Alright . . . it’s not Elle or Guns & Ammo or The Atlantic. But it’s a real magazine and it’s out of San Antonio, Texas. A POETRY MAGAZINE!
Let’s face it. You won’t find the big bucks in poetry. So you can’t expect a four-color cover and glossy 80# photo stock, printed in one of the world-class print houses in Italy. Or ads for it during the half-time show at the Superbowl.
Lone Stars Magazine. Texas is the “Lone Star State”. Get it? And notice this is Issue #97. Meaning they’ve been at this for a while. This is not some impulse dreamed up between a rodeo and a local paint ball war games tournament.
So . . . why am I bringing any of this up?
Well . . . I’m darn proud to say that a recent poem of mine got published in this particular issue. A miracle if there ever was one!
I’ve made it clear in the past — if anyone was paying attention — I’m not a poet, I’ve never wanted to be a poet, any resemblance between my attempts at poetry and actual poetry is purely coincidental. But for some reason, these poetry magazines seem to think I’m the real deal. Who am I to argue?
I even wrote a satirical piece, making fun of poetry and the whole process of writing it:
There’s at least one person who thinks it’s hilarious. (That would be me.)
Let me cut with the false humility, stop being such an arrogant butt plug, and attempt to painlessly explain the situation.
Lone Stars published three of my other poems over the past couple years but this was a particularly juicy assignment and I couldn’t resist.
Contributors to Issue #97 were supposed to write a poem about what a poet is. So I did!
There you have it. Clever? Interesting? Probably not.
Maybe I should light fires in the forest?
Juggle tofu with my tongue?
