MEH Updates: my new newsletter through Substack

For about a year people have been asking me about a newsletter. I keep saying, “yeah, I’ll get around to something.” Now I finally have.

MEH Updates will be a (mostly) monthly newsletter about recent and upcoming events, publications, generally musings, and the like.

Could you access the same information by constantly checking in and refreshing my website multiple times a month? Of course. But I’ve been told that a newsletter sent directly to one’s inbox is an easier system for people.

You can subscribe by entering your email in the form.

Origin Stories: on the beginnings of The Third Renunciation

After a reading in Minneapolis today, someone opened a copy of The Third Renunciation and asked about the dedication, which reads:

I was asked, “who was Chase to you?”

---

One of the first theological sonnets I wrote came out of processing his death. The sonnet, every draft, was terrible. Eventually, a decade later, I realized it was because some stories can't be told in 14 lines.

“Out of My Hands” was published by Zone 3 and is that story, and also is the beginnings of The Third Renunciation.

You can read it here.

On shaving my beard…

I'm still working on a poem about this (of course I am), but these tweets will have to do for now.

So when anyone asked "why," I could explain what it's like to wake up every morning and confront a unkempt, unruly, uneven, unmanageable administration...I mean beard...could speak on what it is to carry a weight I will gladly drop once the time arrives.

— MEH is too Black & too well read to be surprised. (@MehPoeting) January 20, 2021

This Present Former Glory: An Anthology of Honest Spiritual Literature [Editor]

When you’re asked to edit an anthology of creative writing by atheists, clergy, and people everywhere in between you can’t say no. At least I can’t. I am thrilled and humbled by how this all came together.

45 stupid talented writers tackled the deepest and most abiding questions about wrestling with their conceptions of divinity and spirituality in the midst of systematic racism, church camps, sexism, babies, a pandemic, slavery, callings into ministry, abusive parents, divorces, holding hands with the dying, sweeping glass after a riot, and sitting by the ocean, waiting.

This Present Former Glory: An Anthology of Honest Spiritual Literature can be purchased at A Game for Good Christians’ website for $16.95. And it’s well worth the price.

“…and who is my neighbor?”

Jesus replied,
“a man was going down from [insert place of work,
convenience store, home, or church] to [insert place of work,
convenience store, home, or church] unarmed,
and fell into the hands of officers, who stopped him for
[insert _____-ing while Black reason]. they shot him,
stood above his leaking body, and left him for dead.

now, by chance, a white man [Evangelical]
was going down his Twitter feed.
and when he saw him, he scrolled quickly past
saying, #BlueLivesMatter.

likewise, a white woman [Presbyterian]
came to the place on her Facebook feed.
she saw him and scrolled quickly past
saying, #AllLivesMatter.

but when [insert the least expected] saw him,
they came near. moved with pity and outrage,
they went to the dead man’s family
to bandage their wounds, pouring action
and appropriate silence as compassion.
they put the burdens on their backs,
addressed them as they were able.

the next day they had not forgotten,
but took two friends and encouraged them
to more than march or hashtag the moment,
saying, ‘we will continue the Work together.
be not afraid: the Lord will repay
whatever social capital we spend.’”

then Jesus asked,
“which of these three was a neighbor
to the man who fell into unholy hands?”
the [insert an asshole “playing devil’s advocate”] said,
“the one who acknowledged his dignity.”

and Jesus replied,
“now go, and do likewise.”

First published in Poemeleon A Journal of Poetry’s The Truth/y Issue: Volume XI Spring 2020

---

Selected for MassPoetry "Poem of the Moment“ Feature

My poem “self evident” has been selected by MassPoetry as a “Poem of the Moment.”

This honor means that my poem will be displayed on the Mass Poetry homepage for one week, be part of the Mass Poetry newsletter sent to 5000+ subscribers, and live in the Poem of the Moment archives.

And scores of English, humanities, and social studies teachers are going to suddenly feel very guilty, and (hopefully) reassess their white supremacist pedagogy.

Strong language you say?

If your lesson(s) specifically “other” your students because of their race, if the assignment is only natural and comfortable for white children, what would you call it?

The WEIGHT Journal is now live!

The first eight pieces have gone live at The WEIGHT Journal! Mostly poetry and a couple of flash and CNF works. We’re off to a good start and look forward to where this is heading.

Lessons from the Underside of Social Media: "anatomy of an internet troll"

Recently I became a teacher forced to move his lessons to an online format. I'll only focus on one of the myriad existential crises this has caused.

I now spend a stupid amount of time on the interwebs where, once again, I forgot to shut off my brain. I made the mistake of paying attention, doing deep dives, and reading the comments. Never read the comments. However, this time reminded me of a poem I wrote when similarly disenchanted (and a bit disgusted) with how some conduct themselves from behind the anonymity of screens. It gave me...something new to think about.

This is a true story. Completely true.

Maybe I should send him a copy.

