BOOK PARTY Tuesday 12/14 Gordon/Torres

BOOK PARTY

TO CELEBRATE ROOF BOOKS' PUBLICATION OF

Scented Rushes by Nada Gordon

and

Yes Thing No Thing by Edwin Torres

Tuesday, December 14

6 pm

300 Bowery

Drinks and snacks will be served.

SCENTED RUSHES

by Nada Gordon

If all the feelings of love could be expressed in one place, we would be reading Nada Gordon’s Scented Rushes. In the very public romances of Nada Gordon, this book of yearning stands out as poetry. The writing, word for word, intensifies our senses stimulating a languor of lushness against the grain of the towering lover and the elusive beloved. The poems refresh desire.

“Dear Reader: Scented Rushes will have you jumping into and up in bed with its hot-blooded romp phrasings and honeyed ecstasies, the very stuff of philosophy and all that, all crowning achievement, and ‘you couldn’t get drunker.’”

- Stacy Doris

YES THING NO THING

by Edwin Torres

“...the language of a slow landscape pulling you into its design, a psychophysical world where you are, truly, in the pages...This is a book of the other place, the other language, our language.”

- Alice Notley

Edwin Torres’s poetry—full of complex graphic experiments and daring sonic explorations—opens new creative possibilities, simultaneously challenging and delighting our intelligence. Coming on strong with humor and mystery, Edwin Torres spins magical multilingual webs of words intended to change the world.

Thanks for Nothing: Defining Turkey Head Parts

To All You Virgins, Thanks
For Nothing Shirt. Let those
pesky virgins know how
you really feel with this t-shirt.
According to Cap'n Slappy,
one of lads let out a loud piercing “Aaarrr.”
Slappy's kind of ugly, but at least his head
stays on! Make a little pilgrim hat
with the black paper or foam. Glue
the head/neck to the Popsicle stick.
Wild turkeys do not have wattles.
Now, do turkeys have lips?
Click here to have those misgivings
erased for good. Cut head off and
freeze as quickly as possible.
Exactly, which part of the turkey's
head is the "cap," "snood," "caruncles,"
and "wattles"? I discovered an old
ventriloquist dummy in the trash
and named it Slappy. Lets call the skin
below the eyes "cheeks." Freeze heads
in a small amount of water in a Ziploc bag.
Place heads in a trash bag and triple bag
or ship in a disposable water tight container.
A trumpet fanfare will greet 'The Happiest
Turkey on Earth.' Perhaps under the big top
he was known as Squiggles or Slappy.
Put in a box and insulate with newspapers.
(It is very important to make sure your
package does not leak as it thaws)
Ship your head Next Day Air UPS.
TAXIDERMY FREEZE DRY
PAINTED TURKEY HEADS,
UNPAINTED TURKEY HEADS,
DEER FEET GUN RACKS AND ETC,
VELVET ANTLERS. Girl, defining
turkey head parts, gives you a blowjob.
She suck repeatedly until you reach
orgasm. Like a turkey whos on a walk
shackin its head back and forth.
Why the mother fuck is Uncle Slappy
on my side of a debate? The "snood" is
like George said: an adorable turkey head
that is disguised as an Indian for Thanksgiving.
Please enclose a packing list with your heads.
Name, address, phone #, and complete list
of heads and positions. If your heads are sent
fresh and frozen, the quality of your heads
will be noticeably better. I’m in my Turkey
Head and Chimera costumes today (though
I still have misgivings resembling fuzzy,
slappy stuff). 'Sounds good to me! From
now on, those folds on a turkeys face are
cheeks!’ If we receive your heads brown
and thawed, you are going to lose a lot
of detail and quality, and possibly epidermis
slippage. Sink car flip lead gonna slappy.
Remember to choose in which position
you wish to have your head(s) returned:
strut, flared strut, half strut, running,
running open mouth, standing alert,
walking, fighting, roosting, gobbling,
flying or flying open mouth. Thanks
for nothing, China. Thanks for nothing,
Madame Pelosi. Thanks for nothing, urban
outfitters. Thanks for nothing, congress.
Thanks for nothing, Disney. Thanks for
nothing, Chilean miners. Thanks for nothing,
Paula Abdul. Thanks for nothing, best buy,
Thanks for nothing, Cindy McCain
Draw a turkey head and neck on the
brown paper or foam. This is a drawing
on paper!

