks without discrimination, whether they are ready to reach like hands or be struck down to ground. And the ground, which could be oolite or limestone, grass or a brother mango, the driveway or the chemical buffer of pool water,   my shoulder or arm or skull, willing to take the aromatic knock. I know the parts of the equation: limb, fruit, gravity. But not the sum, upon landing. Wholly bruised? Flesh protected by deflection? Or a split that, turned every possible way, simply, dumbly smiles?   Tria Wood Godzilla Walks into a Bar Godzilla walks into a bar. He’s much smaller than you’d expect, really. Scaly, dark, and haggard.   He’s been sleeping it off for centuries, all that rage, dust and ashes washed out of the cracks in his suit   by the surging Pacific. He’s graceful, surprisingly so. Swanlike, even. He will not look at you.   When he sits, his forearms pool on the bar like crayons in the sun. His belly is a flat tire collapsing into his crotch   and whatever may be there is hidden. He’ll order something tropical, all rum and fruit and fire,   incinerate the paper umbrella with a tiny burst that could have been a laugh. He swivels his head   to watch it burn, left, right, then pokes its charred skeleton down into the tumbler and gives it a feeble stir   with stubbed fingers. One dark claw etches delicate architecture into the condensation on the glass. And when he turns, half-smiles   at you, at last you understand love at first sight.

All 3 of the poems on today’s episode were submitted by poet Brittney Scott.* The Abu Dhabi editors flagged Scott’s previous submissions—we wanted to publish them!—but we moved too slowly. Other publications nabbed them. So Scott sent us another batch of poems to consider and we discussed them on this special edition of “The Slush Pile,” the “all Abu Dhabi all the time edition,” featuring members of our Abu Dhabi editorial board.   All 3 of the poems on today’s episode were submitted by poet Brittney Scott.* The Abu Dhabi editors flagged Scott’s previous submissions—we wanted to publish them!—but we moved too slowly. Other publications nabbed them. So Scott sent us another batch of poems to consider and we discussed them on this special edition of “The Slush Pile,” the “all Abu Dhabi all the time edition,” featuring members of our Abu Dhabi editorial board. These poems set out to both delight and appall. We were transfixed by a dismembered body mauled by dogs in “After the Hunt”; fascinated by the relationship between a daughter and her mother, an “unstable gardener,” in “Daughter of Wild Lettuce.” Plus, Scott’s work stuck an inadvertent chord with our PBQ ex-pat crew. Listen as Scott’s poems help the Abu Dhabi editors make sense of being far flung, of being mildly Dazed & Confused. Brittney Scott received an MFA from Hollins University in Virginia. A finalist in the 2013 Narrative 30 Below Contest, she is also the 2012 recipient of the Joy Harjo Prize for Poetry and the Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Prize. She teaches creative writing to adults, Girl Scouts, and high-risk youth at Richmond’s Visual Arts Center. Tell us what you think about Brittney Scott’s poems or anything else you’d like to share with us on our Facebook page event, Episode 9. Sign up for our e-mail list if you are in the area and even if you, too, are far flung! Send us a SASE and we’ll send you a podcast sticker! Follow us on Twitter @PaintedBrideQ and Instagram @paintedbridequarterly. Read on! --MW * You might notice that we posted only 2 of the 3 poems we discussed in this week’s episode in our show notes. This is the first time in 9 episodes we’ve had a poet ask us not to post anything we reject. You’ll have to listen to hear more! Don't forget to subscribe and rate us on our iTunes page!     Present at the Editorial Table: Marion Wrenn Anna Pedersen Ben Hackenberger Samantha Neugebauer   Production Engineer: Richard Lennon   PBQ Box Score: 2=3 -------------------------      After the Hunt Here’s the body the dogs robbed— the limbs strewn around the field like prophecy. She won’t make it, they say. They say the body found in her bed was eaten right through to the floral mattress. They had to shut her eyes because she would not stop blinking up at a bone marrow colored sky, enjoying her party, the confetti of her flayed body. The dogs got sick on her form, the remains of her last meal of steamed artichoke grapes, mercy, and rejection. Don’t they know What’s good for one will poison another? So they say. They say the dogs died in a circle and she rose the next day to bury them and bring flowers to their graves.     Daughter of Wild Lettuce My mother plants snow peas behind the garage. She works around the sink hole that takes dry leaves and garbage all summer.   In her memory, I am an almost abortion. She plants marigolds with the tomatoes, symbiotic bright suns   bursting between the rows. Sometimes she knows, love abounding, sometimes she overlooks   an entire season’s glut, and rot carries us through winter. In the cellar, plastic roses, night crawlers,   unfinished half-hearted projects, the potatoes’ all seeing eyes and me damp through my nightshirt.   No natural light filters in, so I only know the earth’s eternal hour.   My mother, an unstable gardener, tosses spare seeds into barren patches of the backyard. We won’t know until spring.   Sometimes new buds shoot up in the most unusual places, but more often, they don’t.      

