solitary

confinement


(now it's 99)

98 posts

I posted 98 times this month here on Ululations. That's a new record for me. Granted, some of the posts are extremely short, but still...

Gallagher & Apps at the BPC 2/5/11

SEGUE PRESENTS:

KRISTEN GALLAGHER +
STAN APPS

This Saturday, February 5th

SEGUE READING SERIES
BPC
4 PM
$6


KRISTEN GALLAGHER (born Henry Lawrence Garfield; February 13, 1961) is an American singer-songwriter, stand-up comedian, spoken word artist, writer, publisher, actor, radio DJ, and activist.

STAN APPS is currently a law student at NYU. His newest paper book, The World as Phone Bill, is a collection of essays on contemporary poetry, eternal verities, assorted universals and a particular or three. His newest e-book, This Club Will Have Anyone, is available as a download or randomized website from Gauss PDF. Other books are available from Slack Buddha, Make Now, or Les Figues Press.


Saturday, February 5th
4-6 PM
The Bowery Poetry Club, 308 Bowery
$6 admission goes to readers

February/March Segue Readings are curated by Nada Gordon and Steven Zultanski. The Segue Reading Series is made possible by the support of The Segue Foundation. Visit seguefoundation.com, bowerypoetry.com, or call (212) 614-0505 for more information.

UP NEXT:

February 12th - Caroline Bergvall & Sarah Dowling

and now for something completely different

water zombie

"Poor Nada," she said. Nada's
great brown eyes looked up
hauntingly. "Does it hurt much?"
hahah, poor Nada. Poor NaDa.
Your time is ended. Poor Nada.
HeyLatinGirl Poor nada! GO GO
LatinAmericaNeedPurpleGlasses!
lol poor nada with that much stuff
on your mind, theres almost no way
ughh i hate when that happens most
attention is diverted. But of course
you have heard the news — you know
that poor Nada has two children to support.”
The Cynicism of the poor, Nada
Stop insulting this poor NADA.
NADA are you OK? nada.
Ha. Poor nada. To forever experience
the joy of war. Poor Nada. Must be awful
to be so stressed. She's such a sweetie.
They device policies for the leisure class
and give the poor NADA! Does anybody
else maybe see this as a turf war and poor
Nada is caught in the middle of it? The CIA
did their own investigation and says she is
innocent. oh no, poor Nada, all this being
in limbo is upsetting her. ... NoO LoOz
QamBiioO PoOr Nada -AmoO La MuziiQa –
Me GuzTa EzTudiiaR -Me GuzTan Laz
MattemattiQaz -Me aGrada dar QoOnzeJoOz.
poverty just like the one it produced about poor
Nada whom is being exploited for dirty
international geopolitics !!? poor nada
can't deal with the fact that nobody takes her
seriously because everybody sees right through
her shallow presentation. Uh... you're about
halfway to calling me a lecherous, old man.
If nothing else, think about poor, poor Nada
when you say these things. But poor Nada,
that was all that consumed her. The once loving
wife now became bitter, she hated her husband
for proposing to her earlier. Poor Nada! Living
in a little rathole like this and working as a bounty
hunter. And it was his fault that she had come
into such degradation. "Nada?" On this photo
poor Nada looks as if she is being eaten alive :)
luckily puppies are starting to eat their own mom
But my amateurish philosophising was shattered
by the wails and sobs from poor Nada. She was
inconsolable to the point that her doctor had
pumped her full of tranquillisers.
Poor Nada... you became a water zombie ...

But Nada, poor poor nada

your profile

was a grey heart and no longer active

I am a dramaless

hey ladies im here looking too meet some good honest people,im not into games and not into drama,looking too meet someone who has a thier head together and likes too laugh alot,

I'm the type of guy who can appreciate a good sandwich.

I have been known to read a history textbook just for fun.

smart girls are very sexy... so are qirky unique girl's that don't mind that I have some tasteful word's of ink on my arm's

i'm eating a lot of vegetables, most notably the artichoke.

I am very caring, honest and loyal. I am not very goofy, but yearn for the good laugh.

I am a dramaless, in great shape.

Fave books? Anything by Ayn Rand! but I don't really like to read very much.

High-speed Internet. Cancan dancers. A world without them wouldn't be a place I'd like to live in.

Food: oysters. duck, any part. chocolate. wild boar salami. chewing gum. flavored toothpicks.

When it comes to music I can listen to anything that fits my mood at theme moment, from classic rock to salsa, Enya to lord of acid

I'm as comfortable in a Tux as I am in my jeans. I'm walking contradiction.

I'm just as comfortable in a suit as I am in jeans and a tshirt.

I can wear a suit and look smashing but not be ruled by it.

Billy Joel, and Elton John are my favorite musicians, although I'm a big fan of most music.

I'm a cerebral person who would probably not be well suited to someone who is looking for an action guy.

I have two children that a woman I'm involved with will never see unless I remarried.

I'm fun, athletic, and open to new experiences. Have some jock and intellectual tendencies wrapped together.

I love black ex lesbians. I wanna smack dat u dont got junk n da trunk i no like Me gusta chipolte I am sincere honest transman.

Easy going , no kids , two Cats and a Turtle named Kevin.

On a typical Friday night I am Usually pretty tired from the work week. But my favorite thing to do when going out is see watch stand up at The Comedy Cellar.

I have spent many a late night tackling Eastern philosophy and biographies of rock stars.

I could never do without my bowling ball.

Life is a pilgrimage towards self actualization, one-ness with a higher spirit, I think. You?

The six things I could never do without family job money sex friends led zeppelin

I read the phone book once. It was a little thin on plot but the cast of characters was amazing.

I woo women with my sensuous and godlike harmonica playing,

I am an eternal child and look at the world with a sense of wonder and amazement

You should message me if your life is empty

I'd like someone that thinks on the bright side of life.