creative visualization

Today’s “creative visualisation” coping strategy: I shrink them down really really tiny, strip them naked, then put them in a Chinese takeout box. I breathe all over them. Then I vomit a little, close the tabs, and shake the carton around.

The vomit seeps into them. Gets in their eyelashes, their nostrils. A chunk gets stuck in their navels. Their hair gets matted with it. Of course it is so gross, and kind of pinkish, like spaghetti throwup, that they start vomiting, too, but in tiny amounts because I have made them so tiny.

They start slipping in it and the vomit gets in their asscracks, in her genitals, mats up their pubic hair. There’s vomit in between their fingers, in back of their ears. They try to fuck to make themselves feel better, but they can’t because he is limp with all the grossness and shame. He still has a nearly-suppurating sore on his paunch that looks like it needs to be popped with a sterile instrument. The acidity of the throwup irritates it and he begs her to suck it clean.

She assents, partly because she is so stupid and partly because she’s stuck inside that vomity box with him. How will she get out? I decide to turn the box upside down. Then… I stick it in the freezer.

The end.

Shina No Yoru

Hand-Pulled Noodles

I read Edward Said and feel bad about my orientalism.

I can watch the process of my orientalism, but cannot stop its progress or my attachment to it.

There is something inscrutably authentic about my Orientalism that is not present in that of others.

I read through my orientalism to create a character that took details seriously. Generalizations were viewed as generalizations. I learnt the art of reading.

My orientalism costume made me look dowdy. I can still wear the wig because it's a flapper bob. I just wish I had a fabulous tasseled dress.

The bloom of my Orientalism is fresh upon me, and this apathy and listlessness have laid hold.

It goes with my Orientalism collectibles :) However, there are so many nice rose/oud scents on the market these days.

My Orientalism was primarily a childhood and adolescent phenomenon.

I come by my orientalism honestly: spontaneous joy, travel, Turks, woodcuts, wormholes, Circuses, Shriners, and Fairs, Oh My: Orientalism… a dream of minarets and domes, or dark-eyed houris reclining in perfumed gardens, of obese sheiks and sultans with a harem of the unwilling.

My "orientalism" had been elevated to such a sexual degree that little else mattered. And you know what? That just made me feel lousy.

In my Orientalism, neither the term Orient nor the concept of the West has any ontological stability.

You may be right about my “orientalism” and deep down, below the surface of an emancipated male, I even may want to be a patriarch.

I borrowed a ribald poem with the word "meat-stick" in it, to drum out the last chapter of my Orientalism.

........

Tinkerbell naked
Coloring pages of
peter pan and tinkerbell:
You are my orientalism,
bitterly enabling of you.
Strong year, and however
fix its humane father.
Sufficiently superficial
my orientalism. Sufism.
Poofism. Proustism.
What would Saíd've said?
Meaning or sound?
Where does the river bend?
approach myself quite my
quarterstaffs, with my
chippendale painlessly
the chicot and my ringtones
on the lactate in my
orientalism, and gargle
to it, and haphazardly
with my orientalism upon.
I could murk a siouan
many stoplight that were
not twinkling before.
Lexicon, how could she
resemble? flamboyant
sandilands, tempestuous
with a renunciant to
holyrood house; my
orientalism having
feminize from the
monochrome, headfasts
addiction, I pharmacy
my orientalism important
what is meth amphetamine.
........

I Found the Best Orientalism Online.
I bought my Orientalism with ease
and the low cost was inexpressible.
My Orientalism arrived in a week
from my seller.

........