When we asked Maggie Queeney for permission to discuss her work in this podcast, her response was “this sounds fascinating and terrifying!” We’re considering that as our tag line (and a life philosophy).  When we asked Maggie Queeney for permission to discuss her work in this podcast, her response was “this sounds fascinating and terrifying!” We’re considering that as our tag line (and a life philosophy). We discussed Queeney’s pieces, "Last Case on the Murder Task Force,” and to be honest, we didn’t want to stop, even when all of the editors’ comments clearly illustrated how the vote would go! This poem’s craft is so beautiful to linger in, even though the images are heart wrenching and tragic. "Nox” was a little less accessible for us, more difficult to simply understand, but that didn’t deter our enthusiasm for the piece—not with this many arresting images. "Cry Wolf” takes the classic fable, expounds upon it, and changes it for you forever. We meant to discuss three poems from Adam Day, but we had such a good time discussing Maggie’s poems that we didn’t feel we had enough time to really get into the discussion, so we thought we’d “reveal” another issue that comes up when culling through work for PBQ. Adam Day’s work came in via Submittable and was assigned to our Abu Dhabi staff. Two editors there liked a few of his pieces, but alas, before the work could come to the editorial table for a vote, the pieces we had interest in were accepted elsewhere! Listen to us discuss the “notes” in Submittable. Adam was about to get a straight up boiler plate rejection and she realized he would never know he had fans at PBQ. So, she took action… Tell us what you think about simultaneous submissions (and anything else) on our Facebook page event, Episode 5. Sign up for our email list if you’re in the area and even if you’re not! Follow us on Twitter @PaintedBrideQ and Instagram @paintedbridequarterly. Read on! -KVM   Present at the Editorial Table: Kathleen Volk Miller Marion Wrenn Jason Schneiderman Miriam Haier Tim Fitts   Production Engineer: Joe Zang   PBQ Box Score: 3=2 ------------------------   Maggie Queeney Last Case on the Murder Task Force A telephone splices the night—lit nerve ending or lightning strike—and the child rises all lung, all mouth and howl. The man rises from inside the mother, rises from the casts of his fingers clutched into the sheets and separates the boy’s head from his chest. He runs, knife in hand, body in arms, floor to floor, beating on doors as the thin limbs jog at his sides. He palms the boy’s head, guides the jaw back to the neck, but blood leaks and blacks his bared chest in the stills taken later that night. The state assigns my father to the defense. He twists the tinny, stripped facts into a cast outlining a life. He tells the jury the man grew up a thing burnt by his grandfather, his mother, that his thin body smoked and scabbed taut. And then the foster homes and the beatings and the drugs and the howl and the boy and the knife. The state threads a new heart into the man’s chest. He is kept living. He is sentenced to death. Nights on trial, my father walks the floor with my infant brother, crouped up and wailing the mucus out of his lungs, his mouth with a howl. My mother sleeps, buried tight as a drawered knife, gleaming through what beauty her children had left. Nox A child teethes. Through the door, a loop of scream and whimper traces the length of the porch. Morning, I find the blood left by the raw gums rubbed like a hand along the rail, the floor, the frame and lock to the front door. At night, I stay inside, listen to the tap somnolent in the pipes, the house drafts, the moon pushing to perfect circle. The birds curl into their fists of nest, their small breasts hot hulls above the shriek of owl-torn mice. Animals take a human voice in dying. Their wet tunnels of throat, slick and holy as the inside of a flute, bottom into the black running under.Cry Wolf What difference between crying and calling, cursing and summoning, the frantic limbs of a lamb and the bared legs of a boy. What difference between the desire to laugh at the adults running, spades and rakes in hand, and the need to know they would run at his call. Remember most do not know the name of what they want, even as they are wanting— the body incandesces, numb and ecstatic, as it is destroyed. Remember the wolf, drawn only by gut and jaws, insistent as divining rods— heart stilling at its name called, finally, between the trees.

