[Article by Robbie Fraser]

At Synchronized Chaos, we like to focus on up and coming artists as often as we feature those who have an established place in their field.  For this issue we’ve decided to turn that focus to Brent Vickers, a recent college graduate from Texas State University majoring in English, and an aspiring writer. While Vickers has a style that is uniquely his own, his story is one that many Synchronized Chaos readers are likely to find relatable.  While clearly displaying his ability through the written word, Vickers is still searching for a firm place in his cultural field – the proverbial “big break” of every hopeful artist. He is a young and talented writer that is nonetheless confronting an uncertain future.

Here, we have featured a few poems that Vickers selected as a small sampling of his work, as well as a brief Q&A exploring his development as a writer, and more importantly, what the future may hold for him.  With some of his poetry and fiction already published, and the promise of more to come, Vickers has managed to venture further down the road to success than the vast majority of those who have made similar journeys.  With a screenplay currently in development, and an independent production company already looking to purchase the rights, it may be only a matter of time before Vickers finds his destination within view.

Synchronized Chaos: How long have you been writing poetry?
Brent Vickers: Since I was around fourteen or so.

SC: What poems or poets first inspired you?
BV: John Keats and Edna St. Vincent Millay.

SC: What is your favorite poem?  Favorite line?

BV: He wishes for the Clothes of Heaven by W.B. Yeats; don’t really have a favorite line. If i had to choose I’d probably say “though lover’s be lost, love shall not/and death shall have no dominion” by Dylan Thomas or “we are the music makers and we are the dreamers of dreams” by Arthur O’Shaughnessy.

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Robbie Fraser is an associate editor for Synchronized Chaos Magazine. Fraser may be reached at robbiedfraser@gmail.com.

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SC: Are there any particular poets you feel your style is usually similar to?
BV: I find myself continually ripping off Charles Simic and Mark Strand

SC: What’s your writing process like? Do you usually write daily or sporadically?
BV: I write every day for sure, but not always poetry.

SC: Do you write more or less now compared to when you were a student?
BV: I write more now; I have more time!

SC: Do you do much writing beyond poetry, either fiction or nonfiction?
BV: Yes. I generally don’t write much nonfiction, though I do write short stories. I’ve also written two plays and a novella since graduating and am working on a screenplay.

SC: Where has your degree taken you since graduating?
BV: (Laughing) Poor, unemployed, and dreaming.

SC: What role do you think writing has in your future?
BV: I have a deal with an independent production company to purchase my next script, if I ever finish it.

SC: Have you published any of your work?
BV: I have. I have been published in a couple different lit journals, mostly school sponsored, and even received my own chapbook from Giant Child Press.

SC: Do you ever second guess majoring in English?
BV: I really wanted to major in Radio, Television, and Film but our school didn’t offer that exact program so English was a nice substitute. Don’t regret it.

SC: Has trying to find some success as a writer been more or less difficult then you expected?

BV: I’m still trying to become a writer, I haven’t even worried about the success part yet.

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POETRY BY BRENT VICKERS

Creation Story

she slips into a dress
that resembles a starlit-pocketsea
before floating into the kitchen
to take shots of burning stars
chase them with satellite meteors

in the morning I hear her
vomit nebulas into our toilet
I hold her hair back
lift her up
to sanctify her galaxy
our porcelain
with her holy urine

at night in bed together
she tosses her tentacle legs, tangles them
with mine until our lower halves resemble
a double-helix
a caduceus multiplied

I see the heat rise
from her pearls upon the dresser;
the pearls she wore all day
steaming from her throat;
I watch them burn as I fall asleep,
like the emesis-sun she releases.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I’m waiting for the apocalypse

when the lightning decorates the sky like ribbons
blue and purple and white,
and cityscapes fold like concertinas;

when there’s no more oil
gasoline
condoms
liquor
late-night coffee shops;

when all the TV channels are static
and everyone speaks the language of panic;

when telephone and wi-fi signals are stolen by god,
and the roads turn into mountains;

when infants are dressed in concrete sweaters,
and their mothers lactate blood;

when guilt/shame has evolved into honesty,
i’ll walk to your house and kiss you
i’ll tell you i love you
apologize for putting it off for so long–

i’ll dance with you until the firecane comes,
picks us up
melts the flesh off our bones;

i want to tell you i love you now,
marry you
impregnate you
spoil you while you spoil our children
hold your hand on your death bed
cry at your funeral…

but i’m scared that you won’t ever love me
unless tomorrow never comes.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

We Live in a Glass House

We watch the children play
Hide-and-seek inside the hearth
They don’t scream while they stand
On the coals, colored, pulsating like dying hearts.

Grandpa in a wheelchair
Wearing a veteran’s baseball cap
Watches FOX news on mute
The ash from his cigarette collecting in his lap.

We stand listening to the smoke alarm
Don’t speak, the children laugh
Closed-caption reads a flood of wingding gibberish
The neighbors, observing, crowd the street.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Winter Vacation 2008

Lungs filled with ashes of bodies on pyres.
Mother uncomfortable with native practices.
Father pretends an open mind.
Sister texts: Florida is awesome!

Charred flakes of skin, bodies
still cherried from embers—
from a distance they resembled snow.
Mother vomits in trashcan—

Weak stomach, terrible smell.
Sister’s absence negatively impacting vacation.
Father warming on alcohol. Mother vomiting
from smell of burning corpses. Brown

Man tries to sell her jewelry, she vomits.
I cough out blood and flakes of charred skin.
I tell the man we don’t want jewelry—lost in translation.
I shake his hand, transferring saliva, skin, blood.