la mort de l'amour

la mort d'amour, originally uploaded by Ululate.

Men Are Creepy!

I finally understand why women find men so creepy

What's Worse: Slutty Women or Creepy Men?

Scottish men are creepy

Old white men are creepy

New York Times Shocker -- Creepy Old Men Like Young Asian Women

And yes, many men ARE creepy. Avoid.

And one of the reasons needy men are creepy is because they can quickly turn angry when their needs are not met.

how come old white men are creepy, why don't they just go to their girlfriends & wives and bother them?

well i think that mountain men are creepy

And because the men are creepy, the prostitutes tend to be equally as creepy.

Shoe - creepy men are creepy men.

No creepy man, smiling at me doesn't make you less creepy. creepy men are creepy.

Not all men are creepy predator's little green men are creepy .

White men are creepy for having positive feelings about asian culture.

Its ok to be a critically acclaimed mommy artist from documenting your children in the nude because only men are creepy.

Nothing really intellectually engaging here, it's just that ice cream men are creepy and their trucks are damn annoying!

happy day before halloween

IMG_4978, originally uploaded by Ululate.

I promise a more conceptual costume tomorrow.

Men Are Monsters!

All men are monsters, mother crooned.

I think most women are moody because most men are monsters. ...

Men are monsters who crave young flesh. The end.”

Stalin was a monster, therefore all men are monsters.

these Candian men are monsters. They have sex a million times a year

Men are monsters, pedophiles and all, and Enablers are saints and carnival queens!

Men are monsters because of their reactions to women's bodies

Eneven tho Im a man I do belive that most men are monsters and most women are angels.

Men are monsters, men are cads, But remember we have dads,

And without them there 'd be quite a lack.

men are monsters ruled by the methamphetamine

All men are monsters and they do just what they please.

They like to have you there for their monstrocities.

"shark men") are monsters found in Japanese folklore.

They are humanoid for the most part

with black skin and green, luminescent eyes

"All great men are monsters." — Honoré de Balzac

Men are monsters! ...They approach you with a sweet face,

then take your money and stuff!

You see, men are monsters and are to blame for everything bad in the universe.

Now I know that all men are monsters. [LADY WINDERMERE rings bell.]

The only thing to do is to feed the wretches well.

Some men are monsters blowing flutes,

and some have to stand up under the banner of drums.

At this time it is also called the Big head monster.

men are monsters and women are sugar and plums

Men are Scary!

 

white men are scary.

Black Men ARE Scary

BRITISH men are scary?!

Poor , non ambitious men are scary

all you men are scary ,BUT VERY EXCITING!

oh my pig men are scary

well sometimes men are scary skinny

taurus men are scary, dominant and aggressive

all bearded men are scary

Eccentric Gay Men Are Scary           

turkish men are scary

German men are scary, even scarier when they are angry and in uniform!

Personally I think some of the muscle-men are scary

Old men are scary in general - I'm 23 now and I still can't look at one without wishing he was younger and thus less scary.

overplucked, overwaxed men are scary on so many levels

Men are scary, wolves are scary, men PLUS wolf is even scarier! Eek!

airy men are scary men are scary men are scary men. Smilies are scary men are.

girly men are scary

Bald men are scary.

Bunny men are scary.

Giant lego men are scary

Army men are scary.

And yes, all ice cream men are scary, and dirty. It's part of the pre-requisites.

Mountain men are scary enough without being infected.

mechanical men are scary because it seems as though lifeless metal and machines have come-alive

Weird creepy men are scary!!!!

men are scary slime balls of creepiness

o iis natural that dead men are scary. but dead man also dont bite. ...

Beatles Ex-Wives Reunion

Characters:

Maureen Cox
Jane Asher
Cynthia Lennon
Patti Boyd

The four women are sitting together in a posh London flat, pouring
cups of tea for each other as they speak.

Jane:  Those were the days. Crazed fans and screaming groupies
bombarding the stage in flurries of acrobatic activity. Slim fitting,
brightly coloured geometrical garments. Over-the-knee boots.

Cynthia:  Well yes, but  we have all been deeply wounded by women, as
they have been deeply wounded by men.

Patti: Men. Who needs them? Men are like..... Lava lamps. Sweet,
smooth, and they usually head right for your hips.

Jane:  I think men are like… mascara.

Patti:  Really? Why?

Jane:  After getting laid, they take a long time to get hard. They
only show up when there’s food on the table.  They’re always in hot
water, and they need dough.

Maureen:  Ringo was… a short man.

Patti:  and…?

Maureen:  well, he had…"Little Man syndrome.”  You know:  what was
originally called the "Napoleon complex".  It is a term used in
referring to people who are short in stature with a complex regarding
that stature. It also refers to people who are very competitive due to
height constraints. One Dictionary describes it thus: An angry male of
below the average height who feels it necessary to act out in an
attempt to gain respect and recognition from others to compensate for
his abnormally short stature.

Jane:  But Ringo didn’t seem so angry!

