Episode 59: Emi’s Barbaric YAWP!

Hello! Welcome to another episode of Slush Pile! This episode is chock full of laughs and language exploration. After discussing Jason’s impressive performance in the weight room the gang rolls right into the introductions. Afterwards Kathleen goes balls to the wall and presents an interesting question for our listeners. Painted Bride Quarterly’s Slush Pile has started a poll to determine the names we will call our listeners. After discussing the options, we throw the choice back at you. After the madness that is our editors initial discussion we begin the discussion of two pieces by David Rock labled “Just Gravy” and “Driving through Idaho”.

David Rock has work appearing in The Carolina Quarterly, The Laurel Review, The Bitter Oleander, The Chattahoochee Review, Image, New American Writing, and other journals. An Idaho native, he teaches Spanish and international studies at Brigham Young University-Idaho in Rexburg.

The first piece was interrupted by the barbaric YAWP of Marion Wrenn’s beloved cat, Emi knows good poetry! The gang goes into depth with Rock’s amazing use of metaphors in “Just Gravy” and his excellent use of sound.

The second piece “Driving through Idaho” was luckily devoid of a cat-astrophe. The editors discuss the way the poem captures the spirit of a long ride. After some debate among the editors they move to a vote. Will these pieces make the cut? Slushies or Peeps? Stay tuned in and find out!

 

 

 

Just Gravy

“Well that’s it. Everything else is gravy.”
—Jericho Brown

And God said, “Let there by gravy.”
And it was just gravy. As good as gravy.
Gravy was the whole telos of wisdom

made flesh—God’s creatures, with or
without their wings. And God said grace.
And so we survive, some of us,

for a while—but not by any merit of our
bagpipes, banjos and bones. And God said,
“Okay, I’ll grant you the bones.”

So you see, everything else isn’t gravy—
package gravy, gravy from a can, delicious
gravy in the hard, cold light of Aleppo—

which should come as nothing new,
swaddled in sack-cloth and a blast wall
to bolster the beef, our analogical anguish,
like lumps.

 

Driving through Idaho

A good lottery knows a thing or two
about your chances. Reservations.
A skiff of snow just this side of Bliss.

Approaching Fairfield on the after-
noon-sunward side of Massacre Rocks.
What better bluffs. That sultry Snake.

Top 40 love songs blah blah, and
politics aside, nothing beats giant
windmills. . . . D.Q.? . . . I could

sure go for a chicken strip basket,
a place to pull off to pee . . . Ah,

the emptiness.