This is mostly true. I swear.
MY NAME IS THADDEUS GUNN.
My work has appeared in several magazines. It has appeared on t-shirts and table tents. It has appeared on the backs of cereal boxes. It has appeared in fire and in ice, and in the eyes of a poet at sunset.
My work has appeared on Broadway, and in major motion pictures. It has appeared spontaneously on stone walls in Beirut. It has appeared in the hearts of children, revealed by sonogram.
It has appeared before the Supreme Court, where it submitted testimony germane to Schmuck v. United States, [489 US 705, 1989].
My work has appeared to pilgrims in the desert, giving succor to those who travail and are sorely burdened, urging them onward without knowing that their destination was Las Vegas.
My work has appeared to set its face like flint against an array of acrimonious authorities.
It has appeared flitting across the fields of electron microscopes.
It has appeared in a 15th century broadloom linen.
It has appeared astride a horse in the dark of the night, storm-beaten and sick of heart, pleading for sanctuary at the door of an alpine cottage, only to be denied.
It has appeared at Seder, joking awkwardly that the door was open and there was an extra plate and hey, is that apple sauce?
It has appeared in a dream along with my mother, a snake wearing a vest and rolling a donut, and several standard Jungian archetypes.
My work has appeared in the footnotes of the DSM-IV.
My work has appeared in print, each vowel a blind and bloodied soldier with foul hand, desirous of the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters; each word a cohort that grabs by the silver beard your reverent fathers, dashing each head against a wall; each paragraph a legion of ears to hear your mad mothers howl with grief; each page a century, taking the naked infants by the hundred, spitting them, and leaving them wriggling on the pike.
I live in Seattle, Washington.