Maureen:  Well, he mainly took it out on the skins.  But you know, the
aggressive behavior he sometimes displayed was possibly a reaction to
repeated discrimination about his height in the school, workplace or
rejection by women because of his height. If the same behavior was
adopted by a tall guy, no one would notice. His height probably
developed into an "inferiority complex". The "short person" always
assumes rightly or wrongly, that he is being pushed about by taller
men, pushed to the point of explosive aggression toward his
antagonist, this reaction can amuse the tall aggressor who keeps up
his taunts believing the short person incapable of retaliation.

Patti:  Both Eric and George were pretty tall.  I never had that
problem.  There were other issues.  I mean, they used to pluck me,
strum me, hold me horizontally.  Really kinky, actually.

Maureen:  Well, whatever the reason for the small person’s aggression,
it is a real problem in society and causes a lot of stress to that
person.

Jane:  But not if they are women.

Cynthia:  Right:  there’s nothing wrong with being a small women.  I
mean look, lots of Asian women are small. Asian women are popular with
western men because they are thin, beautiful, and sexy. They have
shrill voices and are good at conceptual art..  But the first and most
obvious reason is the look of an Asian bride. With shiny raven black
hair, lithe and slender figures, and very appealing eyes, who would
not be attracted to them? Their looks exude mystery and an exotic
appeal that most western males cannot resist. Sexy Asian girls look so
fragile and so delicate that most white men from America and Europe
and even other foreign men want to be their protector and knight in
shining armor. Asian women's looks just bring out their masculinity.

Jane:   Masculinity.  HUMPH!  What a waste of time.  I think men are
like blenders.

Patti:  Why?

Jane:  Fun to look at, but not all that bright.  They always tell you
what to do and are usually wrong.   They take so long to mature.

Maureen:  Wankers.

Jane: Wangers!

Cynthia: Wank rags!

Patti: Wanksplats!

Cynthia: Wankstains!

Jane: Wastes of space!

Maureen: Wastes of sperm! For men know they shall be punished and
ostracized, blamed and shamed; they fear losing their mothers. They
fear being abandoned if they see women's shadow and hold up a mirror.
Men fear losing our emotional umbilicals, and they do not know, deep
in their hearts, that they can feed themselves.

Patti:  Rare is the man who will stand and vent his justified anger at
women; rarer still is a man who will confront women with his righteous
rage. The few who do so around our sacred circles touch a raw nerve
and release a basso-profundo growl that fades, forgotten and ignored,
yet still resonates below the threshold of consciousness. Those men
create a nervousness and paranoia, then atavistic conditioning kicks
in. We ignore our mothers, turn to our fathers, and we scream our
challenge to only one of our parents.

Cynthia:  Patti, I’ve always wanted to ask you something.

Patti:  Be my guest, dearie.

Cynthia:  Were they really that different?  I mean, could you really
tell them apart?

Patti:  Not really.  One rock star is pretty much just like another.
They were both… dexterous.  Half the time I would just put a paper bag
over their heads and pretend they were the other one anyway. So… what
about John? What was he like in the sack?

Cynthia:  He was like… a plunger… or a noodle… I don’t know… but he
had such a short attention span.  He pretended he was into me, but
really he only liked Asian chicks. And everyone knows the main reason
that a Western man date or marry an Asian woman is the look. Asian
women have shiny black hair, slim figures, and attractive eyes to
attract many men.  You know, some western men are very much interested
with the rich and colourful Asian culture. There are just so many
things to learn and so many interesting people to meet. Sexy girls
from Asia are a part of that culture.  I guess I was just too mumsy
for him in the end.   Jane… I always thought… there was something
about Paul…

Jane:  What do you mean, exactly?

Cynthia:  well, I mean, wasn’t he a bit… twee?

Jane:  Twee as fuck, really. Always writing about furry little
creatures.  He liked the idea of vandalizing things with cute words.
When he was little  he swallowed a whistle and it got lodged in his
throat and that produced a mimsy-mumsy sweetness without any kind of
bite. His gender politics weren't just egalitarian: If anything, they
celebrated the girly and the sweet, the affectedly dainty or quaint.
Twee as fuck, like a cute retro platform game.

Cynthia:  And to think he left you for that spotty photographer!

Maureen:  Men:  humph!

Jane: Faces like bulldogs licking piss off a nettle.

Patti: Faces like slapped arses.

Cynthia: Faces like wet weekends.

Maureen: Faces like dropped pies

Jane: only fancy their family jewels

Patti: farting in their spacesuits

Cynthia: felching, feeding ponies

Maureen: fiddling about with floozies

Jane: doing the five-knuckle shuffle

Patti: folically challenged

Cynthia: well, I don’t give a flying fuck.

Jane: More tea, darling?

Maureen:  That would be simply smashing.

(all the women throw their cups and saucers at the nearest wall.  they
exit to the sound of shattering.)

