7 Reasons Why I Will Not See The Force Awakens: A Poem

1we are told to thanks/praise what the Creator has given us; in this same breath we are warned of idol worship

2i’m a Rebel without an alliance

3the tragedy of film, Luke, is that the actors grow old and weak. this shall not happen to Han Solo

4two words: Dexter. Jettster.

5i have left behind pokemon, power rangers, old toys in battered boxes. i will take only what i need to survive

6. You cannot make plastic my childhood.  you cannot buy back from me what was never mine.

7. even if sands of time do not bury us, it is still possible to choke on the dust of Tatooine

There’s still time to win a copy of Jason Bates’ The Littlest Spoon! Just leave a comment or find me on Twitter @libbycudmore

Guest Post: Jason Bates of Punks Write Poems

(Today’s post comes from Jason Bates, author of The Littlest Spoon, which I loved.  Jay and i have known each other for years, and he’s my absolute favorite poet. He was awesome enough to do my Sunday work for me, and I hope you’ll all run out and buy The Littlest Spoon)

I’ve noticed that oftentimes Libby (who in my head always has “the Liberator” attached to her name) starts her posts with a playlist. I am not sure if those are the songs she was listening to as she wrote the post, or songs that she believes the reader should listen to while reading the post, or is it both? (it’s both) I feel compelled, not by the Liberator of course, to capture the feel of Glam Geek Writes…so with that said, here be the playlist:

El Phantasmo and the Chicken-Run Blast-o-rama” by White Zombie.

Please Play This Song on the Radio” by Nofx.

Lock Step and Gone” by Rancid.

I Met Her At the Rat” by the Queers.

I struggled with the legitimacy of calling myself a writer when literally anyone with a computer and the ability to type letters, numbers or random symbols could publish their very own book. I had deep conversations with friends and loved ones about “success” and “publishing” and “accomplishment”. I drank beer, alone, and bought a pack of cigarettes after almost a year of clean lungs. I dug my old “the Queers” t-shirt out of the box in the closet. I remembered that I’m a punk ass motherfucker! I paced my weather-worn deck, blowing smoke and mumbling to myself about how DIY isn’t a TV station and how Nike didn’t invent “just do it” and how I didn’t need someone else’s permission to be a writer…to be a legit poet!

I decided on a number. The number of copies of The Littlest Spoon that I need to sell in order to personally validate myself as a writer. When that number is reached, I will put my copy on the shelf alongside my favorite books.

We’ve come to the end of my blog-bomb and I haven’t even introduced myself.


I’m a Jason.

Come say “hey” on twitter @BruHaHa222 or flip me off at punkswritepoems.tumblr.com

Jason will be giving away a signed copy to a random reader — leave a comment by Dec. 1 for a chance to win!


goon_damesI’m kind of obsessed with Eric Powell’s The Goon these days — Ian got back into it and I got tired of hearing him snicker from the couch and not being in on the joke, sort of how he felt when I was reading Hyperbole and a Half and got laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe or explain why I was laughing.  The Goon hits all the right notes for me; neo-noir, paranormal, voodoo and old-skool zombies, violence and humor and hyper-stylized, Depression-era settings.  Plus I have a weird little crush on Franky that I can’t quite explain.

…But I just finished reading Chinatown and Holy Cats, I haven’t read a comic that awesome since The Hard Goodbye (also: I don’t read comics very often).  I actually cried at the end, when Franky’s sitting there at The Goon’s hospital bed after taking page after page of beatings while The Goon is out kicking it with Isabella.  It hit home, in a strange way.

Most people want to be the hero of their own stories.  Me, I tend to be the Sam_&_Maxsidekick because I’m high strung and excitable and I generally need someone to keep me leveled out.   I’m the Max to Ian’s Sam, the Shane Vendrell to Matthew’s Vic Mackey.  I’m good in a fight and quick with a quip, I’m smart and I think fast and I’m good on my feet.   Great skills to have as a reporter, good skills to have when you’re trying to say, gaslight someone and weedle your way into their empire.  The downside, especially with someone like Matthew, is that damn it, sometimes you need to go in with shotguns blasting and not take so damn long to put all the chess pieces in place.

The problem with being a sidekick, however, is that sometimes, well, you get pushed off to the side.  I once got left the edge of a dance floor because Matthew got wrapped up in talking to a girl he didn’t even like, a girl we called The Jawa.

And that’s where Chinatown hit so damn hard for me.  Because when you’ve got male friends, sometimes dames get in the way.  Sometimes those dames are great, like my friend Bridget, who married my friend Eeon.  Sometimes those dames are no good, and the worst part about a no-good dame is that no one wants to hear their dame is no good.  And when you’re a dame yourself, they’ve always got that “you’re just jealous” card to play.  And sometimes I was jealous, because I was young and stupid.   But I’ve lost more than one friendship over no-good dames, and though I’ve manage to recover all of them, there were a lotta years of heartbreak in between.

So when The Goon’s mummy’d up in bandages and Franky sits down by his bedside and says “Dames come and go, but pals stick together,” I just started bawling.  Like, mascara-down-the-cheeks kinda crying.  Partially because the characters feel so real, not just bullshit neo-noir stock types like every Sin City comic after The Hard Goodbye, but mostly because it reminded me of all the times I stupidly let a dame — or anything, really — get in between me and a friend.