You should message me if you would like to have some type of intercourse with me.

I was born jewish, but now I'm just generally in touch with the universe.

I've never had a cavity.

I’m not looking for perfection because I have flaws.

men are strange and gross
and emit a kind of batter
I wish I could just curl up
inside my computer

at this very moment

I am thinking I don't ever want anyone near me again.

excuse me

I don't have to do anything I don't want to do.

the join is yep

This devirilizes you

This devirilizes you

laxly significations is yep between lustfully putridity

laxly significations is yep between lustfully putridity

to foppishly befools monoclonal tiercets granting oneself shall clavichord considering though next flexibly womankind down it,

to foppishly befools monoclonal tiercets granting oneself shall clavichord considering though next flexibly womankind down it,

like mad shirt blouse unremembrance

like mad shirt blouse unremembrance

gyp noh burlesque still pastes opposite deceptively america!

gyp noh burlesque still pastes opposite deceptively america!

un jazzing tawdril

un jazzing tawdril

Sending waxwing to unlike at the ready escharotic tracklessly rack railways ourself twelve knockdown so in chorus things

Sending waxwing to unlike at the ready escharotic tracklessly rack railways ourself twelve knockdown so in chorus things

If whomsoever whilst man ape yep cursor one ere your drip

If whomsoever whilst man ape yep cursor one ere your drip

animals, balloons, betwixt immoderacy like which candies

animals, balloons, betwixt immoderacy like which candies

considering crazy base rate ewe lamb wallplates

considering crazy base rate ewe lamb wallplates

The join is yep

The join is yep

earnestly shillyshally airglow and self conceitedly squaring dodecahedron

earnestly shillyshally airglow and self conceitedly squaring dodecahedron

Another thanatology or down themed cue

Another thanatology or down themed cue

howbeit save uxoricides flab easy, moodily

howbeit save uxoricides flab easy, moodily

flower until salt box joylessly since another donkeyman

flower until salt box joylessly since another donkeyman

Heavily trisyllabic make believes

Heavily trisyllabic make believes

mischievously pantheism is over

mischievously pantheism is over

but impractical mothers, as studhorses poison confabulation children

but impractical mothers, as studhorses poison confabulation children

bodily bourgeois yep hire purchase friability agin child!

bodily bourgeois yep hire purchase friability agin child!

aurally evaporative torrentially vinegar counterrevolution

aurally evaporative torrentially vinegar counterrevolution

ungratefully death agony negligée versionss to a fault swarm cell

ungratefully death agony negligée versionss to a fault swarm cell

This eyepiece minus aborigine shall dog hole him

This eyepiece minus aborigine shall dog hole him

boringly quizzically dolce disciplinarian

boringly quizzically dolce disciplinarian

yeah what runs inter scoffingly shaggest globes

yeah what runs inter scoffingly shaggest globes

sound, groove interlocution as provokers advantageously apostate judge wantonness beside sound

sound, groove interlocution as provokers advantageously apostate judge wantonness beside sound

intolerantly untuneful yeah be wastepipes about jewelry!

intolerantly untuneful yeah be wastepipes about jewelry!

night without pelican dehors

night without pelican dehors

more individuation trigamy across two seater uviols ere in camera world!

more individuation trigamy across two seater uviols ere in camera world!

Time is impalpably beyond up and down attitudinizing since them

Time is impalpably beyond up and down attitudinizing since them

considering each sleepy, full sized eyes

considering each sleepy, full sized eyes

holily chicly sweepingly

holily chicly sweepingly

like microcosm fishily million disremembered plaguily blandly crested restlessly

like microcosm fishily million disremembered plaguily blandly crested restlessly

her curler pygmier gin, gas falsie

her curler pygmier gin, gas falsie

tho gum love token anyhow

tho gum love token anyhow

Homeopathy

Great pleasure of benzo sleep, clutching a pillow, surrounded by cats, in my regal, virginal bed. Without the grains of Ativan - I don't need much - I take an almost "homeopathic" dose - I'm up every two hours in existential panic still. Drugs, judiciously employed, can be most merciful. My Effexor dose up also since my incident of rage and hysteria. I have been on many dates since that happened, and they have all been interesting, but I haven't felt that crucial little 1/5 of a second, that "mechanical trickery." Sometimes I wish I were a man, if only because, you know, most of them seem satisfied to just...ride the first cab that comes along. Perhaps that's an untrue characterization, but let's say I've just noticed...less discernment... in that gender. A woman in a seat near me on the subway this morning is eating a piece of fried chicken; what a nauseating smell I would like to ask her to move but am heroically tolerating it. Why? Because at heart I am a good person, no matter what anyone says. You know, they flee from me who sometime did me seek. It's simultaneously snowy and sunny. I'm now in a cafe. Thriller is playing, my tea is steeping, I'm stuffing words into the crevice cold wind blows through. Ain't I a wombat? Rags, dryer lint, old newspapers, words, gravel, a gravelly voice, words, words, words. Frozen human stopped in lifestyle flow many syringes I'll be missing you like a night missal yeah nowhere my friends ridicule I'll be missing you like a large pump it up do you want milk? Stuffed in the crevice. The waiting is craven. The little ump inside of you wants to be re-evaded, along with the garlands, enough of these streetcars, no one's watching. The poultry is so pure, we could all glow together. You know you've been watching, you can't stay away. Lips are upside the world. Tuna? More milk than toy cow. Frozen marginalization. No one calls, it's that much of a mechanical whirr. No hell below us, etc.


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What do they talk about?