I will deceive myself about my loneliness and lie my way into community and love

I call myself the last philosopher because I am the last human being. I
myself am the only one who speaks with me, and my voice comes to me as the
voice of someone who is dying. Let me commune with you for just one hour,
beloved voice, with you, the last trace of the memory of all human
happiness; with your help I will deceive myself about my loneliness and lie
my way into community and love; for my heart refuses to believe that love is
dead; it cannot bear the shudder of the loneliest loneliness and it forces
me to speak as if I were two persons. - Frederich Nietzsche

balance sheet

I’m making a list of losses and gains.

Losses

husband

artistic partner

trust in people’s vows and promises (at least for now)

weight (120 to 107)

hair (I keep thinking I should ask the super to come up and unclog my drains, but that sounds embarrassingly louche)

sleep

sense of a vision of the future

joie de vivre (temporary)

Gains

closet space

friends (yay! friends!)

material (I’ll have a whole new book when I’m done with this)

independent identity free from infection by his prejudices, biases, paranoias, etc.

prescriptions

debt

freedom (although I’m still too totally bewildered to know what to do with it)

mightn't this make a cool tattoo?

IMG_1182.JPG, originally uploaded by Ululate.


I think it is a roc or rukh.

covenant?

IMG_4953, originally uploaded by Ululate.

Walking home in the rain from an appt. with my psycho-pharmacologist, wondering when and if this awful feeling will go away, I saw this.

his eyes blowing Hot violet. It's blinding heat, divine. It's like he has hundred suns under his throat. The demons growl along with him

Grieving. Impudence. Grieving. Impudence. Grieving. Impudence.

I wash my hands… of hands

Not even if everything were purple

Not for all the purple in violets…

prune-colored feathery feeling

at the back of the throat

Do you know any eligible

bastards?  The world mumbles

with insufficient lust.

Doing a backbend into

sorrowful nacrescence… as if

flavored with extraterrestriality.

Will someone love me?  I’m still

beautiful but I’m weird.

This dangerous construction

area – filled with the golden

apples of everyone’s roving eyes.

A cat puts up its paw as if

to beckon.  Red vines cover a

building.  I’m lonely

as a Kleenex.

Aggravated hot violets stroke the boys

into greasy erections:  I mumble

a daft prayer.

It’s a kind of hebephrenic desuetude:

blind tasting -woody, raw wood,

touch of caraway, spicy, very spicy,

touch hot, violet pastille, big and full,

a touch clumsy, dark:

This is the hot violet eye.

Hot violet/plum eye.

Hot violet yawn

Hot violet seduction

Mindblowing Hot Violet

Smoking Hot Violet

hot Violet Abuse

FLAWLESS Mesmerizing Hot Violet

it's "printed in hot violet ink!"

hot violet ink!

At least there was something steamy about it!

P||R||J||C||T||N||S 10/14/10

Alwan for the Arts Hosts Fourth Installment of P||R||J||C||T||N||S: A Motion Picture Reading Series

Alwan for the Arts is pleased to host the fourth installment of P||R||J||C||T||N||S: A Motion Picture Reading Series, the only event showcase in New York City spotlighting practices specifically at the intersection of poetics, performance, and the moving image. Curated by Paolo Javier and Jeremy J F Thompson, P||R||J||C||T||N||S repositions the reading series as multi-genre platform, retracing its lineage to encompass the historical phenomenon of movie-telling as well as broader histories of performative practice. The upcoming November 14th iteration features presenters Abigail Child, Sukhdev Sandhu, and Nada Gordon.

Nodding in part at early 20th-century traditions of live film narration like those of Benshi in Japan and Gavrilov Translation in the USSR - often strategies for the ideological control of cinematic content - P||R||J||C||T||N||S emerges alongside recent nationwide recuperations of related practices in Los Angeles, San Francisco, and beyond. The series expands movie-telling's mechanisms of destabilizing visual meaning in considering game-based genres like cartridge hacking and in-game intervention; post-production video editing tactics such as gag dubbing and re-subtitling; as well as electronic techniques of appropriation and misuse including data sculpting, browser poetry, and computational aesthetics.

A multidisciplinary ensemble of poets, filmmakers, musicians, performance artists, scholars, critics, and editors will investigate the implementation of these strategies across the wide spectrum of their respective fields. P||R||O||J||E||C||T||I||O||N||S presents a series of scenarios whose fundamental components are live narrators textually mediating between spectator and screen, marking the virally trending collective urge to intervene in regulated flows of data in media and information systems. 

PRESENTERS

Abigail Child is a media artist and writer whose original montage pushes the envelope of sound-image relations to make, in the words of LA Weekly, "brilliant exciting work...a vibrant political filmmaking that's attentive to form." Winner of the Rome Prize, a Radcliffe Institute Fellowship, both Guggenheim and Fulbright Fellowships, as well as participating in two Whitney Biennials, Child has had numerous retrospectives including the Buena Vista Center in San Francisco, Anthology Film Archive, Harvard Cinematheque, Reservoir, Switzerland and most recently at the Cinoteca in Rome. She is the author of THIS IS CALLED MOVING: A Critical Poetics of Film (2005) and Scatter Mix (1999), among others. She is currently completing two poetry manuscripts and editing a feature shot in Italy of the life of Percy and Mary Shelley, in the form of imaginary home movies. A book with interview and articles on her work, in both French and English, accompanied with DVD, will be appearing in early 2011 out of Metis Press, Geneva, Switzerland.