In this episode we read three poems from Kathleen Sheeder Bonnano’s poetry. Though they were originally submitted for an unthemed issue, they felt more suited to our Locals theme, one of two themes for Print 8. We expected reading submissions for Locals to expand our horizons, to help us to see different pockets of the world in a new way, but these poems helped us appreciate the every-day right in our backyard of Philadelphia.   Welcome to Episode 4 of the PBQ’s Slushpile. We take more time than other editorial boards, but we stand behind our methodology, so much so that we’re going to share our process with you through this podcast. Welcome to the editorial table. In this episode we read three poems from Kathleen Sheeder Bonnano’s poetry. Though they were originally submitted for an unthemed issue, they felt more suited to our Locals theme, one of two themes for Print 8. We expected reading submissions for Locals to expand our horizons, to help us to see different pockets of the world in a new way, but these poems helped us appreciate the every-day right in our backyard of Philadelphia. Kathleen Sheeder Bonnano is a poet, professor, and co-editor of the American Review. She is the author of Slamming Open the Door (Alice James Books, 2009), which was the 2008 Beatrice Hawley Award winner, and also received a positive, full-page review in The New York Times, while Library Journal praised it as "A stunning first book." We were honored to read “30th Street Station,” “The Pool,” and “Jerzee’s Bar.” Reveal: Many of our editorial staff know Kathy well, and in fact, love her. We did what we always do when reading work of those we know; simply tried to remain as objective as possible; and made sure there were people at the editorial table who do not have a personal connection. These poems made us laugh and made our hearts hurt a bit. They gracefully walk the line between the specific and the universal. And now for one of our occasional segments: “Something random I saw in a literary magazine this week.” This week, I visited Carve magazine’s site. It’s run out of Texas, publishes only fiction, and derives its name and ideology from Raymond Carver. On the submit page, they make an offer—if you become a subscriber at the time of submission, they promise to get you a response on your work faster, within two weeks. This flipped me out a bit and I didn’t even have time to process and think about what that does to the editor/author relationship, what it means, and then, I looked at Cleaver magazine (I guess I was on a cutlery theme) and they have this super complicated process----their free submissions are currently closed, but if you pay them $5 you could still submit now. PLUS: In all genres, a voluntary $10.00 "tip-jar" fee will guarantee an expedited answer within two weeks.For fiction, flash, and nonfiction, a voluntary $25.00 "tip-jar" donation, which guarantees a two-week expedited answer plus a detailed personal response from one of our chief editors. We are not able to offer critiques for poetry at this time.   So---crazy genius or mercenary? This is a “thing?” Listen to what we had to say, but chime in on our Facebook page event, Episode 4. Sign up for our email list if you’re in the area and even if you’re not! Follow us on Twitter @PaintedBrideQ and Instagram @paintedbridequarterly. Read on! -KVM   Present at the Editorial Table: SPECIAL GUEST: Major Jackson Kathleen Volk Miller Marion Wrenn Jason Schneiderman Miriam Haier Isabella Fidanza   Production Engineer: Joe Zang   PBQ Box Score: 2=1 ------------------------------   Kathleen Sheeder Bonnano 30th Street Station Sweet old man in a tweed cap soft shoes, soft brown skin, says, Do you need a cab?   Yes I say and my heart is laughing; this is how I get sometimes. You look like my second grade teacher Mrs. Richmond, I always loved Mrs. Richmond, he says.   He ushers me to a silver Lexus. This is not a cab. This is a bait and switch. Behind the wheel, the driver, 300 pounds of muscle arms like hams   a diamond ring on each pinky a diamond in each earlobe a red baseball cap backward. I think a piece of his ear is missing. I think he has a tattoo on his face. Our eyes meet in the rear view mirror   Clang, clang, goes my danger meter Don’t get in the car! says everyone. So…I get in the car.   By 45th and Locust, turns out his name is Steve. Turns out he buried his younger sister this year and his mom, the year before. She was way too easy on his brother with cerebral palsy— 51 years old and doesn’t like to get out of bed!   I read him a poem about my daughter, from my book. And then he wants to remember my name, and gets out a tiny pencil to write it down.  The Pool My fifteen-year old son, adopted from Chile, pedals his bike back from the pool, says some boys just called him a Spic, and my brain explodes— Ping, ping, says my brain. Wait! says Louey.   I get in the car, gun the gas pedal, stomp past two teenage lifeguards at the gate, on my way to the deep end.   Did you call my son a Name? I call across the water to two skinny white boys no older than twelve, their goose-pimpled arms hugging their concave chests.   They nod. Any minute they might cry and their their mothers might come over. Listen, you! Words hurt! I am yelling, Don’t ever say that word again, do you understand? Or I'll come back here and beat the shit out of you, do you understand? Open-mouthed, they nod. Maybe I didn't make that threat aloud. But we all heard it.   At home, Louey says he was holding their heads underwater for fun, which is why they got mad in the first place.   Jerzee’s Bar I love my rum and coke; I love everybody tonight, even the young roofer who has drunk himself shit-faced on Budweiser.   He stands very still, tries not to wobble when he, whoa, sees his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.   Seems I’ve known this guy all my life. Tomorrow morning he’ll show up at his mom’s house all scraped up with a chipped tooth and a story about some asshole in the bar.   Should I take his keys? Should I save him from himself? Should I call somebody who loves him?   I sip my drink. I smile at the band. Tap, tap tap goes my foot.