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About this poet

Born on January 1, 1966, CAConrad describes himself as "the son of white trash asphyxiation whose childhood included selling cut flowers along the highway for his mother and helping her shoplift."

He is the author of numerous collections of poetry, including While Standing in Line for Death (Wave Books, 2017); ECODEVIANCE: (Soma)tics for the Future Wilderness (Wave Books, 2014); Philip Seymour Hoffman (were you high when you said this?) (Worms Press, 2014); A Beautiful Marsupial Afternoon: New (Soma)tics (Wave Books, 2012); The City Real & Imagined (Factory School Press, 2010), with the poet Frank Sherlock; and The Book of Frank (Chax Press, 2009), recipient of the Gil Ott Book Award. He has also authored a book of nonfiction essays, Advanced Elvis Course (Soft Skull Press, 2009).

Poet Eileen Myles writes, "[CAConrad] always argues (from the inside of his poems) for a poetry of radical inclusivity while keeping a very queer shoulder to the wheel. His kind of queerness strikes me as nonpolarizing, not intentionally but because of the fullness of his exposition, a kind of gigantism that seems to me to be most deeply informed by love, and a tenderness for the ravages and tumult of existence."

CAConrad's honors include fellowships from the Banff Art Center, Lannan Foundation, MacDowell Colony, Pew Center for Arts & Heritage, and Ucross Foundation. CAConrad conducts lectures and workshops across the country on (Soma)tics and Ecopoetics. He currently lives in Philadelphia.


Selected Bibliography

Poetry

While Standing in Line for Death (Wave Books, 2017)
ECODEVIANCE: (Soma)tics for the Future Wilderness (Wave Books, 2014)
Philip Seymour Hoffman (were you high when you said this?) (Worms Press, 2014)
A Beautiful Marsupial Afternoon: New (Soma)tics (Wave Books, 2012)
The City Real & Imagined (Factory School, 2010)
The Book of Frank (Chax Press, 2009)
Deviant Propulsion (Soft Skull Press, 2006)

Nonfiction

Advanced Elvis Course (Soft Skull Press, 2009)

[another poet]

                                              another poet
                                              apologizes at a microphone
                                              weakening the hull of our ship
                                              if you can’t believe in your poems
                                              leave them at home until you
                                              learn to deserve them
                                              this poem this poet
                                              will not apologize
          I’m tired of smelling my dead boyfriend
               his swimming arms lost to my bed
             it hurts to admit I love being alive
                I broke and those pieces broke
       and those pieces crushed to powder
             things to avoid saying around me:
                            take it like a trooper
                            stiff upper lip
                            keep it together
  don’t let your mouth say these things
don’t let your comfort be selfish cruelty
                                    let them shriek
                                      let them sob
                                         don’t be
                                        a coward 
                                       about love
 

From While Standing in Line for Death (Wave Books, 2017). Copyright © 2017 by CAConrad. Used with permission of the author and Wave Books.

From While Standing in Line for Death (Wave Books, 2017). Copyright © 2017 by CAConrad. Used with permission of the author and Wave Books.

CAConrad

CAConrad

Born on January 1, 1966, CAConrad describes himself as "the son of white trash asphyxiation whose childhood included selling cut flowers along the highway for his mother and helping her shoplift."

by this poet

poem

                                          unfastened
                                    in the backseat a
                             portion of our music is
                          mucus flying into stillness
                          at what point do we submit

2
poem
no one knows where I am in the morning and I like that
set my periscope on breath of dreaming tyrants
                                                    heir to a forest
                                              do you mean fortune
      no I mean forest caressing
poem
             journeyman who
            denies everything
             even the journey
              lost in a pile of
           needles and spools
         the only trees in this
            desert are books
            a bottle made of