Interviews

When I was thrown into the world of literature, and I started meeting people, it was strange, right, because a lot of people are grinding and hustling day to day, but I was hustling and grinding to just get on and not to make rent. But then came the thought of like, I’m doing a disservice if I’m not talking about the importance of making bread as an artist, especially as an artist of color. This is the fucking game—they don’t want us to talk about how much we’re getting paid for advances.

“I think it’s always hard to take edits. It feels like someone is cutting off your limbs.”

Local enthusiasts at community art events in eastern Kansas may recognize Nick Perry’s illustrations as similar to those of Red Legger Studio. Given his pseudonym, it’s fair to assume Perry is part of a collective, yet, Red Legger is a one-man-show. In 2010, fresh out of school with an arts degree and deciding how to […]

What the book is most comprehensively about, it seems to me, is human being in conflict with itself—but those words, “human being,” already have a distinct meaning, and it’s separate from what I’m trying to suggest, which is that there’s a part of us that addresses itself to being and a part of us that addresses itself to nonbeing, and in many ways the book is about the tension, the back-and-forth, between those two.

“I suppose a poem being “ready” is a matter of instinct. One could always revise and revise until the heart of the poem stops beating, until the themes get muddied. I stop revising and begin submitting when a poem makes me smile, when something inside me leaps and kicks.”

Writing poetry in times of upheaval destabilizes and dismantles, but it also grounds and connects. It frees us. It’s an art that cannot be extracted from its creator.

I feel like I’ve inherited these traumas in some ways. I also think about metaphysical borders and spiritual borders and emotional borders . . . It’s not just the physical Mexican-American border—it’s much more than that.

When a poem works, you feel it. You don’t feel it in your brain. You feel it in your shoulder blades and in your chest. Sometimes you feel along your arms because there are goosebumps. That’s where the poem settles itself—entirely in the body. It’s going back home. The poem is coming from the body and going back to it.