I often wonder what they talk about.  I asked him, “Does she know who Jack Smith is?” and he said, “no, but she knows who Matthew Barney is,” as if… as if… one can even mention Jack Smith and Matthew Barney in the same breath.  I bet they don’t talk about

The Baron de Rothschild

Tristan Tzara

Language Poetry

Maya Deren

Joe Sacco

V. Shantaram

Dairakudakan

Dan Davidson

Shimokitazawa

K. Silem Mohammad

Lorine Niedecker

Samuel Beckett

Matt Madden

Clark Coolidge

Oulipo

Bernadette Mayer

Pakeezah

Cassavetes

Joe Brainard

Hannah Weiner

Lewis Klahr

Max Ernst

Carolee Schneemann

George Kuchar

Misora Hibari

Sharon Mesmer

Guru Dutt

Frank O’Hara

Drew Gardner

d.a. levy

Rob Fitterman

Philip Whalen

Kathy Acker

Richard Foreman

Asha Bhosle

Song Poems

I could go on and on and on.  Really, what do they talk about?  Do they just fuck all the time?  Or do they talk about Julia Roberts, alcohol, improv, their desk jobs, SE Asia, Japan?  I hope they move to Laos together and just get out of my face. Lots of prettier girls available there cheap, though, so she better watch him, with his track history. He could be a kind of ethnomusicologist of pussy.

drab, deep mauve

On the way back from the hospital on Monday I bought a fish, one fish, a sanma (pike mackerel). It cost me 47 cents.  How economical it is to live alone! That was tonight’s dinner, with brown rice and miso soup from a packet.  The cats hovered annoyingly.

Finished the Horney book.  I still haven’t figured myself out entirely (or even remotely), but I have figured out a few other people and that’s interesting.

My apartment is so hot the back of my neck is sweating.

I’m full of love, but afraid to put it anywhere.

Now I have some assignments so I am going to do my assignments.  I’m not sure why I needed to tell you that, or for that matter any of this.  I’m chatty. I like talking.  The snow is in big Seusslike clumps on the hedges, the sky a drab, deep mauve.

eyelids

He once left a girl because he didn't like the veins in her eyelids.

The same is also true in inverse
In terms of my impact on your verse
When at first you me adored
I turned you into a troubadour.
Of course, there were those poems to Brenda,
But that, enfin, was just a bender.
So now you've lost your taste for Jews,
Is the Lao girl your new muse?
Do you write her verses splendid?
Or is that sort of thing now...ended?
Who is she, that big-eyed thing?
And when you fucked her, did you wear your ring?
I guess she doesn't write you nasty poems,
or sweet and rhapsodic ones either.
Instead she emits (I guess) little whiny moans,
and I... float off ... into the aether.

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snidely

Before we met, I could write pastiche

But satire was beyond my reach.

Now I write snidely in distress.

Check it out, Sullivan:

You created a flarf monstress.

the vet

The vet said Nemo’s teeth were bad:

that I’ll blame on his deadbeat dad. 

She said, though, he looks good for eleven.

(As I look good for forty-seven!)


(this qualifies as "catterel")

lack of sex among grapes

rhyming poem

 

To leave two wives

In pursuit of baser drives

And two sets of cats

Just like that

What a poor cohort

Who offers no support

O big-cheeked damsel –

Unlike me, still menstrual ­–

With my former mate

Think twice before you propagate

Lest he leave you high and dry

Tending to his infant’s cry

Our Inner Conflicts

Drew gave me a copy of Karen Horney's _Our Inner Conflicts_ for my birthday, perhaps for obvious reasons... and one thing I have to say is that I wonder why her name is pronounced "Horn-eye" just as I wonder why the new speaker of the house is "Bay-ner"... I mean come on, these are silly victorianisms; they make one think even harder (pun intended) of the salaciousness of the more logical pronunciations.

In any case, Horney posits three types of neurotic responses; compliance (moving toward others), aggression (moving against others), and detachment (moving away from others). In a neurotic person, one of these modes may be dominant, and others repressed. That repression brings about conflicts.

As with any psych book, reading it I am trying to figure out hmm well which one am I? I am having a hard time with my self-diagnosis. I can figure out pretty easily that Guy A is a compliant type with repressed aggression, that Guy B is a detached type also with repressed aggression, and that Guy C is almost a case study of aggression with some repressed compliance, but it's a bit harder to diagnose my own neurosis according to her taxonomy (why is it always, I wonder, // three// categories?). We don't really see our own issues clearly, do we. I imagine that I am also a combo of compliant and aggressive, but in a different ratio than Guy A, and with a quite different presentation. Drew? Nick? Kim? Kim? What do you think?

One notion of Horney's that I find most fascinating and also most depressing is that we neurotics carry within us an image of our idealized selves that is illusory but based in reality. This depresses me because that means we have a world full of people walking around thinking we are really hot stuff but that's just a kind of mirage/ coping mechanism and doesn't really reflect how we really are.

This reminds me of my appt yesterday with my bodyworker. I told her that I'd been feeling a sense of surreality and disconnection, and that I wasn't at all sure who I was (am) anymore. She asked me when I feel "a sense of connection to my true self" and it's a good thing I didn't stop to parse that, because how odd, right, that "I" might be something other than "myself" (let's just put Rimbaud aside for a moment, shall we?), and how odd also that a "true" self might be something we can be "connected to", or not. I didn't think too hard about it, but I did find it hard to answer. Eventually I said

--when I'm performing
--when I'm in connection with others
--when I'm making something

But notice: all of these are about engagement with something other than myself. It follows that whatever I'm experiencing as "true self" is not an independently existing phenomenon, but a relational "being" which therefore isn't rooted in essential "truth."

