Hey, it’s Dowko.

It’s also 2019. Hope you are filling up your grocery buggy with lots of food. I also hope that you have those little simplicity in your life that make it worth it to wake up.

2018 was a great year for SMP. We published our first issue, Mouths. If you haven’t, and you should, go read it. Might take all day or it might take you 15 minutes. It is also available for download to your device as a PDF or eBook.

Right, Profession.

Back on track.

After a New Years we all try to make things in our life go in a direction that we wish for. Maybe we clean, or stop drinking or something as benign as being kinder. I hope that your wishes make you happy and content.

I’m going to tell you a little anecdote about my day now. Worry not, it has to do with writing.

I have a back porch and I tend to smoke behind the apartment from time to time. Sometimes I let the dogs out there and they bark at the wind and I have to let them back in. I also have a neighbor. His name is Jeff.

Well Jeff just happened to be outside while I was, and we started to chat about this and that. Mostly money and work. Well anyways, we got on the topic of my college education and I told him that I’ve been in quite a few different industries. But, most of all, I told him, my true calling is poetry.

When it came out of my mouth, I felt like I was time traveling to 2019, from some distant past life of fantasy and bards and dragons and magic. Who considers themselves a poet in 2019? Shortly after I told him, he went on to tell me a rhyming poem about violets and roses.

A couple of days later I found myself filling a prescription at a chain type pharmacy, of which it will not be named, but I will tell you that the logo is red.  Anyways. I was at the magazine rack, killing time, and it dawned on me that I should pick up a poetry magazine while I was there. But, alas, I couldn’t find one single, dusty, poetry magazine.



Call the YouTube hotline.

Flip the record.

Light a smoke.

Drain that beer.

We’ll all be famous someday.

We’ll all have a price tag.

Poetry in 2119.

One can dream.




See ya next time,


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