what is your name?
S.A. Griffin, S.A., Dad, honey, baldie, old man, dude, yo.
how would you describe what you do?
I fail well.
what are you currently working on?
A groovy thing, living, dying, the leftover chicken in the fridge, chasing my wife around the apartment, laughing more often, The Poetry Bomb. I bought an old military practice bomb. Cutting it open, filling it full of poetry from around the world, painting it up real nice like an old hot rod, then taking it on tour beginning in late April 2010.
what has had the greatest influence on your work?
The double helix, the binary frontier.
what is the greatest misconception about you or your work?
Kindness and stupidity are synonymous.
what do you see as the main strengths and weaknesses of the medium you work in?
Depends upon the medium and/or the work. As an actor, I am pigment. As a poet, I am the brush. As a performer, I am the audience.
how has technology impacted upon the work you do?
Once I gave up cave dwelling and decided to roll with wheels on my dreams, it has been everything. Since the summer of Natural Born Killers in 1994, the great majority of everything that I have been a part of in regards to writing/publishing has been directly a result of, or connected in some way to the Internet.
what’s the greatest piece of advice you would like to pass on?
Listen. Concentration of energy away from your self is the source of all creativity.
where can we find you online?
Hanging at the corner of zero and one singing hallelujah anyway, or at one of the following websites:
what are you reading at the moment?
What I am typing in response to this question. My cat’s eyes. The news today, oh boy. Into it, out loud, between the lines. Poetry submissions for The Poetry Bomb. Lots of poetry tags on Facebook, email, obituaries, cooking directions. The Atlantic, Beatitude Golden Anniversary 1959-2009 edited by Latif Harris and Neeli Cherkovski, The Book of Genesis Illustrated by R. Crumb, Carl Jung’s Red Book (I can dream, can’t I?).
what are you listening to at the moment?
My neighbor coming up the stairs, the faint call of the television from the other room, the muffled chatter of another television leaking thru the walls of our apartment, my wife talking to the cat, children playing outside my window, somebody hammering a board, a plane flying overhead, passing cars, the tapping of the keyboard, the hum of the Mac, the voice in the front of my head that never stops talking back.
anything else we should know?
That the world is going to end in 1975. At least that’s what the acid burnout, born again Christian, hippie, teenage parent neighbors that lived behind the house told me in the spring of 1971.
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