Upon closer inspection, he finds it to be the giant egg of a Roc, a type of immense dragon-like bird.

Tastes like bopis, fills like linguine, yet still has the unique appeal of fresh hand-pulled noodles. This is my orientalism at its best.

on promises

It occurs to me that I never, in all our correspondence or during the relationship, promised to be faithful to him, although physically, I absolutely was. I never so much as smooched anyone. Obviously, in mind and heart, I roved, but only once, and in desperation, near the breaking point of hope, and towards aesthetic ends.

He, on the other hand, did promise to be faithful, and characterized himself as such, in writing.

It's ironic.

He accused me of "retributive behavior when things don't work out the way [I] wanted." Well, it's true, my behavior has been retributive. That sucks, no one likes it, not even me, but I'm distraught, terribly, horribly distraught, and I can't seem to control myself. One of these days I will be able to drop it, but I can't yet. You know why, because it's not just about "things" "not work[ing] out the way [I] wanted." It's because things did not work out the way he promised.

If he had framed himself as a chest-scratching rambling cowboy from the beginning, it would be one thing. But he didn't. This was the Grand Passion I had always wanted.

He would gaze at me, in the beginning, with those sweet, imploring blue eyes and wrinkly forehead in utter adoration. I remember that look. And he said the sweetest, sweetest things.

O ladies: beware, O beware, that look. And beware, beware, those promises.

An astrologer told me recently, the greater the idealization, the greater the disappointment. And there you have it.

reach: today's horoscope

Capricorn (12/22-1/19)

Whether you just need a small affirmation that everything's going fine or you are looking for a big leg up toward a firmer foundation, reach out for help today. There are people on the sidelines just waiting to get in on the action of your life. They have good ideas and strong shoulders -- lean on them without hesitation. It's all part of the exchange -- you give to them, they give to you -- life is a collaboration and everyone needs help once in a while.

OK, I need help, it's been a terrible week, I'm losing it.

barf, junkies, echoes

Long crying jag last night. Crying jag now.

Barf and junkies at Fort Hamilton Parkway Station this morning. What am I doing in this ugly hellhole of a city? Oh yeah, I came here because of promises of infinite love and expressive collaboration. “We couldn’t sustain that,” he said. Well, I could have. He couldn’t sustain it for more than a couple of years. Maybe he meant the royal we?

Many echoes:

“It’s only temporary. I was going to tell you when it was over.”

“Does she know you are sweet to me?”
”She knows I love you.”

“She feels bad about her part in this.”

“People do this all the time.”

“I just don’t think it’s going to work.”

“I’m worried what this will do to Nada emotionally.”

and oddly most searing,

“I wish you well.”

I wish you well?


Those stupid dishtowels he brought back from his business trip. Why did he bring me those stupid dishtowels? As some kind of domestic affirmation? She got the tote bag; I got the button. I could have really used that tote bag.

I want my money. He needs to just keep that one promise, since he couldn’t keep any, not any, of the others.

BURST

To come open or fly
apart suddenly or
violently, especially
from internal pressure.
The sky erupts. Cities
darken, food spoils
and homes fall silent.
Civilization collapses in
color and noise -- and
just a tinge of sadness:
burst sunk penguins go
from eyesore to eye-
popping, and the explosion
of the firecrackers
awoke the heavy rain
descends, the swollen torrents
come, and the winds blow
and burst upon the house,
and it falls; and disastrous
is the fall, unleashing
a burst of chaotic energy
at an enemy, then jumping
to additional nearby enemies
in the catastrophic explosion
of a massive star
dealing X damage
to target creature or player:
it’s poppycock but the need
to dismantle this
like the uniformity
of bud burst after breaking
dormancy. An unusual and
rarely flowering plant
known as turkeybeard was
found blooming profusely.
How made a homemade chastity belt?
Irish multi coloured glass vases.
Cirque du soleil bulges male burst
heavily ugly compound and complex
sentences, the bags of cocaine
he swallowed. Can you burst
a breast cyst? What happens if
a cyst bursts in your mouth?
burst mode · burst shaping · bursty ·
to break open or apart suddenly,
or to make something do this.
The old participle bursten
is nearly obsolete... as,
to burst from a prison;
the heart bursts with grief.

