Megan Falley's Blog, page 121

. : * COMING TO A CITY NEAR YOU * : .

. : * COMING TO A CITY NEAR YOU * : .:

Americans! Canadians! Fellow Space-Travelers:

In September I embark on a 100 day book tour! A good, old-fashioned, Jack Kerouacian, on-the-road, by-myself, in-a-car, snapping pictures, reading poems, charming locals BOOK TOUR.

Click this link to see every stop I’ll be reading poems & teaching workshops & signing copies of After the Witch Hunt in. And if you see a gap between cities and want me to come to you, let’s book a show! Your college, local theatre, even your backyard will do!

E-mail me: MeganFalley@gmail.com

I want to come to YOU!

mileswalser:

Hey Friends!

I, along with the fantastic Megan Falley, am looking to book some college shows around the US over the next few months — I’m promoting my upcoming book What the Night Demands (Write Bloody Press 2013), and Megan is touring for her new (and AMAZING) book After the Witch Hunt (Write Bloody Press 2012).

And we want to come to YOU.

Are you a student or professor or college enthusiast?
Do you want to hear us read poems at YOUR COLLEGE?
Contact me at miles.j.walser@gmail.com.

SUPPORTING ARTISTS = SUPPORTING ART = SUPPORTING A BETTER WORLD.

In the last few weeks before my 100 day book tour, I post...

In the last few weeks before my 100 day book tour, I post pictures to remind myself of bravery.

Here: that time I hitch-hiked down the left coast of the south island of New Zealand, and crossed that crazy swing bridge, breathing.

This month, while my nerves get the best of me in preparation...

This month, while my nerves get the best of me in preparation for my three-month, on-the-road, by-myself BOOK TOUR, I will be posting photographs of brave things I’ve done to remind myself of my adventurous spirit that I’ve let get too comfortable for too long.

Photograph # 1: That time I lived in New Zealand for 6 months in 2009. Sting Ray Beach.

this totally looks photoshopped, but it isn’t. my quote is...

this totally looks photoshopped, but it isn’t. my quote is posted up on the window of a bar in massachusetts. this photo is taken with me outside the window and the photographer (ahem, mr. derrick brown) inside the bar. how amazing?!

TOURING!

I am now booking the RETURN TRIP home from my tour. Looking to do shows in Arizona, New Mexico, *possibly* Texas (do ya’ll thing it’s worth it?), Oklahoma, *maybe* New Orleans, Atlanta and the route back up to New York. Is there any scene you believe I *must* see before concluding this wild tour of the states?

happy birthday to me.

happy birthday to me.

FOR THOSE WHO ARE RIGHT NOW STILL LOOKING FOR CLOSURE:

Closure is a motherfucker. 

Closure will tell you to meet it at the bus stop at 6:30, and you’ll think Closure means 6:30 that day, but it really meant 6/30 as in June 30th, and didn’t specify the year. 

Perhaps you’ll ask your ex to meet you at The Olive Garden and bring Closure with him, but he’ll stupidly bring Closure’s evil twin Openature and you’ll be left wondering why Closure was being such a dick.

Maybe your best friend claims she found Closure in a dream once, and that’s cool, but you’ve had dreams about your father where he’s played by Eddie Murphy and at the time this makes perfect sense but when you wake up you’re like “How’d I know that was my dad? My dad’s a Jewish Dentist” and if Closure came to you in a dream would you even know what to look for?

By the process of elimination, I can’t tell you where Closure is, but I know a few places where Closure is not:

1.      On your ex-girlfriend’s mother’s answering machine.
2.      Halfway through a bottle of Bacardi Grand Melon.
3.      The bottom of the 59th Street Bridge.
4.      In a box of Atomic Blue Hair Dye.
5.      The chorus of Sinead O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares 2 U.”
6.      Inside a stranger’s body at midnight.
7.      Inside that stranger’s apartment at dawn.
8.      In anything you can only buy from someone who still uses a beeper. 

Closure could take seventy-six years to reach you, like Halley’s comet. It might greet you by the airport check in, where your carry-on (filled with all the perfect comebacks to say after the fact, the roommate you lost over who would claim the bigger bedroom, the failed novels, the questions you never asked your father, every person you didn’t say goodbye to) exceeds the weight limit. Suddenly Closure shows up, all polite-like, and offers to help check your bags. Just when you think you’re going to accept you find yourself saying, “No. Keep them. Don’t need any of that where I’m going. I’m leaving it behind.” 

—Megan Falley
from After the Witch Hunt
Available for purchase on Amazon.

If you like this poet and this poem,
please considering buying/reviewing
her book here. 

 

IRRATIONAL ANTHEM

We were down to the stale candy and pennies
at the bottom of the Halloween basket. Neighbors were moving
the skeletons from the front yard to the attic and the squirrels
were fat on faces we carved from pumpkins.
Spent two days trying to squeeze back into our human
costumes but you kept looking at me like I was still a Princess.

When we elected the new president, the streets
of our college town gushed with sound, car horns woo-hoo’d
and noisemakers hurrahed and above I could hear the sweet hallelujah
of liberals making love. If the world were to stop
for a minute, we could hear the confetti fall.
Love is quiet like that. I didn’t know back then.

The other man arrived in limousines, charmed
desserts right onto our plates at restaurants where the placement
of silverware mattered. He laughed like a packed house encore
and could unzip my dress with only his eyes. 
He made me feel like the only woman in the world. 
He made a lot of women feel like that.

 But you never picked up the bill. The only gift you ever gave
was a handmade binder of your father’s poems, penned before
they laid him in the ground. I thought of the gold-leafed leather journal
the other man had given me, took notice of your book’s tattered spine.
You did not teach me how to sneak a bill into a maitre d’s palm,
but how to stare at road kill until it became art.

I chose the man who knew the difference
between a Cabernet and Merlot by scent alone, 
but still didn’t know the color of my eyes.

Now you’ve moved to a new state with your apple pie woman
where the townsfolk speak in drawls, and the city girls
grow impatient at how your words fall like molasses
because you make sure you mean them before they leak out
your mouth.

But when your grandchildren ask where you were when the president
who looks most like your family won that night, you will remember
the pot smell of my apartment, the dizzying
tapestries, my stupid roommate who slept through
the changing world, how we celebrated with our skin
like two snapping firecrackers, how I begged you inside
my body and it was the most American thing we could do,
to pray like that.

The other man’s love was a spectacle
of sound let loose in an empty room. 
I spent years clawing after its echo.

That November was my last election.
I’ll never step into another poll booth again.
Won’t even allow myself the option of choosing
the wrong man.

-Megan Falley
from After the Witch Hunt
Available on Amazon

Please, if you find a moment in your day, review the book on Amazon. It is a tremendous help for independent publishers to generate significant favorable reviews on the web. Your support means everything. Thank you.

nikkidubs:“Fat Girl” by Megan Falley.Megs always kills it,...

nikkidubs:

“Fat Girl” by Megan Falley.

Megs always kills it, but this time she kills it, eats it, and then writes an unapologetic badass totally fucking amazing poem about it.  Because hell yes Megan Falley.

Thanks Nikki. This is one of my favorite performances of Fat Girl to date. Followers, please share. We’re all fat girls inside.