Sukhdev Sandhu is the author of London Calling: How Black and Asian Writers Imagined A City (2003), I'll Get My Coat (2005), and Night Haunts: A Journey Through The London Night (Verso Books, 2007), the latter subsequently developed as a series of site-specific performances and soundworks. He has also edited the essay collection Leaving the Factory: Wang Bing's 'West of the Tracks' (2009). He is the chief film critic of the Daily Telegraph and Director of the Asian/Pacific/American Studies Department at New York University. 

Nada Gordon is the author of five poetry books: Folly, V. Imp, Are Not Our Lowing Heifers Sleeker than Night-Swollen Mushrooms?, and foriegnn bodie-- and an e-pistolary techno-romantic non-fiction novel, Swoon. Her new book, Scented Rushes, is just out from Roof books. A founding member of the Flarf Collective, she practices poetry, song, dance, dressmaking, and image manipulation as deep entertainment. 

For additional information, please contact Paolo Javer and Jeremy J F Thompson at projectionsseries@gmail.com, or visit the P||R||O||J||E||C||T||I||O||N||S Facebook Group. 

P||R||J||C||T||N||S NO. 3 

Sunday, November 14th
Alwan for the Arts
7 PM - 8:30PM
$6 At the Door
Alwan for the Arts is located at:
16 Beaver St, 4th floor
(Between Broad Street & Broadway)
New York, NY 10004 

(646) 732-3261

SUBWAY: 4/5 to Bowling Green; J/M/Z to Broad St.; R/W to Whitehall St.; 1 to Rector St. or South Ferry; 2/3 to Wall St.; A/C to Broadway-Nassau

3 attachments — Download all attachments   View all images  

abigailchildpic.jpeg 8K   View   Download

Night Haunts - Sukhdev & neon light - photo by Toby Glanville.jpg 889K   View   Download

mail.jpeg 7K   View   Download

One Big Happy Family!!

Have you ever secretly wished your family
could be like the Brady Bunch
where everyone got along like one big happy family?
one big, happy, inbred, necrophiliac family?
one big happy, comfortable, not awkward family?
a close-knit family of four dealing with life
as a morbidly obese household?

As the drama between Mashonda, Swizzy
and Alicia Keys begins to dwindle down,
the onset of real life is unfolding:
Grandmother reveals her pride
at her two daughter's teenage pregnancies
while the whole group live off the state.


Tibet: One big, happy family.
One big happy family - Obama and Palin!
One Big Happy Family: 18 Writers Talk About Polyamory
My favorite kind of food ever is omelets.
They're just so good and you can do so much with them

My parents fought allll day yesterday
and I woke up this morning to hear
my mom yelling at my dad, again.
Is a happy couple a boring couple?

Next, we have to find a happy looking couple
to turn into a gothic nightmare. How about
a Young Happy Couple In Love Relaxing On A White Couch?

attractive, background, beach, beautiful, beauty,
body, charm, couple, desire, erotic, face, family,
feeling, friend, friendship, girl, happiness, happy…

They fought all night last night,
they even fought about pizza
and they weren't even drunk
(but they did get drunk later on
which made things so much worse).

Turtles are having Orgasms to Turtles’ Happy Together
//So// Happy Together. Come all you fair and tender
maidens. Take care with how you court young men.
They're like a star on a cloudy morning.
I'm just sick of it. I can't stand to live
like this, but what else can I do?

O-o-o-oh So happy together O-o-o-oh
How is the weather Ba, ba ba ba ba
So happy together Ba ba ba ba, ba ba ba ba
We're happy together Ba ba ba ba

Western civilisation is probably
my favourite civilisation of all

“I love your words. I love that through them / I can see you.”

I wrote Scented Rushes out of a love obsession.  It was a torment and an ecstasy:  I think both states show in the poems.


My marriage had been suffering for a long time, although I didn’t want to leave Gary.  I even told a friend, while in the deepest throes of my infatuation, “I’ll never leave Gary.”  I think I wanted to be true to an idea… and I did, I really did, love him. We were a team, like vaudeville partners. With our combined energies, we made a lot of interesting things happen. We inspired each other, performed together, even sometimes passed a notebook back and forth in bed.  His drawings fill my books; my poems and ideas infuse his comics as well. That was the realization of a dream for me. Even as the relationship deteriorated, I clung to the notion of this ideal mutual creativity.


I always hoped, against logic and the bitter experience of Gary’s first betrayal, that we could somehow find our way back to the condition of Swoon.  I had never experienced anything like it, that total melting in a bewildering volume of beautiful language: that total connection.


And it was total:  physical, too.  I wrote him this poem in early January of 1999, soon after we had first been together in the flesh:


gary:


a not-so-secret

secret. sublimely


cat physique

the first night


cats must feel

like what I felt


sublimely

feline.  sublimely


felt.