unable

to stop crying.

he is hateful.

form dissolve

Across from me on the train this morning
a woman reading “Folly”—not mine—something
written by a man with white hair, and in hardback.
Hard. Hardness. A synthetic creation turns into a living
creature thanks to color, and lighting, and visual effects,
whispering come here, come here, and go away. Peculiarity.
Pink filling, clear finish powder filling,
silk tips with powder, paraffin, buff, gel.
O these happy grey delusions: wisteria drooping
down on the stupidity of the besotted. Tearing:
the big fluffy dumpling of dissatisfaction.
I move into the flow of tears (big deal) like
another art experiment in the etiology of
decoration. Girls scrumptious as rice …
the devilled day cares what I think …
this is a Manhattan-bound trainwreck.
The city is spread out in its usual
panorama, the epidermis of capital
in plain sight. You are closed and open in your
usual way and the hop of love is stamping
meanly (as usual). “I want string cheese.”
“I love string cheese.” “Do I get to be the monster?”
I’m not too soulful for … little destructions …
the curative friend is art precisely BECAUSE
we are monkeys. The art is complicated
precisely BECAUSE we have woken up, and
we have woken up
because we will go to sleep
and that was my point at the beginning.
I don’t care about cocks (so much) or bruises,
or that I’m all tangled. I’m not even sure
how much I care about you. (What did
you say your name was?) I care about
the TRANSOM—the air between us —
that little opening and the milky draft that got
through somehow. Everything salivates
to the tune of blankness and singularity
sometimes: I’m buried in here alone.
That’s incurable: a woman is of love,
the bargirl is a frog, some people are
just born happy and others feel every
scrape and filing in the demon’s lexicon.
Art as love. Pain. No more pain. Colored
lanterns: the experience of “wolving.”
The spine curves on a feather. I wish
I were as beautiful as your cruel speech.
I fill up the world with words again
and again (my job): they “monkey
the jungle” … and the gods are little candies
or little skylarks. O this jealous devotion
to waxwork sense, the lie of sonic
embodiment, the list of “universes”
in the flailing mooncalf. There’s something
cleaner than that, beyond your pat
“asymmetry” and cowboy rhetoric,
in the clumsy wash of being. Somewhere
a monk is rolling in iridescence and legroom.
Sex is like popcorn there and popcorn like
total overnight protection for the heavy flow
of ideation. It is indescribably boring that you
are not in love with me in the vermillion sea
of ebullient thinking. I like pain, really. Blue light
shines on the stupid trouble: the heaven faces
earthward as a lovely pessimism, and it doesn’t matter
I’m a petulant freak like an orchid. It doesn’t matter
because pain doesn’t matter, it’s a speckle on the death,
it’s artificial like a nylon egg. The most free live love
doesn’t scare anyone, it’s like seaweed waving in fire.
Je veux exister encore … this language … should have
made you love me, but anyway there’s a steady light
outside your rigid box and also outside my garrulous
satin fallacy. Your name will always be a shiver to me.
Now I need to sleep for a thousand years with a thousand
beautiful men—none of them you. The stars form a ring
around a beautiful device. I form a hunger for it,
even though it’s painful, and the device is studded
with real jewels made of male luck. The luck
is strafing over my open mouth. “Is it nice out? It’s
supposed to be nice out.” I wore myself out laughing,
fingering a fluorescent rose in the stubborn
scratchiti of thinking. I want a blind
dinosaur, and poems that wriggle up my ankles
from the sinister creek. Starlings in May
wander through the dark gravity,
poking fun at birth trauma
and clasping a wordy pathos
in the Land of the I-Think-We’re-Lost.

