April 29th, 2010 / 2:56 pm
Author Spotlight
Adam Robinson
Author Spotlight
Paul Killebrew: Explain Yourself!
[Long-time readers might recall that I started a game show right here at HTMLGIANT in which I post a link to a great piece of new writing and demand of the author: EXPLAIN YOURSELF! (applause) Well, so, sorry, it’s been a while. What are you going to do, tax me?]
Anyway, this time I challenge Paul Killebrew, whose new book from Canarium, Flowers, is whoa holy, to comment before this post scrolls off the page. Is this poem, from Gulf Coast, a story? (Readers, it begins:
“I think he’s basically a person,”
said the young waiter to the older one.
Are you clipping from Hemingway or Orwell here? What was the poem’s starting point? Paul Killebrew, EXPLAIN YOURSELF! (applause)
Tags: canarium, Gulf Coast, paul killebrew
oh my god, yeah. I love this feature, have been hoping for a comeback.
Nice poem. I love the last lines.
oh my god, yeah. I love this feature, have been hoping for a comeback.
Nice poem. I love the last lines.
Paul Killebrew is a genius and a fucking mongoose! “Flowers” is a must-have. I love it!!!
Paul Killebrew is a genius and a fucking mongoose! “Flowers” is a must-have. I love it!!!
Well hot damn, I feel like a goldfish named The Internet. You have my endless gratitude for giving airtime to this poem. Splain? I can try. This poem is one of a four-sonnet suite where I was trying to write poems that were as different as I was capable of writing in one day, and I figured one of them should be a narrative poem. The first line was going to be the beginning of a longer comment, like “I think he’s basically a person who takes a Yorkshire Terrier with him to the DMV,” (that person would actually be my dad, yes MY DAD), but it seemed more interesting not to complete the comment. From there it’s hard to say. Do you know the song “Mr. Reilly” by Vic Chesnutt? I haven’t been able to listen to him since he died, but the way storytelling works in that song, especially the last part about Joan the frozen ex-newspapergirl, butters my buns.
I was a waiter in a Thai restaurant in Brooklyn for about a month after September 11th, I’d just moved to the city in August and was looking for a job and everyone had stopped interviewing, so I waited tables to make rent. It involved a lot of folding napkins and imagining the suffering of millions, and I was 23 so the whole experience was shot through with my complete self-involvement and noncommittal posturing. For example during this period I almost joined the army. One time a table of hippies skipped out on the check and the manager made me pay it out of my tips and I didn’t make any money that night, and another time a lady who insisted throughout her dining experience that I call her The Queen tipped me with a tiny bottle of ginseng extract and nothing else.
The only other thing I can think of to say is that my dad is a painter, and painting figures into things for me kind of like the way a traumatic event can shape a person’s life without ever working out into a tangible meaning that would allow the person to move on. Not that I’m looking to move on.
Well hot damn, I feel like a goldfish named The Internet. You have my endless gratitude for giving airtime to this poem. Splain? I can try. This poem is one of a four-sonnet suite where I was trying to write poems that were as different as I was capable of writing in one day, and I figured one of them should be a narrative poem. The first line was going to be the beginning of a longer comment, like “I think he’s basically a person who takes a Yorkshire Terrier with him to the DMV,” (that person would actually be my dad, yes MY DAD), but it seemed more interesting not to complete the comment. From there it’s hard to say. Do you know the song “Mr. Reilly” by Vic Chesnutt? I haven’t been able to listen to him since he died, but the way storytelling works in that song, especially the last part about Joan the frozen ex-newspapergirl, butters my buns.
I was a waiter in a Thai restaurant in Brooklyn for about a month after September 11th, I’d just moved to the city in August and was looking for a job and everyone had stopped interviewing, so I waited tables to make rent. It involved a lot of folding napkins and imagining the suffering of millions, and I was 23 so the whole experience was shot through with my complete self-involvement and noncommittal posturing. For example during this period I almost joined the army. One time a table of hippies skipped out on the check and the manager made me pay it out of my tips and I didn’t make any money that night, and another time a lady who insisted throughout her dining experience that I call her The Queen tipped me with a tiny bottle of ginseng extract and nothing else.
The only other thing I can think of to say is that my dad is a painter, and painting figures into things for me kind of like the way a traumatic event can shape a person’s life without ever working out into a tangible meaning that would allow the person to move on. Not that I’m looking to move on.