~nada




That glittery world started to crumble the first time Gary said to me, a couple of years into our relationship, that he hated being held to the standard of that book. For me, Swoon, our correspondence, was the closest thing I have ever known to a sacred text.


When I attempted a correspondence with the object of my obsession, I was trying to return to what I remembered as a perfect, almost womblike state:  an “island,” I called it.  Well, it didn’t work out that way. He was not a willing participant, although he did keep me sort of engaged… so I did what I could with those overwhelming feelings, which lasted for well over a year, and wrote these poems.


I asked Gary many times whether it was really all right to publish Scented Rushes. He was reluctant at first, but he agreed to it. Maybe he just didn't want to censor me. I don’t know if perhaps he saw its publication as an opportunity to justify leaving me.  I don’t know for how long he was considering it, but even a few days before he left me, he said, tearfully, “I could lose my relationship.”  Of course, I asked him, “which one?”  And he replied… “with you… [and then he added] both of them…”  His decision, then, which was so very major, seemed awfully precipitous – even, to me, violent. After eleven years, he broke up with me on the phone, while he was out at dinner with the other woman, whom he had been seeing, it turned out, for two months. It was very obvious, really: all the signs were present.


Gary said that a covert affair is a “normal” way to “get out of a bad relationship,” (well... perhaps, for him it is, since he enacted the same pattern with his first wife) but we didn’t have a bad relationship; we had a troubled one that was also in many ways very rich and sweet.  We just needed to communicate.  And I think that, at base, he simply couldn’t be faithful to me; it was against his nature. Also, as in many relationships, there were terrible power struggles; these are the undoing of so many.


The new book is dedicated “to an imaginary friend.” I know that Gary must have been very hurt by how I so completely disappeared into a world of fantasy. I completely acknowledge that, and the extent to which that contributed to the dissolution of my marriage.  In fact, though, the damage had been done long before. After his first affair, Gary… neglected me… terribly. He hardly touched me, never held me at night.  I would wake up in the wee hours, go into the living room and cry.  I got fat and hopeless-feeling… and then hostile, and miserable… and he wouldn’t talk about it… and the cycle continued… and escalated… to the point we are at today. It’s almost… a yawningly typical syndrome. It’s ironic, I think, though, given that our union was founded on total communication. What happened to that?  What went so very wrong?


I remember asking him, during the correspondence, “What’s going to happen when this hits the quotidian?”  He responded with fabulous made-up domestic scenarios that actually did resemble the good parts of the reality of the life we made together… but only the good parts.


Gary told me he didn’t want me to write about his private life.  I replied, well, I’m not writing about your private life, I’m writing about mine… it’s just that there is significant overlap.  You know, we are all intersubjective beings.  The things we do affect each other.


Gary got terribly upset with me when I mentioned his lover’s name on this blog, as if she were not a person with a name. I find this a little unreasonable since he did announce on facebook that he is in a relationship with her, and named her publicly there, despite still being legally married to me.  It’s not like it’s a secret. She has a name: it's Rattana.  Hello, dear; how do you like my love? I have a name, too, and a history, and a heart, and I had... a husband.


I honestly thought that things had got better between Gary and me. We had so much fun (and only one fight) in Japan together just a month before he met this woman. And during his affair, interestingly, he suddenly wanted to sleep with me all the time.  Why? I asked him.  He said “I don’t know: suddenly I can objectify you again.”  That made me just indescribably sad, especially in hindsight. Gary just couldn’t…focus. And he lied and lied and lied to me.


I remember just a couple of days before I found out about his second betrayal:  Gary was sick, but he came home one night and drank a beer and didn’t eat anything.  I saw him just collapse, all ashen and crumpled, in the space between the bathroom and the bedroom, and for a moment he passed out: a fallen man. I remember how weakly his hands reached up to me. I got him into bed and brought him a cool cloth for his forehead. I was his wife. I took care of him: maybe too much. Maybe I tolerated too much, all those years, just hoping things would get better.


I wasn’t always sweet to him.  I admit that, too.  I was frustrated, and I felt shut out (he would wall himself in with stimuli:  endless movies, books, comics, CDs) , and I behaved selfishly; I was not discreet about my infatuation with another.  But I was true to him, as Cole Porter wrote, in my fashion, despite the delirious world of these poems. I cooked for him, tended to him, was affectionate;  I can only say that I needed someplace to put my passion, since he had closed off to me.


Well.  What’s done is done.  It has been traumatic, and tragic, but I’m also… in the saddest possible way… relieved. Of course, I write this heavily medicated. I'm grateful for the pills, because it just wouldn't do to lie around in a shuddering, weeping heap all the time.  I'm pretty functional, but underneath it all, the meds and the therapies and the distractions, I feel my broken heart radiating waves of pain throughout me.