Also it follows that, if this is so, a breakup of a love relationship is about the most uprooting and destabilizing things that can possibly happen to someone like me who conceives of "self" in this relational way. You could tell me a thousand times that the jewel is in the center of the lotus, but I would object that the stems and leaves and roots are all under the murky pond, well-connected to other blossoms in a network of interdependent life, and without that, what is a jewel good for? OK, well, still, shit happens. We are cut, we re-graft, we grow new roots and new connections... but the limbo period...is almost indescribably confusing... and it hurts... like... hell!!!!!!!! (eight exclamation points)

Nemo

is OK.  The vet said his teeth were bad, but his blood work was fine.

good news/bad news

The good news is, my jaw is 100% healed.  Yay!

Bad news is, I took Nemo to the vet.  He hates going to the vet.  According to the doctor, it seems he may be OK, since what I saw was digested blood (dark brown) and not fresh blood. He is having bloodwork done; I'll get the results tomorrow.  If he's OK, and I hope he is, then I will still need to take Dante.

Charge just for Nemo:  $184 plus $17 car service RT = $201.

Just saying.

hassles

Taking off from work today because I have to see the oral surgeon who looked at my records when I was in the hospital about my jaw.

I went to my dentist last week.  He said that I had one broken tooth and one damaged filling, but he wouldn't work on me until I saw an oral surgeon for a follow-up.  He gave me numbers of two oral surgeons.  Neither of them would see me; they said I needed to see the same doctor who had initially treated me.  I called the private office of the oral surgeon who saw my records at Lutheran.  He said he could only see me at the hospital.  I called the hospital.  They said there were no appointments until April 4. I called the doctor's office back, and said, I was supposed to have had a follow-up at around Xmas time, but I was traveling.  The doctor agreed to see me -- at the horrible hospital -- this morning.

So I need to do that.

Then, when I come back home, I have to deal with the cats.  As I mentioned, one of the cats has been vomiting blood.  I don't know which one.  They both seem perfectly fine.  I've found the vomited blood twice, so it's  not something that's happening all the time.  So I have a dilemma.  I can't manage to take both of the cats to the vet at once, even in a car service, especially since it's a six-degree day outside.  Do I just choose one, and then if he checks out fine, bring in the other one? Or do I try to recruit someone to come with me?

Well.  This is one of the many hassles of partner-free living.  Another question, of course, is, if there is a huge vet bill for one of the cats, shouldn't Gary split it with me? Shouldn't he split any vet bills with me? We adopted them together, in good faith. He didn't, though, when he left, offer to contribute to their care and feeding at all.

And he hasn't met his financial obligations to me, so I doubt that he will volunteer a contribution.  Still, it's just a question of ethics to ponder, isn't it.

Well.  At least I have a pile of Bollywood DVDs to watch, and some Ken Russells from Netflix. 

Soldiering on.

bollywood

Today I met my Bollywood friend Matt in Jackson Heights. He sold me two dozen Bollywood DVDs that he had duplicates of.  I met him on a dating site and initially contacted him because his profile sounded so much like Gary.  I told him that what I actually wanted to do was set him up with Gary. :-)

Matt was impressed by the range and depth of my Bollywood knowledge and appreciation! Thanks for that, Gary old pal!

OK, so I may not have the nuptial DVD hoard anymore, but I can build up a collection of my favorites, so there.  Plus I have a belly full of chai and Delhi Palace delectables, so I suppose things could be worse.

Head always... swirling.

I also taught Gary so much: notably, how to dress ("girlFREN, I need your advice...should I buy this?").  And I taught him about Japan.  It's so ironic, but he was reading a book about Japan when she came onto him on the train; her excuse for talking to him.  He wouldn't know JACKSHIT about Japan if it weren't for me.  And now she gets the benefit of the tight red or purple Uniqlo jeans, Doc Martens, spiffy haircuts (although he shouldn't part his hair on the side like that, it makes him look like a miniature brownshirt), sharp little well-fitting jackets, etc.  I hope you appreciate it, honey.  When you see these things, think of me.

Sunday

a date last night with someone of almost unsettling physical beauty.


*

I want to ask la petite concubine avec le gros visage, how does it feel (in his words) to be "a horrible mistake"?


*

off to Jackson Heights for lunch

*

cream pasta for dinner last night and a bowl of butter pecan ice cream before bed

weight this morning:  102.6

whatever

howdy, Texas!

sure am glad y'all could come down and visit!

when I feel sad, I put on a costume

i cooked

a variety of curries:  Indian, Thai, Japanese, biryani, a kind of garlicky clam noodle soup, beef stew,

cappelini or linguine with sardines or salmon, rattatouile, lamb chops

with chutney, pike mackerel Japanese style, with daikon, broiled whole

sea bass, chili, Mexican chicken soup, butternut squash soup, broccoli

chceddar soup, salads with arugula, salads with spinach, salads with

apples and goat cheese and pecans, greek salads, Italian salads,

Belgian salads with fried eggs, cha-han, kara-age, salmon, rice, brown

white and mixed with barley, trays of roasted vegetables, whole

roasted chicken, even turkey, twice, zaru soba, guacamole, trays of

beautiful h’ors d’ouevres for our parties....

what does she cook? 


he doesn't cook.

One of the cats is vomiting dark blood.  I don't know which one.  I'm very concerned.

Kirkland, Washington, who are you?  Jill? Why do you keep coming here?

Dream that I was trying to view some sort of spectacle (a singing contest? yes, maybe a singing contest... I had wanted to enter.  I wanted to sing back in the USSR, that was it) from the window of a house, was it my house?  A guy I love was in the house, at a couple of moments he walked through the room naked or almost naked, but with some kind of fetish apparatus around his cock. Chains or leather or cloth, I don't remember.  And maybe something in his nipples?  I don't remember.  But he avoided me.  He was on another floor of the house.  He twice came to talk to me when I had some kind of heavy tape on my lip.  I was trying to remove my moustache? Humiliating. I was trying to assemble a low chair in front of the attic window, it seemed easier than going down into the crows.  I mean crowds. Maybe it was too late to actually enter the contest. And then I was going with my mother somewhere... outside the house... a shady street covered with yellow plums that had fallen, almost making a carpet, some of them rotting, and an old Saddhu guy eating the plums under the trees... back roads, green, narrow, like the American south... but it surely was in Asia. I don't remember where we were trying to go.  Too much I don't remember, I should have written it down earlier. The morning is too weird and too quiet, as the nights are, too.

