December 4, 2023
The Triumph of Failure
Hitting new lows of unbridled bitterness and squirm-inducing self-pity!
New slender volume of verse. Available for pre-order:
Fresh Failure: New Poems by John Tottenham
July 14, 2022
Publication in the Age of Negation pt.1
October 17, 2019
A Legacy-Defining Moment
New Emptyscapes up at Alias Books now through whenever.
3163 Glendale Blvd, LA CA 90039
June 25, 2019
Agents Of Misfortune
February 12, 2019
Beauty and Happiness
Beauty depresses me,
knowing that it’s temporary.
Positivity requires too much energy.
And even if I were happy,
I wouldn’t admit it,
for that would be an insult
to those who are not,
and those who pretend to be.
December 30, 2018
Is there Life after Art?
One more week. Emptyscapes Extended until 1/5/19.
Lora Schlesinger Gallery, Bergamot Station, 2525 Michigan Ave. B5b, Santa Monica CA 90404
December 2, 2017
WINDSONG
I have a heart like a wheelbarrow,
there are no windmills in my mind.
Love blows in and floats around freely
like the wind – getting in the way
of other things.
This rootless love without design,
which has no object, point or point of origin –
one looks for it in every face,
looking for somebody to become that place
where everything that falls apart
falls into place.
It seeks definition, a place of rest,
to find its home in a woman’s breast –
to die there, or multiply there.
When, surely, to keep it to oneself
would be best.
July 22, 2017
The lowest form of literary endeavor
Yet I honor this stale ceremony.
As if anything of value might be extracted from the refinement of futility.
Recoiling from the sight of these words dying on the page.
The results induce uneasiness and distaste, but I must press on and complete something for once in my life, even if it should have been expunged from my system twenty years ago and has grown irredeemably stale; even if it falls miserably short of my aim, not that I ever had an aim.
It would be nice if all this was building up to something. But it isn’t.
Nevertheless, I proceed.
Towards what futile end I know not.
I thought there was still time to get started but it’s almost all over.
Maybe I’ve done everything I was ever capable of doing.
Just because it went unnoticed doesn’t mean it’s not over.
At this rate, maybe, in ten years time, if I’m lucky, I might have completed something, if I live that long.
I certainly can’t blame anybody for their indifference. I already find my own interest waning.
There’s no point carrying on about it.
This is surely the lowest form of literary endeavor: driveling on about oneself.
What’s the point of actualizing oneself if nobody can relate to what you’re actualizing or derive derive any solace from it?
But it can be pleasant sitting here, stroking the keys in anticipation.
There’s nothing else I’d rather be doing. That’s the sad part… one of the saddest parts.
At least write one line this morning:
John Tottenham 