I think I have the right to tell my story, and I don’t think Gary has the right to muzzle me. He is welcome to publish his own narrative, if it differs in any way from mine. He asked me not to write about the relationship, but I did not agree to that.  I will never agree to being silenced. I am not assassinating his character or anyone else’s, nor trying to “destroy anyone’s life.” People should take responsibility for their actions.  There is here neither libel nor slander. I am not writing this vituperatively; I am telling the truth, at least from my perspective.


He said I didn’t have the right to write about his or anyone’s private life, but you know, we started off together as confessional writers, writing graphically and profoundly about our relationship.  Anyone with $17.95 can go on Amazon and find out about the beginning of our life together, including prurient details.  In fact, the cheapest copy of Swoon now available is only $3.83: http://www.amazon.com/Swoon-Nada-Gordon/dp/1887123547/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1288009402&sr=8-1


Gary knows who he married, I think, and why:  “I love your words. I love that through them / I can see you.” (1/7/99)



Someone has to write the ending, after all.

tonight

I just can't stop crying

horseshit

horseshit, originally uploaded by Ululate.

what awaits me in my love life?

I'm feeling desperately lonely tonight, and trying to enjoy that.  I started to go out... there's a Hallowe'en video screening in a garden  including my hypnosis video tonight, and I meant to go, wanted to go, but once I stepped outside I was overcome with a feeling of vulnerability, so I got groceries instead, and came home to do the laundry.  I needed to be inside my sanctuary with my cats.

I asked an online tarot site what awaits me in my love life.  It strikes me as pretty hopeful. Here's what it said:

	The left card represents an important element of the past. Two of Cups (Love): The perfect harmony of union, in romance, friendship, or business. A deep and palpable connection radiating joy and contentment. A great concordance or pledge of fidelity. The joining of male and female interpreted in the broadest sense. The sanctification of the natural through that which exists on a higher plane. May indicate the meeting of a kindred soul, marriage, engagement, merger, or partnership.
	The middle card represents a deciding element of the present. The Star, when reversed: Lost hopes, doubt and failure. Physical health and mental outlook lost in the outer darkness. Desperation leading to blind faith in false solutions.
	The right card represents a critical element of the future. Four of Cups (Luxury), when reversed: New and unusual relationships and opportunities. The reawakening of your appetite for life or love. The path of excess leading to spiritual rejuvenation and the appearance of novel ambitions.

the crone

So I was just out on Church Ave. doing my Sunday marketing.  I went into one of the five and dime stores to buy a bunch of padded envelopes to mail my book in, and when I came out I made eye contact with a tiny crone sitting on the bench just outside the store. She had a kind of  black dyed pompadour and huge silver hoop earrings, a leathery face, cloudy eyes, and an interestingly large nose.

Crone:  Hey, you got a pretty face, c’mere, talk to me.

[I approach her]

Crone:  You Jewish?

Me:  Yes.

Crone:  You married?  Got kids?

Me:  My husband left me. No kids.

Crone:  When he leave you?

Me:  Two months ago.

Crone:  C’mere, sit down by me. [ I sit by her… she takes my hand… I notice she has some sort of flyers advertising fortune-telling or astrology in her other hand.]  I need a cup of coffee.

Me:  You want a dollar?

Crone:  A dollar’s not enough.  [I give her three dollars.  What the hell, I think.] Your husband cheating? He with someone else?

Me:  Yeah.

Crone:  He still think about you.  He with someone else but he still think about you.

Me:  I don’t want him back.

Crone:  He do it again and again.  He Jewish?

Me:  No.

Crone:  You give me money for candles, I pray for you tonight, I light candles. Money not for me, it for candles.

Me:  No, that’s OK.  Can I take your picture?

Crone:  No, I don’t like that.  Why you want take my picture?

Me:  Because you’re interesting.

Crone:  Anyway I pray for you tonight.  Be healthy, be happy.

Me:  OK.

[and I go on my way]

swoon and flarf

I was talking with another poet about the notion of Flarf as a kind of anti-Swoon, or backlash to its hyper-intimacy.

Satire was really Gary's default mode.  Swoon was an anomaly.  I think those poems are his best, but I'm biased.

When he couldn't maintain that totally blended intimacy (I always wanted us to keep writing to each other, even though we lived in the same tiny apartment), or deal with the  quotidian fact of my really being present and the challenges of a real committed relationship (money, chores, habit), he went back to that parodic space.  Of course, he's a master of it.

I never considered myself a satirist, really, before my relationship with him.  I learned a lot about it from him, though. Steve McLaughlin mentioned to me a few months ago, when he was interviewing me, that he thought my flarf poems are different from the others'. More emotional, he said.  Am I emo?

In Scented Rushes, I really return to my troubadour impulses, although there are parodic elements, too.

Gary was always talking about how he hated "earnestness" in poetry... and yet, if the Swoon poems aren't earnest, what are they? 

Well.  Just a thought.

Scented Rushes is here

I Remember

how soon after I first moved here he had to go to the emergency room because his ribs hurt: apparently I'd been holding him too hard

Goodbye Ari

R.I.P. Ari Up.  You were so amazing.