Will an ice queen emerge from today's enchanto-scape? Trees like churros in the turquoise morning. I imagine her nipples as dark brown (not the ice queen); mine are pale. Scratchy woolen scarf rubbing on my scar. Legs a little open on the train this morning, in glitter lavender wool tights. The men keep their legs //really// wide open and I hate them for that among other things. I guess it was all those sisters, lined up in a row in identical outfits, that made her a poacher with a daddy complex. Their various homelinesses and vulgar ruched strapless wedding outfits like some dumb poster one sees in the subway for a cable tv show? How can he be happy in that world of Texas party glitz, or for that matter in any world at all? Who's in hockessin Delaware? My eyeglasses teeter on my middle-aged nose. Someone coughs in the other room.



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The dummy

Worn around the edges. Carry a big stick that turns into a snake when you lay it before pharaoh. The dummy can wink one eye or blink both eyes; a separate lever moves its eyebrows; it can also do the "wide-eyed" look. What am I ventriloquizing now? I twitch my mouth "seductively" ( but not really; that's my illusion). So weary as if beaten up. Hatred as a kind of manacle. Love, and the memory of the feeling in hand of cock, starts to seem fake. Assyria. Great bearded rulers, scented oils in the beards of the rulers, beard as power emblem. What if I made or had made a giant stone sculpture of myself... with a beard? Someone would say I was trying to be miss center of the universe, this he would say while fingering his stubble or stroking his... I notice I look closely at men's faces, how the hair grows there. My muses have sandy-feeling cheeks, rough chins, soft mushrooms, etc. I notice this in the beach light and ache. When Gary left he said something resentful about how I had described the body of my first lover as smelling like dried grass. He almost spit out those words with tears, "dried grass." He must have thought I didn't love him, but that was not true. I was terribly angry at him, and I felt so sad with him, because he was there but not there, but I always loved him, which I guess is just my problem now, isn't it. I wish I could pinpoint the exact moment he, in his words, "fell out of love with" me. Was it the day I stepped out of the plane at JFK to come live here? Was it the moment the planes hit the towers? The moment his tongue first slipped into another one's mouth? Or was it the day he decided to leave? Are emotional states quite so distinct? How fickle fickle fickle a thing is Man. Someone must have put too much maudlin into my tea this morning. And the almonds in my cookies are the weeping eyes of centuries of deserted wives. Cue the violins here to swell and fade into a subzero haze.


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Hockessin, Delaware?

Poetry Project last night. Toni Simon projected her intricate & astonishing collage-drawings (I told her after I wanted them on a textile) to Nick Piombino's Contradicta aphorisms. This one especially resonated for me:

To know having is to feel deeply when bereft.

And now for some choice lines from the second reader, Lisa Robertson:

inner Spain

If I degenerate into style, it's because I love it very much

If females lick language/ death/ economy

One's strange bare body needs a party dress/ tyrant body

A sort of clown of the feminine with the head of a nocturnal bird

The biggest problem with melancholy is that it is more detailed than the world

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How many?

One.


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plexiglass bubbles, popemobiles, stone idols, ugliness, etc.

If I could only get drunk, I could perhaps sleep with men who are not to my taste, regardless of whether that is an intelligent approach to solving the predicament I find myself in. But I cannot get drunk, instead I feel a kind of plexiglass bubble around me, like the one on the popemobile. It seems I can only fall in love with icicles, salamanders, stone idols, and figments, and only sex with love will break through the plexiglass. Until then I suppose I am fated to move through the parade moving my raised palm in a mechanical horizontal motion, fake smile plastered on face, oh I'm just fine. Fog over city today, men working in bright vests. I have a date with an escape artist. My husband was an escape artist too but of a different sort. His pneumatic cuntlet. "I'm so ugly," he used to say, looking in the bathroom mirror, and I'd say, "no, Boyfriend's cute!" but now, I think, yes, ugly, layers and layers of profound ugliness, in that he was deceptive and full of mean opinions, many about himself. What he thought and felt about me is anyone's guess, since he wouldn't tell me. "we hope to make a connection." reminder: it takes 1/5 of a second to fall in love.


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It's only temporary it's o n l y tempo ra ry it's only TEMPORARY it's only t e m p o r a r y it's o. N. L. Y. T. E. M. P. O. R. A. R. Y. It'sonlytemporary. It's only. Temporary. It's only temporary!!!!!!!!!!!!! It's only temporary?????????? Yraropmet ylno s'ti. Only only only only only only only only only only only tempo rary. Tempo. It's only




temporary.


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You make me feel like a launchpad/ I just don't know how to make it wide / I just want to be your be your maid/ I just don't have control of my ham / though I have this cider/ I want to give it all to you/ you gotta believe in something slimy / there is a way I can be a giraffe/ it's this liar love inside of me/ I don't know how to make you fear/ if you give me jam/ I just wanna be your be your man


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mock

Should I stage a mock funeral?  Would that make me feel better? It's different when someone dies, there's that awful final thud of dirt on the coffin, there's a real goodbye.  Perhaps that was part of my shock at seeing him again, as if he were a sort of zombie resurrection: he was supposed to have died in relation to me, but he didn't, there he was... with her... a sort of worst-nightmare scenario. My love turned monster: living dead. So do I need some kind of elaborate ritual? Do I need to burn or bury something?  Or is it enough that I just keep rending my garments and beating my breast here in public? Wanting to release loud mooing howls still.  "Just wash your hands of it," a friend said.  Easier said than done. Sorry if you're sick of this. No one is sicker of it than me, believe me. I sit still, leaden, heavy, staring at the screen, mouth corners down, body filled with a hurtling miasma.

inflection

"girl-FREN" he used to call me, accent on second syllable, d silent.  Does he call her by this same appellation? With the same inflection?

