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Welcome to the seattle muse. We provide resources that enhance the poet's (and writer's) craft. And almost everything offered is free! The expense of time and effort is supported through donations and minimal advertising. Authors who place their books for sale on our site are charged only a small handling fee. We feature over 200 links to various resources, separated into categories for easier navigation. You will find many of these resources on the literary links page. On the opportunities page we offer links to job opportunities for writers; some are freelance opportunities, while others are positions advertised. Of course, there's an events page informing writers (and readers) of poetry events ranging from open mics to venues featuring well known writers. However, we feel our best feature is found on the new submissions page. This is where you will find your poetry, especially if you are an unpublished and newer poet. If you would like to submit a poem to our site, follow the instructions on that page. One note: all poetry submitted will published at the sole discretion of the seattle muse. the seattle muse is a work in progress. We add new links frequently as we discover new sites of interest and value. Your input is appreciated. If you have a suggestion, a favorite site you wish to share, or find a link that doesn't work, please drop us a line at info@theseattlemuse.com. We hope you enjoy your visit to the seattle muse.
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11,337 I’m struggling to work. And losing. I just sit here at the window. Watch miserable rain drip down power lines and creosoted poles. Leak onto an oil-stained parking lot. In a toxic stupor I consider another day in an unbroken string of 11,337. On which I’ve thought of you. And your cheating ass. But things average out, don’t they. That’s if you go all the way back to the beginning. My first day of kindergarten. I’m swinging on the jungle gym, and this fat kid Louie grabs hold of my leg like a dog. Hangs on until it bleeds. Spit and sand. Blood. He should have been tested for rabies. That same year, on a cracked asphalt playground playing cowboys and indians, William Hall nails me in the back of the head with a tomahawk disguised as a fist-sized rock. Took eleven stitches. Fifth grade. Mr. Hoffman slams me up against the blackboard for mouthing off in class. Drags me down to the principal’s office to begin a week of staying after school. The time two high-school special-ed trolls, Donnie Merck and Rick Wheeler do a two-on-one on me just for fun. Only I’m not having any fun. And I get kicked out of school for fighting. In an alley that smells like piss, I’m waiting to get paid when Rollie Bates drops me with one punch. The righteous weed I sold him turns out to be Shilling’s oregano. And neither of us Italian. Later, the Pig, my personal nightmare, plays speed bag with my face. Torments me until I join the army. Where I feel right at home the day I meet the Tongan drill sergeant. Two years later, in the back of a bus heading home from Philly, guy pulls an ice-pick. Relieves me of my cash. And when I won’t give him my shoes, sticks the pick in my knee. Seems like the first half of my life was a one-sided fight with one guy after another. With me on the losing end. But like I said it all balances out. The second half has been all women. |
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