FUCKING MY HUSBAND

FUCKING MY HUSBAND


No, this bitch didn't just tell me
it wasn't her place to tell me
whether or not she's fucking my
husband. What the hell is she doing,
Looking at his cock, I imagined it
fucking my husband hard.
Vanilla Deville Fucking My Husband
Fucking my husband isn't enough?
She has to make house calls, too?
i caught my sister fucking my husband.
Inside you probably know how kinky
oriental women fucking my husband
left me as many other ourbeavers housewives
two years of us fucking my husband videos
of girls fucking with machines videos of angelface
My first marriage ended because I caught my
'best friend'/'maid of honor' fucking my husband.
In.The.Act. She's fucking my husband and I bet
she doesn't feel the tiniest bit of remorse,
so why does what I do with hers bother me
so much? She sat a few feet from me, just staring
at me, knowing she's fucking my husband.”
This BITCH is saying she's fucking my husband...
and in all honesty I want to kill her... I mean
seriously beat the hell out of her until she's…
This one, this one here, she's fucking my husband!
She's a fokken hoer, sy naai getroude mans,
you must watch her!” Haar stem begin breek, hees
en kwaad en she fucking my husband manga orgy
lesbian group fucking party lingerie sexy man crystal
gayle sisters adult thing 1 and thing 2 costumes
fucking a horse face down fucking she fucking my husband
free full length fucking videos fucking animal fucking movie
clip merry fucking she is usually fucking my husband
or sucking on his cock. ... You were the one who was
fucking my husband.. Yung tanong ko sagutin mo,
are you fucking my husband???!!! (silence) ZSA_ZSA:
Minsan! ehem! bato-bato sa langit ang tamaan, chorva!
i remember that confrontation scene between her and zsa zsa
in the kitchen, where she goes "are you fucking my husband?

***

.. Tranny fucking my husband
Boyfryeand Wife Fucking Her
Husband , Fuck My Wife ,
My Husband Licks Cum , My Boy
Fucking My Husband , Wife Cuckolds
Husband Cloted Cum , he moaned that
she did, I know my husband enjoyed
her pussy and I told Lil it was time
to go to a bedroom and pay me back f
or fucking my husband. All the time
I thought Chrissy was being a friend,
instead she was fucking my husband.
I'd thought she was trying to calm
his anger toward me, Request: Dad
fucking my wife or girlfriend or Mom
fucking my husband or Boyfriend;
I love fucking my husband's ass,
especially when he's wearing women's
panties. Is Taryn still fucking my husband?
What the fuck is really going on here?”
“What the hell are you talking about?
Is this a damn joke? Fucking my husband
is like grinding two marshmallows together.
Yung tanong ko sagutin mo, are you fucking
my husband???!!! (silence)
We´re sorry the video "Fucking My Husband"
is unavailable. This has happened because:
This video has been removed
by the user who uploaded it.

FURIOUS

fu·ri·ous/ˈfyo͝orēəs/Adjective
1. Extremely angry.
2. Full of anger or energy;
violent or intense.
a (1) : exhibiting or goaded by
anger (2) : indicative of or
proceeding from anger b : giving
a stormy or turbulent appearance

FURIOUS RABIES. : rabies
characterized by spasm of the muscles
1. full of fury, violent passion,
2. or rage; extremely angry;
3. enraged: He was furious about ...
Furious. A tempest on the tongue,
Surly Furious
Furious Diaper
Furious Flower Poetry Center
furious (comparative
more furious, superlative
most furious) ... Rushing
with impetuosity; moving
with violence; as, a furious
stream; ... adjective. full of fury
or wild rage; violently angry;
moving violently; violently
overpowering: a furious attack;
very great; intense: with furious
speed Furious Vaginas
Furious Typer's combat strategy
is to drown her adversary
in a tsunami of angry verbiage.
She is absolutely immune
to subtlty OBAMA: You know,
I am furious at this entire situation,
because this is an example of where
somebody didn't think through
the consequences ...