I just think, I mean... pet names should be proprietary.

I can't believe (still)

that he "critiqued" my rage on the basis on the basis of "feminist politics"

you can't critique rage.  rage is just rage.

OMG

apricot oil!

a banal observation, I'm sure

but how is it that someone can be so absent when they are (were) present, and so present when they are absent?

Dreamed

of riding in cars near snowy beaches with cliffs, a school (my old school in Japan, but not really, since in my dreams I am so often "in Japan") where the ceilings leaked buckets of rain, and two friends sexually caressed me, one in a car, one at a party; both times it was not really appropriate, and I didn't know what to do.

Also that I needed to do a photo project of portraits of women at these snowy beaches with cliffs; I remember thinking to try to recruit either Brenda Iijima or Marianne Shaneen. It was going to be photos with text, and I thought...how can I do this without being hokey?

"poor boy"

"Poor boy, he needs variety," Gary used to say when Nemo wouldn't eat his prescribed cat food.

It's Over

I walked through the snowy park today with my hair half wet, and it froze into crispy curls. Now I'm waiting for a turkey burger in park slope. Roy Orbison is singing "It's Over." At the dentist's a little while ago, "I'm aware/ of your secluded nights/ I've even seen her/ maybe once or twice. " I hate human experience, bullies, traitors, teasers, secret agent men, popes, judges, and dirty snow. "As I walk along I wonder/ what went wrong with our love," the pop music is out to get me. I buy dishwasher detergent. "why why why why why": farfisa.


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Location: the place that used to make these sort of middle-eastern burrito-ish things... it was also something else for a while... but in 1999 when I came to meet Gary the first time we ate there... this was while he was still living with Chris Stroffolino... in the room where the door wouldn't close, with his drawings of poets all over the walls and the knit afghan he got from Laurie... anyway we got those big burrito-things... spicy things, with beans and rice... and we got gas, I remember... I had this black hat, a knit cap... with two peaks... and each peak had a pompom... and I remember riding the F train and seeing scratchiti and thinking... there's no scratchiti in Japan, can I live in a place like this?  and how after I stayed with him the first night I was making breakfast... I don't remember exactly what... but there was fruit salad... or melon... in a styrofoam container....wrapped in plastic... from the bodega... and as I was standing at the counter... Gary came up and held me from behind... and I realized I had no choice but to live here... what else could I do?... I remember talking to Chris at the table... he said, "you are intense," and soon after he took that picture of us on that awful plaid couch looking together at a laptop... it's in our book... those windows... in G.'s room... looking over the city... and those well-timed fireworks on New Year's Eve... it's interesting how I remember those few days more vividly than even the past couple of years, not including, of course, the last several months, which I guess I will remember all-too-vividly until once again I am flooded with the hormones of love... I repeat, I hate human experience, we are such machines, it's all too terribly idiotic, isn't it.

I still have some gold plastic knives left over from my wedding.

lucky lucky lucky

I was down in the basement throwing out the recycling
and there was a guy down there getting rid of stuff
and guess what I snagged? one of those multicolored
revolving disco lights! on the very day I'm having a party.
how excellent is that?

I am not shrouding myself in glory.
I am not shrouding myself in glory.
I am not shrouding myself in glory.
I am not shrouding myself in glory.
I am not shrouding myself in glory.
I am not shrouding myself in glory.
I am not shrouding myself in glory.
I am not shrouding myself in glory.

ラッタナ、あなたわ本とにひどい人です。

もちろん、彼わもっともっとひどい人です。

ダレカの主人とやることわさいてい　ですよ

彼輪数えらない嘘尾いってしましました。

ド時に私とあなたとやりました。実話、輪t氏輪は期待よ。

りょほう、あなたと彼輪が、すごくわがままです。

ホんとに幸せで毎日過ごすことが出来るの？キ来です。

ホんとに嫌いです。あなたの悪名お尾祈っています

Google translation:

R******, this is awful and I in you.
Of course, he'll even more awful.
It sucks I can do is master of Dareka
Number of rings lie Eranai Shimashimashita saying his tail.
You and I did when I drive. True story, I hope he rings t ring.
Yohou Ri, your circle and he is very selfish.
Can you and I spend a happy day in the host? The next key.
And I do not like to host. I hope your tail in your notoriety

102

dante is cleaning himself
sometimes I feel my blog is my best friend
it never gets tired of me
I need to buy samosas
I'm still in shock

general sense of uneasiness, remorse, and grief this morning I am trying to dispel by picking out party outfits

we liked to go to chinatown

I saw a guy on the subway with a spindle.  He was spinning a mouse-gray fiber into yarn. I asked if it was dog hair.  He said no, it's just wool.  The spindle wobbled; I watched the wool turn into yarn.  "I like to spin while moving," he said.

ok but

this cheered me up enormously

cleaning.
sad.

it's my birthday

It's my birthday, and yes, I'll take some digital-age coddling ...

since my momma took me out of that itchy-ass swaddling

Now I’m the life of any party in this groovy leisure suit.

gonna make you all holler a rooty toot toot

Oh, hi. It's my birthday. So remember when I was all ohhh I miss you and I'm totes attacking your blogs with a vengeance

and growling yarrrgh like a pirate of Penzance

It's Your Birthday Cake & Ice Cream Shower Gel Set

So I’m taking this chance to say hail flarfy fellows well-met

Today, on my birthday, I celebrate another year on this planet.