I remember: private/ public

the perfect metricality of these lines I wrote for him, in a poem that

was published in Are Not Our Lowing Heifers Sleeker Than Night-Swollen

Mushrooms?:   

It’s private how my finger finds 

your golden hairy asshole

I do love the irony of that.

the man at the bodega

just said, haven't seen you around for a while, you OK?

oh, I said, yeah, I'm OK, but my husband left me

I'm sorry to hear that, he said.  You seemed like the perfect couple.

Tell him that, I said.

I will, if I see him, he said.

You won't, I said, he lives in Queens now.

it's just so weird

knowing that he is still on this planet, in the same city, even, and yet totally closed to me:  that he has an independently functioning subjectivity thinking all kinds of thoughts (rages, fears, probably nostalgia too) about me, about others, and I no longer have any access to that. Well, whatever.

So many haunting moments.  Where is the sound of the coffee grinder in the morning (that he would muffle with a dishtowel)? Or that daily, almost banausic, phone call at 4:45 asking what's for dinner, or what's happening tonight.  Or walking back from the station at a certain point either him or me saying "kitties!" knowing they are waiting at the door to greet us.

I mean me. They greet me.  Nemo gets under the covers with me in the morning, looks right into my eyes, purrs.

Sometimes Nemo runs into the hallway as if he's looking for something.  I mean, he always did that, but he does that more now.

Understanding the meaning of the phrase "at a loss."  So much fluctuation: I don't know what mood each day will bring. My behavior mystifies even me.  Most of you probably missed the photo of me in my underwear here yesterday morning.  My sympathies go out to you!

i count the days

Hail morning, full

of gross mistakes.

Birds creep in subway

rafters: clatter of

obsessive songs

or fruits of threat –

or theory of cold

sweat – heavy white

richness in spun rage –

I know

it was a cage. but

it was a cage

I wanted. Now,

it’s haunted.

Endospasm: spawn

chasm.  I fiddle

with a worry wheel.

Grey clouds gasp

the seagulls flying

past – in nodes

of memory.

The groaning

yonder. Under

his weak, spoiled

gender.

Tugged under:

the empress

of tug. Snug

as a bug

in fine

disaster.

Shanghaied.

I’d been, you know,

a jester. Hilarity

my saving grace.

I’ve lost it for a while

in blinding ache.

.

Blow, ye winds

about my tattered

garment. Harshness

of visible world a

sandy mirror.

Absolute hollow

blueness

in a reservoir

of absence.

Low. lowing.

Muscled pride:

the chicken neck’s

veiny vuln… and pain…

I walk the hollow streets

with hollow cheeks

and  huge chalk x.

Blast: jumpy quiet

untruth: messier than what

was limp and wrong

and veined like bluish

hell: thin skin

globes, and her as

tool or wedge.

Weakly little chicken

thigh, ugly meat

part, meat flap. Flap

flap. Runaway: cum

runs down her skinny leg

like spitup.

Tied knots of juicy

membrane – wiry net

of hangup lies. Crouching

mongrel’s stretched

globular sac. Studded

with gnats and chiggers –

ethnic eerie music –

transparent ear – failed

mate.

Radiant pucker: a fly’s

skin: squeezed… oozing.

If I see her I shall see her

and I’ll squeeze her till

she…

chomping. predatrix.

Night of jolts. Evey night:

jolts.

Freaky centipede

smashed

brown streak stain

on whiteness. Witness

to his weakness.

Ugly whimper

rots implosion’s

whiny jism.

Hilarity

my grace.

I’ve lost it for a while

in ache.

He fucks

her ooze –

then mine.

Sack of shit

lying inside

his head.

She wipes it

with her predatory

tongue. It’s weird.

In purgatory

fizz, a woman

on the subway

yanks my

beard.

banana sonata

A Baa Arson Anus Ya Tun To

A Baa Roan Sat Ya Snout Nu

A Baa Roan Ass Ya Unto Nut

A Baa An Oat As No Runty Us

A Baa An Oat As Runny To Us

A Baa An Ran Ass On Yo Tutu

A Baa An Ran Ass Nu Out Toy

A Baa An Ran Anus Tot Yo Us

A Banana Sonata To Usury

A Banana Satan Roust You

A Banana Satan Yours Out

A Banana Sauna Rosy Tout

A Banana Aortas Stun You

A Banana Aura Snouts Toy

A Banana Taut Ay Nor So Us

A Bananas An Ay Tortuous

Chihuahua Noises

She whimpered when he curled his hand

around her mound "Oh, god," she whimpered.

What if a chihuahua sounds like she's coughing up

hairball?  As my stiffness bottomed out of her,

she whimpered softly at the emptiness left behind.

Chihuahua Making Monkey Noises: it sounds like

a reverse sneeze. it appears that ***** women

tend to make incredibly whiny, squeaky noises

during the act:  Chihuahua stomach noises?,

Chihuahua upset stomach?, Puppy tummy noises?

