Scribbled Wanderland

Second Huffington Post article, this time about the future of the Olympics and the sports we want to watch.

Exciting news!

I have now gained access to writing for the Huffington Post. Here is the first article I submitted, which is a travel story from Robbie and I's trip up the West Coast this summer.

Enjoy.

-Alex

What is the trajectory of a secret? Does it turn to accompany our dust in death? Will it pass from tongue to tongue like stories of songbirds and family mythologies? Can we put them in our wills? Are they powerful enough to crack our ribs? And what if we lock them in chests beneath the bottom planks in the basement? Will they be safe? This house will not stand forever...  Continue Reading...

Jade Willetts is a U.K. poet who recently had a great idea to start a poetry protest. For this project, he has reached out to a variety of poets to read and record his poems. It's a really cool idea, and a project I was happy to participate in. For some reason, the embed code won't work, so here is a link to the reading. Enjoy.

"A Poem for Stevie Nicks" by J.L. Willetts.

"Dark & Light"

He stares at the well-worn wooden stage beneath his feet, and coughs up words. His lips quiver as his trembling words find their legs, walking confidently forward into the crowd. His glasses tilt upon the bridge of his nose so he can see things through fresh angles, and bring his hazy view of the world into focus.... Continue Reading.

This article is so good I had to share.

It's about the 2011 Freediving World Championship, and its insane participants. The farthest I've been freediving in the water is close to 35-40 ft., and the pressure felt tremendous on my sinus cavities, enough to make my nose bleed. The people in this article go anywhere from 10 to 20 times this depth. It's long, so block off 20 minutes to read it, but read it. What these people do will amaze you.

Hey everyone,

I have a new gig going on. As of two weeks ago, I've started writing blog posts for the University of Texas alumni magazine, Alcalde. Click on the link to go check out my articles, and I will put a permanent link on the "links" page for easy navigation later.

Some other quick updates:

• Posted a new poem below. It's gone through many versions, and I've finally settled on one. It's titled, "Storm Shelter." Give it a read.
• About 1/3 of the way through with the third draft of Panama. It's slowly devouring my sanity, but that's okay ... I think.
• Here's the link to a video of a poem written/performed by two-time National Slam Poet of the year, Anis Mojgani. Please take the 3-4 minutes out of your day to watch it, I promise it's worth your time.

"Storm Shelter"

Give us shelter from this storm,

this twisted hair.

these tornado thighs,

warm enough to soften hardened men

who become entangled in their sheets.

Those legs devastate the way they

won’t let go,

but never stay long.

And how’s that quote go?

“If she is a hurricane,

than I am a drizzle?”

Or something about rain,

And how we’re

all out in the cold

when the world

goes black.

I am but one cardboard Gatsby cutout

amongst an army of rigid men

painted with masculinity,

but lacking substance.

Each night, we huddle in our beds,

turn off the lights, and imagine

ourselves on a dock,

waiting for Daisy’s green light

to safely guide us through

the oncoming storm.

We are a collection of fractured men

pieced together by the sun

tanned hands of women;

they carry sunlight like mortar

filling in our holes,

but our holes are many.

So we break rank,

and cast lines of ourselves

into the water.

An arm here. A foot here.

Idealism sinks,

survival surfaces.

And a sharp wind blows,

delivering blows

upon our bodily hulls,

dragging hearts across this lake

stretched eternal.

The storm strengthens,

tides rise,

currents swiften,

we are pulled in separate directions,

limbs fighting waves

fighting limbs and

we swim and swim

to piece ourselves back

together again.

But these arms aren’t

oars; rather,

driftwood bones,

hollowed and filled with pourous

memories of those sun-soaked hands.

We pray out loud

for that light to stick its net into the water,

swoop us up like Calypso,

recomplete our puzzle piece bodies.

Let us smell that twisted hair again,

feel the warmth of those tornado thighs,

get tangled in those siren sheets.

The storm rages, the room stays dark.

And for now, we remain a montage of cut-up Gatsby cutouts,

swollen cardboard limbs and paper hearts,

catching glimpses of Daisy’s green light

always an eternity away.

Most nights, it still flickers, fades,

the water stirs, our limbs swim against fateful currents,

and all I want to do is

turn back, to

take shelter from this storm.

"History Class"

Twitchy fingers dribblin’ upon my desk.

A-rap-ap-ap. A-rap-ap-ap.

Thud, clad. Palm collapse.

A-rap-ap-ap.

Pen cap snaps,

words spills on the page.

Black thoughts,

blue ink,

red letter verses,

thoughts slashin’ out words

and their insurrectional curses.

Revolt! Revolt!

Revolt on the higher ground,

sound off one by one by

lemme hear ya with the

Rap-ap-ap! Rap-ap-ap!

Little drummer boys,

toy soldiers on page 9,

revolutionaries

spillin’ blood on the overhead,

lighting the way

and the beat goes on,

like

Da-dum-da-dum. A-rap-ap-ap.

War chants still livin’,

money misgiven,

wind-whipped’ flags flappin’ above

mass graves and body bags,

building blasts and rubble,

the troubled huddlin’

clinched fists warming

‘round fiery car tires.

City heartbeats in

the back alley,

letting “freedom” reign

like

Rat-at-at. Rat-at-at.

The dribble drop of inky

black bullets,

and red and blue fingertips

twitchin’ on my desk,

revolutionary words

splattered on the page,

starin’ back,

ready, rearin’,

pen cap snaps,

lets freedom reign

like

A-rap-ap-ap.