---

anatomy of an internet troll

you chose five photos to introduce yourself.

two are semi-automatic rifles. in another, a pregnant blonde
wraps an arm around your waist, holds the back of her left hand
to the camera. light winces from diamond to the “meninist”
embossed on your ripped t-shirt. the next cradles your son, newly minted
and in his mother’s arms (it’s four months later. your ring finger remains empty).
in the last, you’re bare-chested and finger gunning the camera, head cocked
to display the faux-mullet and horseshoe mustache that screams, “i actually enjoy
the taste of PBR.” this should have been enough. but i have to know more.

fourteen public photos cover your wall: guns on the kitchen table.
guns riding shotgun in your blue truck. you holding an antique pistol.
your infant son holding your middle finger. your not-yet-fiancé
uncomfortably holding a bolt action. an ill-attended baby shower.
you arching the sky above your blue truck with a flame-thrower—
a tiny American flag on the dashboard. an empty water park.
a dirt bike. two pre-pregnancy date photos. two pictures of the blue truck
you’ll own once you “scrape together the money to have it repaired.”
a cartoon of a priest with his pants down, his wrinkled pink gristle
on the forehead of a child. i click tabs, scroll, and try to understand.

your education stopped at the eleventh grade. you have no ‘Friends’
of color— at least none who will accept you on social media.
one of your white “bros” posted a meme about Black dicks
and white chicks. you smiley face emoji in reply,
but aren’t a racist because the only TV show you ‘Like’
is The Boondocks. no favorite books are listed. your self-assessments
are poignant and many (the use of apostrophes escapes you.
commas are liberally employed like bacon bits on a wilted hotel salad).
you can’t hold down a job because of “drama” in your past, “struggle”
that has not made you stronger. every day you sit in front of the computer
and play video games, “especially in the winter.” you ride your dirt bike,
every day, because you spent $200 on its parts. you enjoy the beach
and every “event that involves drinking,” but never drugs because
you’ve learned that lesson. you believe an “eye for an eye is fair,”
and will blast your music next to me because you wish for me to listen
(you need for me to listen). you feel you are a better person now. and unique.
and humble. and “more intelligent than most.” you describe yourself as
“a human being from the planet earth.” and i nod. and weep.

~ MEH

---

Original published in 3Elements Literary Review, Issue 21

“Schizophrenia in G minor” — my only Valentine's Day poem

Schizophrenia in G minor

when i awoke yesterday
and found you beside me
atlas’ shoulders seemed to settle

as sweet sweat matted hair
hugged your face
in a vertical halo

the classical reprints
adorning our walls
sighed in jealousy

and i was in love

today
you’re a fat
rat nasty cow
and i wish
you would die

 

happy valentine’s day

Poetry East , #53 "Love Poems" Fall 2004

 

Two poems at Dappled Things

I did a stint as a Christian mystic. I reality, I just read a lot about Christian mysticism, mindfullness, contemplation, meditation, acedia, and a whole trove of related materials, attempting to find…something. The Desert Mothers and Fathers, philosophers and hermits, poets and academics.

Of course such musing birthed poetry. And, somehow, Dappled Things’ found two of them worthy of publication.

“…as yourself” ~ an attempt to find the balance between “the Golden Rule,” “the Two Great Commandments,” and the mystic’s distrust of “Self.”

“the prophet speaks against Rilke” ~ an ekphrastic response to Rainer Maria Rilke’s “Ick bin auf der Welt zu allein und doch nicht allein genug”

"Holding Peace" (CNF) published at How to Pack for Church Camp

Every once in a while I write a short story, usually based on a real experience. A work of creative non-fiction (CNF). This one has been published by How to Pack for Church Camp.

This time I decided not to include names, to protect the guilty. I know some of the guilty are reading this right now. You went to this camp. You were in the room. You said these things. Hopefully you’re a better person now.

As for my unnamed friend: all my love, B. Now and forever.

Sometimes submissions are an education. And sometimes you get published.

When you write a poem entitled “an open letter to the white feminists holding a literary panel on Toni Morrison,” you don’t actually think anyone will publish it.

You send it out thinking, at the very least, some junior reader or part-time editor will have something to think about. Because following her sudden death, what writing conference would ever host a panel discussion about Toni Morrison, but not include one (1) Black woman on the dais? The one you attended. So you write a poem. And cast it upon the waters hoping it will do some good.

{It’s like writing a poem entitled “an open letter to the poetry editor of [name withheld on advice from counsel]” about a passive aggressive, racially charged exchange with an editor: no one will ever publish that poem, but those who read it might think about how they interact with their submitters of color after reading it. }

And then you get an email saying that someone does want to publish a poem about well-meaning, but misguided white women, and you’re shocked.

An Advent/Christmas poem (I completely forgot I wrote)

Advent

Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
~ Lawrence Ferlinghetti

beside a manger scene, He surveys the wonder of
His pasty complexion surrounded by solemn faces:
the pallor upon the Ikea cast, assembled around

His waxy facade, causes even His capillaries to cringe
as speakers hidden in synthetic straw capture
how the original animals couldn’t keep silent –

the apparent theology of a rum pa pumb pumb aside.
entering the service filled with seasonal sons and daughters
He sniffs for the familiar scent of worship – the sweet censer

of honest meditation, but this multitude presents only
a facsimile of praise: the stench of filthy rags hidden
beneath scented candles and choir robes.

eyes raised, He notices His cross covered by a crown of fir,
and before the altar, the holy family in flannel: a pageant
of preschoolers deified by proud parents. turning to leave,

His shirt sucks to His right side. rushing past unnoticed,
barely beyond beveled doors, the ground clutches His knees;
He falls beneath the phantom of wooden weight.

tasting the gall, He vomits. from above a hand touches
His now sensitive shoulder, and a man with no place
to rest his head, offers all he has: a cotton cloth stained

with gin and dried blood. Christ accepts and wipes His mouth.
His savior nods to the tiny plastic persona beside them and smiles
before limping away with a song: a rum pa pumb pumb.

---

Published in the anthology Love Among Us (2009).