Out Come the Wolves

I wrap myself in sleeves of black
Dark days and all that
And tonight the moon is full
So out come the wolves
I suppose
And the little girl
Who lives next door is in love with vampires
She dresses in all black
She cuts her hair in extreme ways
She mopes and hates like a full grown man
“Why no smiles today?” I ask her
“What is there to smile about?” she counters
Her life is all hellfire and brimstone –
A single mother who fucks like an old whore
Chasing after some teenage fantasy of Love
A life unfolding in obscene ways
Disintegrating day by day
But the moon is full tonight
“So smile,” I tell her
“Because out come the wolves…”

– A.Ramirez


Support the Independent Artist

As much as I enjoy reblogging porn and pictures of pretty looking people (sic) I think tumblr and other social media sites are a waste of time if people aren’t using them to help promote the music and the philosophies and politics which they enjoy and share in.

So let’s take the time to reblog and help support the writers and the poets and the musicians and the artists who are not wasting their time making commercial art but instead are actually making an effort to effect and change society; and along the way creating the poems and the music and the works of art which we enjoy.

Support the independent writer. Support and share quality art.

Edits and Rewrites

     I feel like a masochist. Rewrites and edits – what sort of man derives pleasure from this? I’d rather be out playing with rabid dogs. But there is work to be done.
     So the dogs will have to wait.
     Meanwhile I find myself in the middle of rewrites on my new novel (which I believe will be shortened to a novella eventually when all the editing is complete).
     And it’s a massive undertaking. But there is no other way around it; the only way to do it, and do it right, is to sit down and hit it head on. Only I can’t help but feel as if there should be more time dedicated to this process – weeks, months, years. Editing, the first time through, is not merely the process of rearranging a few sentences; or replacing a comma here with a semi-colon there.
     No. I find myself removing whole parts, paragraphs, chapters even; and what is being revealed is a novel which I didn’t see the first time through. The shape has changed. And what has emerged feels like a better novel. The whole thing feels tighter, with the flow and rhythm doing a better job at pulling the reader along. Before there were too many words. Too much waste.
  I hate waste. As a writer I have always imagined myself as a musician, or something resembling a musician. And what I’m writing is a punk rock song. Short. Minimal in its words, each word chosen for its effect and not merely for its style. The reader can’t be allowed to grow bored. Emotions must be evoked. Don’t linger. Throw punches in combinations, hit and keep moving. Always remember – a hundred adjectives used to fatten a line doesn’t make for a better line.
     But editing – even when performed with complete conviction for a better novel, is a frustrating process. Why did I write this? I find myself asking. What purpose did that sentence serve? Or that word? Why that word? That word is all wrong. It breaks the flow and is as out of place as a nun in a whorehouse. It only distracts the reader and pulls them out of the story. So I take a chainsaw to it and dismember the nun.
     Words are lost. Sentences cut. Whole chapters forgotten.
     Edit. Rewrite. Try to maintain the soul while dissecting the body.
     It’s the only way to do it.