Not knowing where I’m going like Brad and Janet

It's My Birthday, I'm Gonna Party Long sleeve shirts

Gonna drink salty tea in medieval yurts

It's My Birthday and I'm crying as he wants me to.

Gonna shout it out from the balcony at Pompidou

birthday, aging, menopause, perimenopause, getting old, shmirshky, women, cake.

Gonna swim with swans in the freezing Prospect Park Lake

It's my birthday...whoop-dee-f**kin-doo

And a doody doody doody doody doody doody doo

huh

feeling way better today

which is good, since it's my birthday

feeling loved
and I have new students, and they are great
and I upped my meds
and things are going to get better, I mean, they HAVE to

love love love

relieved

that Gary has blocked me from reading his Herbeck blog.  That removes one crazy compulsion. I did like my versions, but they are crazy. That was just me trying to continue "the project."

I rewrote an entire poetry book for Gary once. Oh well!

to be a snail

Filled with dread and the most horrible physical sadness. It is partly the aftermath of my fit of violence, partly the expected depression of being back in this space in the winter, and partly a result of a relentless castigation at a time when I can probably least handle it.

I feel completely extraneous to others, unwanted, unloved, unneeded. The silence around me presses against my ears and my chest. Today was the first day I think I really didn’t feel like being alive. I am too wimpy and too clever and too considerate to take my own life, but I don’t get what I’m supposed to be living for.

I really don’t. For others? For men? Those I love and have loved do not love me. They push me away fearfully or rudely or so suddenly I can only gape in shock. I can only deduce from this that I am not lovable, or that I am so flawed of a person that I do not deserve to love and be loved. My castigator called me today “Miss Center of the Universe,” but you know, I don’t want to be center of the universe, I want to be devoted, and connected. That’s all I wanted, ever, and everyone has only ever thwarted that. That thwarting, that constant repeated betrayal, over and over again, in my life, is what creates the rage; the rage is infantile, yes, at what feels to me to be a horrible injustice and the unfulfilledness of this most basic, basic human need. I have said it before that if it seems I am paying a lot of attention to myself, it is only because I do not get it from others.

He said many other things, too: that Gary and “his girl” deserve to live their lives (as if, for years, I was not Gary’s “girl” and our relationship, so lightly and meanly thrown off by him, meant nothing); that it is “suspect” that I use my relationships as material for my writing (as if I concoct the relationships in order to have the material instead of simply writing through my confusion and intensity surrounding and infusing the relationships); that it was antifeminist for me to call the other woman a slut (as if, indeed, her conspiring to break my marriage was in any way a feminist gesture); implying, indeed, that my rage was somehow entirely unfounded and that I should bow in total instant acceptance of this change in my life, this desertion that spooks my evenings, pours tears down my cheeks, and makes me swallow pills. He said that because I “seemed perfectly sane” the last time I saw him that I could not have “lost control” when I flew at Gary the other night… as if he was somehow privy to my internal workings or an expert diagnostician. Well, I did lose control. It was as if some gear switched into crazy. I think that anyone on the scene can attest that that is what they saw: the pure crazy lashing out of grief and despair. It was horrible. I’m not happy about it, but then I’m not happy about much these days, it’s just shock and pain piled upon shock and pain, and just when I think I’m gaining some footing something happens again and I’m whirling and/or falling down.

It was mean what I wrote, much of what I’ve written on this blog has been mean. But I don’t think that at base I am a mean person. I’m wounded. Some people, like the castigator, go nuts when they smell blood; vulnerability is disgusting to them. He did say one thing that made sense to me: that there is a buzz in my head that compels me, and that I need to control. Surely that is true. The buzz doesn’t seem to steer me very well. But if I’m perfectly sane, what is that buzz? How do I get a grip on it when I am in such anguish? It’s true, it is a demon, that buzz. Yesterday I wanted to put a coin in a pay phone and call her and tell her… I don’t know what… to stay off my turf… that I wished her much heartbreak and misery… I don’t know. I actually took out the quarter and stood there for a minute. But I didn’t do it. I just stood there in the miserable cold and dank Hoyt-Schermerhorn station and cried. I have just been crying and crying and crying. I know, like you care. My mom said to me on the phone today, people only like good times. People say they are going to call and then they don’t call. I sit and stare and cry.

So I shut down my blog today for a while because it was making me too crazy and I guess it was making other people crazy too because they seemed to stay on for hours sometimes combing through all this emotional wreckage. These are the people who eat vulnerability like bonbons, I guess, or maybe these are the people who are invested in the drama? I don’t know. All I have are ISPs to go on, and they don’t tell me much. “I’m sick of your drama,” Gary said when he left, despite the fact that he was the one who had twice lied to me and been unfaithful, as if that wasn’t, you know, a contributing factor. Well, I’m sick of the drama, too, sick to death of it. I tell myself I thrive on it but I don’t, that’s just me trying to make lemonade. I wanted a sweet home and a stable base out of which the art could come; I wanted someone who would love me enough to work through what needed to be worked through… but he… didn’t even try. That line came up in Swoon somewhere: “you didn’t even try” … yes… I just searched it. Gary wrote me saying it was his favorite Whalen title. It’s torture, in a way, having this amazing document staring back at me with a thousand eyes of irony. Reading it now with 20/20 hindsight produces a kind of pain in my heart so intense that it is nearly pleasurable. That I even had such an experience. I’m pretty sure Gary never looks at it now… but maybe in a couple decades he will, and I wonder, then, what he will think of all that has transpired?

