One year ago I was on a train from D.C. to Atlanta, leafing through the poems that would become American Barricade in March 2014. I can’t remember if I read “My Life in Absentia,” but here we are one year later and Verse Daily features the poem after reading the book. It’s one of the first poems I ever published, in a journal they call Tin House, and to date this is the first time it’s ever appeared online. Time is one slinky ferret, let me attest. 



Another October is here, and with it a new issue of Guernica, the American Empires issue. My poem “Nachtmusik" is swerving around inside those pages, alongside a piece I really love by Jay Heikes. I sometimes say that I wish poems would list their ingredients, like you see on the white placards next to paintings in galleries. So let’s give that a try. 

Danniel Schoonebeek (American, b. 1986).
Nachtmusik (2014). 

Worms, teething, Osip Mandelstam, The Return of the Native, angry emails, Catskill Mountains, subway advertisements, Bela Bartok, American war photography, slang, the Mission on the Bowery, W.S. Merwin, schoolyard songs, Eustacia Vye, gardening the Tristia. 


Privacy Policy: The Anthology of Surveillance Poetics, is now a real, breathing book and you can order it from SPD or via Black Ocean. The NYC release party is tomorrow night at Berl’s, and I’ll be reading alongside Eileen Myles, Harmony Holiday, Cathy Park Hong, and poets upon poets. I’m gonna read this poem, which appears in the anthology. 


Hatchet Job XXIV is bringing in a flood of poets from points east. Natalie Lyalin will be coming from Philly to read poems from her new book, Blood Makes Me Faint But I Go For It. Anthony Madrid is flying in from Chicago to read ghazals and (god willing) some limericks. Joe Hall is taking the train from faraway Buffalo, and his latest book is called The Devotional Poems. And Mark Cugini, the man and the myth behind Big Lucks, well he’s coming all the way from our nation’s capital. It happens how it always happens: 7PM, Suburbia, Brooklyn, and you. RSVP here



Here’s a new interview with Darby Laine at Ampersand Review. I think maybe it’s Satan in Paradise Lost who hates being questioned. He hates the way answering a question makes him complicit in the asking of it. 

I kind of feel like Satan when people ask me about where I grew up, which is to say I don’t often give an answer. But I didn’t feel like Satan this time, who knows why:

"I lived eighteen years of my life in a village in the Catskills, population 3,008. Sometimes calling it a gasoline town or a cow town—three gas stations within a quarter mile of each other and at one time there were more cows in the village than people. There’s a powerful milk factory. Often it felt like the town was ruled by a kingpin, a wealthy man who made his money selling astroturf. I found a castle in the woods there once; it burned down a few days later.

This was the west bank of the Delaware River. A racist and homophobic and mostly poor community. But also filled with liberals, anti-frackers, people who held conscientious objector workshops in their furnace rooms. A village drunk named Tater.

I grew up listening to punk, hitting drums in bands. That’s part of  how I learned to be in conflict as a praxis.”

Read the complete interview here. And check out the rest of the new issue, which is full of baddies and Satan galore. 


About a year ago I stopped having an address and effectively living anywhere, and one of the only parts about that life that I miss is the mail. Because when you don’t have an address, you miss things like your poem “Ivory” showing up in the latest issue of Indiana Review. But then of course one day you also return to your last known address, and waiting for you is a pile of mail so tall you can’t see the sun. And postcards, letters, freelance money, books, bills, hate mail, and your poem “Ivory” in the latest issue of Indiana Review, which also has this eagle on the cover that I like. 



Last week I talked to Late Night Library about my second book, C’est la guerre, which comes out in 2015 from Poor Claudia. We talk about losing your job, losing your house, losing your heart, touring the country by train and plucking yourself back up, and what happens to a person when he gets laid off in America. Listen to the complete real-live conversation here


Hatchet Job XXIII is two parts poetry, two parts fiction. Joining us will be poets Morgan Parker and Billy Cancel, alongside fictionistas Scott Cheshire and May-Lan Tan. It all happens, as it all happens, at Suburbia. If you’re a Christopher Logue fan, this flier’s for you. 


In which a poet hands over a basket of poems that he’s been unable to loose from his head in the past few weeks. 

                                                          • • •

Hymn to Life - Timothy Donnelly
- Juliana Spahr & Joshua Clover
Architecture - Sarah V. Schweig
Fear Not (Provided You Fear) - Jacqueline Waters
American Spring Song - Sherwood Anderson
Vernacular Owl" - Thomas Sayers Ellis
In Our Time - Muriel Rukeyser
(tequila)" - Montana Ray
Poem - Man Ray
God & Country - Graham Foust


Around the corner at The Volta, a review of my chapbook Family Album, which was released late last year by Poor Claudia. There’s a circle of gratitude reserved for being read and being read sharply:

Snapshot by snapshot (or poem by poem), Schoonebeek’s testimony of coming-of-age in an ‘American podunk’ wasteland forces its reader to consider how our identity is often malignly formed by those closest to us, and faces the measures one takes for personal redemption.”

Family Album is sold out, but almost all of those poems appear in American Barricade, which is still alive and stocked and kicking.