Chihuahua Danger, Mammal Sound Effects,

and audiosparx extend their necks, make snorting

or honking noises, open their mouths… chihuahua

makes hacking noises and spits up what looks like spit.

Every time you have sex with an ***** woman, a puppy

dies. She whimpered again and wiggled above him.

Chihuahuas can also make snorting and grunting noises

when they are playing or just investigating a new smell.

Vocal pitch is only partially the result of anatomical

differences between men and women, and the remaining

factor is due to culturally expected norms.

***** Girl Sex Screams Race Car Sounds While Fucking

A chihuahua puppy sounds like a quail.

all ***** women make anime noises while you're

having sex with them.  Furthermore, *** girls  are honest,

kind, friendly and they take care of their boyfriends,

husbands and children better than others. From cooking to cleaning

to cars, engines, girls, hairy, noise, porn, race, scream, and sex.

Pubic Hair question: Do ***** peoples have pubic hair?

Develop a slightly arrogant, upright walk. The way you walk

greatly reflects on how confident you are, and *** girls love

confidence. Plus always remember to keep your chest out and

shoulders back, this will make you appear to be wider

and stronger than you actually are.

It's My Party

In this bittersweet comedy
crocheted flowers are the ultimate
decoration, complete with faux
trumpet solo featuring hues of powder
pink and orange sherbet
with the words "it's my party"
in a fuchsia script font!
It's My Party and I Can Wear a
Tutu if I Want To!
It's My Party! Everyday! All day!
But especially today! Wusssssup?!
LMAO! You guys! I'm so excited!
it's my party and i'm done cryin' –
let's roar pumas.
Its My Party features a beautiful
young woman smiling gleefully
as wrapped presents and roses fly around her.
It's my party and .... I don't know why I started
crying. I didn't mean to. I guess it is the normal
reaction to the letdown. Lily discovers her boyfriend
snogging another girl one night on top of these
adorable puppy and dog birthday party invitations
and a pile of party supplies, glow products, glow sticks,
Bar Mitzvah Party Favors, Oktoberfest Party Supplies
and Disco Dangler Sunglasses!
and then, and then… Balloon Bouquets fly up like flames from a suttee
into the sky!!

           Singing Balloons
           Personalized Balloons
           Number Balloons
           Summer Balloons
           Western Balloons
           Casino Balloons
           Rock & Roll Balloons
           Disco Balloons
           Fiesta Balloons
           Hollywood Balloons
           Luau Balloons
           Patriotic Balloons
           Bridal Shower Balloons
           Wedding Balloons
           Anniversary Balloons
           Religious Balloons
           Valentines Day Balloons
           Mardi Gras Balloons
           St. Patricks Day Balloons
           Hanukkah Balloons
           Latex Balloons
           and miles and miles of Curling Ribbon

It's my Party and I'll Write if I Want To!
It’s my party:  see interactive relationship map

So very blue

Air Force blue	Alice blue	Azure	Baby blue	Bleu de France	Blue	Bondi blue	Brandeis blue	Cambridge Blue	Carolina blue
Ceil	Cerulean	Cobalt blue	Columbia blue	Cornflower blue	Cyan	Dark blue	Deep sky blue	Denim	Dodger blue
Duke blue	Egyptian blue	Electric blue	Eton blue	Federal Blue	Glaucous	Han blue	Iceberg	Indigo	International Klein Blue
Iris	Light blue	Majorelle Blue	Maya blue	Midnight blue	Navy blue	Non-photo blue	Palatinate blue	Periwinkle	Persian blue
Powder blue	Prussian blue	Royal blue	Sapphire	Sky blue	Steel blue	Teal	Tiffany Blue	Tufts Blue	UCLA Blue
Ultramarine	Yale Blue

unbearable sadness

The Unbearable Sadness of Toaster Product Reviews

Unbearable Sadness of Commentary Tracks

The unbearable sadness of — love letters.

unbearable sadness of naive romantic feelings being crushed by the
passage of time.

Unbearable Sadness of Vegetables

The unbearable sadness of evolution

the unbearable sadness of folding laundered cotton shifts that would
be later buttoned over medical tubing and frail arms

the unbearable sadness of sandwiches running out!

The unbearable sadness of race

the unbearable sadness of this puppet theater

the unbearable sadness of logo costumes

The Unbearable Sadness of Tear Gas

The unbearable sadness of udon.

a near-unbearable sadness of sustenato

this unbearable torturous sadness of so many years

The Unbearable Sadness Of Dimensions

GOD, THE UNBEARABLE SADNESS OF THIS. Where are my Kit Kats? The thing
is, this will, of course, ruin Archie Comics forever

the insect-like reactive nature of those who represent us and the
unbearable sadness of it all

unbearable sadness of his mother's singing of an old Kentucky song

The unbearable sadness of it not being true.

the unbearable sadness of his comedy, the elegant cruelty wielded
quickly and efficiently like the slimmest, sharpest and deadliest
saber

Unbearable Sadness Of The Cute Dog Of The Day: Sweater Pug

the unbearable sadness of being alone

almost unbearable sadness of the words