I DON'T HAVE IT

I just found out tonight I don't have it anymore,
I Don't Have It All Figured Out.
The Democrats don’t have it
I don't have it either.
I don't have it in my memory
I don't have it. Does this mean he was cheating or am I just lucky?
I don't have it. I don't know where it is
I don't have it figured out.
I don't understand it, but I have to do it
Cute and Creepy pack says I don't have it anymore.
Do you have it? I don't have it.
Well, I don't have it yet, but I will when I'm born.
If I don't have it, I'll find it.
“If I don't have it in, I feel naked. It has become part of my uniform.”
Okay, I don't have it that bad
I don't have it as bad as some people
confirm that I don't have it but am asymptomatic
I "don't have it installed”
I don't have it written down anywhere now,
It’s missing but I don't have it
Glad I Don't Have It.
I don't have it in me to be witty right now.
No, I don't have it.
I don't have it now but I can get it (git it)
If I don't have it on by nightfall (honk) I'm going to lay on this horn.
I don't have it. In fact i dont have anything

too undone

Too Undone
(after John Keats’ “To Autumn”)


Season of trysts and hellish faithlessness
Unbosomy friend of the immature son
Conspiring with him how to cheat and blast
With lies the vines that round a couple run
To blend their asses in the moist cottage cheese
And fill their drool with lava at the core
To swell his little gourd, and plump his lazy balls
With a slime kernel, to make breathing snore
And still more, latex flowers of disease
Until they think hump days will never cease,
For Bummer has rimjobbed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen hot asses ‘round the store?
Sometimes whoever seeks a broad may find
Her leaning careless on a subway door
Her hair entangled in a wheezing wind
Or in a half-assed marriage, sound asleep
Drows’d with the fume of pussy, while my look
Betrays new wrath and all its twined sourness
And sometimes like a weiner thou dost keep
Randy thy leaden head across this book
Or by her little dress I saw on facebook.
Thou wasted with thy oozings what was ours.

Where are the dongs and things? Ay, where are they?
Don’t think of me – I had a muse, too –
These barcodes ruin the nuptial hay
And touch your stubbly palms with pickle stew
While in a wailful choir a small gnat mourns
Behind a crying river on Zoloft
And stinking like a light brown liver guy
A full-grown man loud bleats from hilly bourne.
Hedgehogs also do sing, and now with triple action
Her red breast whistles at a garden hose
And gathering sorrows teeter in my eyes.

pony up!

ululate

Hey, this was the word of the day just a few days ago!

• ululate
• 
• \ULL-yuh-layt\

• DEFINITION
• 
  

verb

: howl, wail

• EXAMPLES
• 
  

The puppy ululated in distress every time he was left alone.

"[Singer] Sussan Deyhim is one of Iran's most potent voices in exile, for the simple reason that she possesses a marvelously potent voice. She wails and coos and ululates, the sound of the soul in translation." -- From a music review in the Los Angeles Times, September 13, 2010

• DID YOU KNOW?
• 
  

"When other birds are still, the screech owls take up the strain, like mourning women their ancient u-lu-lu." When Henry David Thoreau used "u-lu-lu" to imitate the cry of screech owls and mourning women in that particular passage from his book Walden, he was re-enacting the etymology of "ululate" (a word he likely knew). "Ululate" descends from the Latin verb "ululare." That Latin root carried the same meaning as our modern English word, and it likely originated in the echoes of the rhythmic wailing sound associated with it. Even today, "ululate" often refers to ritualistic or expressive wailing performed at times of mourning or celebration or used to show approval.

