Duane Vorhees lives in Japan, working with American military personnel for the redundantly named University of Maryland University College. In other life phases, he was a journalist, an actor, a model, a vocalist for the Kimchi Cowboys, but one who does not sing. A truck driver and tool room attendant, a hitchhiker, a dishwasher, a lifeguard, a door-to-door salesman, a carpenter, a high school teacher, a deliverer of pizzas and newspapers, and stocker of grocery shelves. He was an assembly line worker for a week.
Husband, father, comrade.
Writer’s craft: manacled to conviction
like any zek to his sentence,
like a blatnoi to a pen,
assaults its own position
like a gaybist missionary, assassinates its friends
like any other virgin---
just another bloody period,
and another conception ends.
2. YOUR BODY TELLS THE HIGHWAYMAN
If prose is just a page running across your face,
Poetry is the line lying between your thighs.
Your body tells the highwayman’s short story life:
The drama of poems at the point of conception,
but just one more hackneyed form in execution.
key in the cake—
(in music, truth hid?)
the poet’s prison is
the rhythm of his
he makes his
Xoxo has put out three volumes. THE ENDS OF LOVE. HEAVEN, a translation of 20th-century Korean poems. GIFT.
All three books are available at xoxopublishing.com. JUST TYPE IN HIS NAME (Duane Vorhees) and they will magically appear!