Please Don't Look Like a Pear (video by Donna Kuhn)

brilliant and topical video by Donna Kuhn:

bored of my angst?

yeah, me too... although it's not going anywhere... but here, as a distraction, for you and for me, some lines heard recently at readings and other events:

I no longer wanted to show her my firefly.
(from Shuji Terayama's film, Pastoral)

seven tiny minxes

I'm clearly grieving like a pro

a leopard office

(Marc Nasdor)

no things but in anatomic configurations

(Dustin Williamson)

cities of children chase geese to the vegetable

being caught massively cheating

sudden intact mint

we tigerlilies supplement rare bells to reproduce

(Eddie Hopely)

the future isn't what it used to be

(David Antin quoting Milton Berle)

yes um, and here's a little poem I wrote this morning.  It's called
"Ashley is cuter"
 

ashley rocks and is so much hotter

than that stupid girl she has no talent

but ashley is cuter talented and always

have more votes Ashley is cuter with her

dog, Ashley is cuter because she's petite

sophiticate. Ashley is cuter than you,

cooler than you, smarter than you, and funnier

Ashley is Cuter than a Button Ashley is cuter

than me but I don't mind. Only difference is

Ashley is cuter and this amateur porn clip

is in a dimly-lit room, so we can see everything

I think Ashley is cuter, way cuter

Ashley is cuter though but with her mouth closed

Awww you feel neglected! Ashley is cuter than you...Sorry!

oh and I enjoyed these obvious words of wisdom from Dr. Dreyfus:

Once a man is in a committed relationship, it is no longer illicit, he is no longer in pursuit, and the ready availability of his mate walking around naked does not stimulate his desire. 

Reading this thread very nearly broke my heart. Again. What's the matter with people.

muddy

I feel muddy with medications right now and sort of ridiculous, being this silly human with needs and inner chasms.  I thank Marianne for making me eat dinner tonight.  I told her I was going to make a salad tonight and I did, I made a salad and had a piece of toast, too.  Last night I just had a piece of toast with cream cheese and apricot jam.  There’s something about dusk falling and the ride to my oppressively quiet home that is very depressing despite all of the anti-depressant substances swimming around in my system, and when I get home, I just want to sleep.  Yesterday I did that, said… I’m just gonna… take… a little… nap,  and then boom, woke up 15 minutes late for my therapist appointment, put on my boots and jacket, ran over there (she’s only three blocks away) and had a half an hour of muddy talking in this muddy sort of medicated mood. I keep thinking oh I should be used to this new reality by now, but it’s only been a couple of months, why should I be used to it?  It’s still very strange.  And underneath the muddiness, there’s this grief and confusion and rage all the time, swathed in some kind of merciful gray chemical cotton or something.  And how stupid that I should have to be thinking about my little life when practically the whole damn country has gone to the hyenas.  I don’t think they actually deserve an animal name or mascot, certainly not an elephant, as elephants are kind and compassionate weeping creatures and not a bunch of misguided human fools whose ideologies are going to destroy the planet.  Not that I care that much, it’s not like I have a family legacy to follow me, unless you consider, you know, “the family of man” [sic].  Just me, end of the line, end of story.  I don’t even have a mate anymore, but spare me your violins, I’m better off.  How silly of me to try to distract myself with online dating sites: what am I possibly thinking?  And then sillier of me to send interested parties here to find out about my habitually exposed murky depths.  I changed my headline from “Still beautiful, but sort of weird,” to “Not just a woman: a phenomenon.” Ah well, there was one guy with cool glasses I liked, I wrote to him and he never responded.  Another guy asked me to marry him. A 24-year old wrote to me: I said I'm old enough to be your mom.  They all seem to want to meet for coffee immediately, but I’m thinking, shouldn’t we exchange thousands of emails first?  Isn’t that normal?  A friend with experience tells me, oh it’s good to meet soon, instead of getting all torrid and then disappointed.  I guess.  In a way, you know, I just want to write; isn’t that most of the fun of love?  Except then you don’t have kisses, or sex, or dinner, if you are just writing, and I suppose that’s an issue, and kind of sad.  Well, it’s way too soon for me even to be thinking of such things.  I still have walls to paint, and I’m talking about making a new quilt for my giant new bed, and performances and readings to prepare for.  This Sunday, I’m telling you, people, I’m not going to pull any punches, it’s going to be FULL-ON drama:  yearning, mourning, revenge, total existential despair, wild ecstatic cadence.  You might want to be there.  Or then again it might make you uncomfortable, all that stuff.  Well, just guess how I feel. Still, the week was relatively drama-free.  Gary seems to have retreated, and his mother stopped sending me emails telling me it was all my fault. No contact is good contact.  The radiator is making radiator sounds.  I read Eileen Myles’ new book, it was an easy read, kind of.  I like it when she gets vague and passionate the best, like when she’s describing her feelings or her ideas about poetry.  Sometimes the more explicitly narrative parts seemed sort of self-romanticizing, to me, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I was just more interested in the parts where the language just took off.  It’s been hard for me to concentrate on books, though.  Hard to stay focused.  I did watch all three seasons of Mad Men (Season 4 isn’t on DVD yet) though, clutching a pillow, one cat on either side of me.  Wow, I love that show.  I really don’t think it’s all about fashion.  It’s about infidelity!  The challenges of relationships!  And it’s about history.   I feel deprived now that I have no more Mad Men DVDs to watch.  I have Les Demoiselles de Rochefort, I started it, but it seems a little too French and breezy for me right now after the dark drama of Mad Men.  I just want to talk constantly.  Talking feels good.  I can laugh when I talk, with a sort of bitter irony.  I’m sure that I have become very annoying, I say the same things over and over again.  But I suppose I will just have to keep saying them for a while until I get bored, too.  It really has hardly been any time at all.  Marianne reminded me of that.  But then, I am such an impatient person.  Must remind self, no peaks without valleys!  Also that nothing is better than imagination.  That wild perfect sweet love, well, it will come again or it won’t, but life is still full of variety and intrigue and delight, Republicans notwithstanding.  Right?  I mean, am I just talking myself into this?  Am I? And what are you thinking about tonight, on this rainy evening?

I Love Men redux

OK, so I know there's been a lot of misandry (misandrousness?) on this blog lately.  I know that just because I'm angry at one man, or two, or a half dozen or so, doesn't make the whole lot of them lousy.  I've been sending interested parties from Nerve.com over to this blog so that they can find out too much about me, and it really won't do for them to only see this recent streak of hostility.  So let me remind you, to parrot Eartha Kitt, I Love Men, and here I am declaiming that fact to an audience of hundreds (btw I made this dress, and I'm skinnier now):

You Have to Look Past the Sausage

Not all men are predators just the majority of them you have to look past the sausage

the men are predators who wait for the young girls to be released from the orphanage

"Men are predators." Women face cosmetics endorsed his face, "but then, cool-looking satyr satyr is usually not known." "What is it called?

Skirts and hair are short or long, breasts are in or out, women are "barracudas" or, as today, men are "predators."

women know it but they also know that men are predators and have a dark side

Cosmetologically speaking, men are predators, women are domesticators. Shamanism, for males, is the paradigmatic complement to female pottery manufacture

yep again..all 'strange' men are predators

men are predators not goofy misguided cartoon fodder

in a metaphor like ``men are like wolves,'' how is the way in which wolves are predators different from the way in which men are predators?

men are predators and women are preys

Also, men are predators of blue whales.

so lonesome :-(

I'm so lonesome I could just spit, sh-boom, sh-boom

I'm So Lonesome I Could Cryogenically Freeze Myself.

I'm So Lonesome I Could Clean

I'm So Lonesome I Could Sniff Things

I'm so lonesome I could Smile?

I'm So Lonesome I Could Bray

I'm so lonesome I could yodel

I'm so lonesome I could snuggle up to a porcupine.

I'm so lonesome I could draw an avocado.

I'm so lonesome I could screeeeam! Beepbeepbeepbeep! Nobody home. Beepbeepbeepbeep! I'm all alone. Beepbeepbeepbeep! Wait for the tone. Beepbeepbeepbeep!

Now Scented Rushes is REALLY here

 


and is now available at Small Press Distribution!