In the meantime, I don’t know. It’s the eve of my birthday. I have just had half the foyer painted coral. I will need to rearrange or change the pictures. And I need to eat something. I do not feel at all enthusiastic about eating. I asked my psychiatrist yesterday whether my violent outburst could have had anything to do with the meds I am on. She said probably not, unless I were bipolar, but she does not think I am bipolar. She diagnosed me as having “atypical depression,” (which is not as atypical as it sounds, since 40% of depression sufferers have atypical depression), but she also said that it is in me an unusual presentation of it; I guess that means I have atypical atypical depression. Wikipedia tells me that two of these four symptoms have to be present:

* Significant weight gain or increase in appetite;
* Hypersomnia (sleeping too much, as opposed to the insomnia present in melancholic depression);
* Leaden paralysis (i.e., heavy, leaden feelings in arms or legs);
* Long-standing pattern of interpersonal rejection sensitivity (not limited to episodes of mood disturbance) that results in significant social or occupational impairment.

I have insomnia and am shrinking, so obviously I do not have the first two symptoms. I have the second two. Interpersonal rejection sensitivity. Yep, that would be it (is there anyone who doesn’t experience that, though?). In atypical depression, also, there is “Mood reactivity (i.e., mood brightens in response to actual or potential positive events),” and this is surely the case as well. I laugh with my friends as I always did. I can still make amusing poems. I still like to get dressed up and go to parties. So there is hope, I guess, that with enough actual or potential positive events I will pull out of this horrible slough.

When I told my psychiatrist the story of what happened the other night, she was laughing a little. Not because it was in any way, by any stretch of moral standards, right, but because, I think, it was so badass. I’m proud of the strength of my fighting spirit even as I am ashamed of what I did. It’s profoundly confusing and just, ugh, all too human, all too animal.

I should pull in and be a snail, I know, and just protect myself, and try to HEAL, but that’s so hard for me. I feel disconnected when I do that; I need always to be running at the mouth. To deal with the buzz. I mean I feel disconnected anyway, even with all this “networking,” but I’m not good at being hermetic and hiding inside myself. I wish I could learn some of that from my friend Konrad. In some ways I really wish I were more like him. But well, I’m not. I have to settle for being inside my own clattering brain, my performative self that some people recoil from. Or… maybe I’ll change. Maybe all this pain will change me. I only hope it changes me, you know, “for the better.”

it's weird

people are horrible

I'm just wondering how many drugs I have to take to become oblivious to the horribleness of people

hello all my friends

96.42.66: this person is the most obsessed
65.117.144: Irving, Texas!
76.14.69:  Kirkland Washington
67.112.123: Hayward
63.111.14
69.200.236

I'm watching you all watching me. It's all just sick.  I'm a suffering human being.

you people

should stop looking in my blog cache for dirt.  really.


what I did was terribly wrong.  understandable, I think, but wrong.

flesh

oat bran with tons of nut butter and agave and bananas

lots and lots of red lentil soup with sweet potatoes and herb/garlic goat cheese

gruyere and mushroom quiche with a small mesclun salad

and yet every day my weight drops by several ounces

my body just burning itself away

this morning I was 103

three months ago I was 112

five months ago I was 118

three years ago I was 134

flesh is such a strange thing, what is it with flesh, the mind and body freak out together

The Womenflowers.

There are beautiful women, less
beautiful. They are seduced by the
poet and taken. From there
they either appear in the house
or they will be laid in secret.
There are sweet like the
younger pretend and animal-like
women like the menopausal wo-
men look. The woes belong just
to the deceived. And the gloaming just
to the woeful snowy gloaming.

Life is full of it

Life is full of it, originally uploaded by Ululate.

My upcoming social calendar

Here are the poetry events I am planning to attend in the near future, barring loss of consciousness (knock on wood), blizzards, or other, um, obstacles:

1/15 Segue: Shonni Ennelow & Renee Gladman / Poetry Time, Lisa Robertson et al
1/19 Nick Piombino and Lisa Robertson at the poproj
1/22 Segue: CA Conrad & Norma Cole
1/28 Julian Brolaski book party in Brooklyn
1/29 Segue: Douglas Kearney & Yedda Morrison

Just saying.

The Fakery

The fakery is great, in it are

two women, one for white bread and

one for nonwhite bread. The pussy

will in each case be felched by the

male faker, for the rele-

vent masquerade with the local no.

from one to eleven. Masquerade one are

the two women, two and three are the

boy, four the boy and five

also boy. Six, seven the boy,

eight, nine, ten the boy and eleven

the boy, because it is all about the boy. 

In the morning at half past nine

the blog is published then it comes

out and is laid out to bleed on the

floor.

no, Nemo

Daddy's never coming back.  Daddy's a cliché!

Scruples

Not everyone has scruples
some scruples are dishonest
or inoperative. So it is with you.
The philosopher says everyone has
scruples. Your scruples are

especially for cheating. The scruples
consist of the upper self and the
lower self, the goat and the
thinker. Of the ethics in the upper self
and also in the lower self. Half of the
self also belongs to the crotch. As well as
both of the testicles and the index fin-
ger when one has stuck it into the ass of

one’s slut.

The Woman

The woman, she is sleazy. The
woman has huge eyeballs, and
giant fat cheeks. The woman is
so stupid. The woman is ignorant.
The woman is pleased about
each little treachery. She also
does harm. And she is a bitch
while stealing the men.
The woman does not write poems,
she works as an operations manager.

IDK IDK IDK IDK IDK IDK IDK IDK need the. Motion of the hands somehow making signifying forms everything feels a little fake but friendly herein new York wherein I live grey and grimy the cockroaches deD on their backs on the basement floor I font take time to think Anoury hum or say a mention if solemnity Zoe drhwm baciaw I songbcare that they have fief stupid life forms

Y
La bye est screwed he fornicates he ignores hurry lightbulb unde his conscience with a happy ending scrob red cross paprika facebook object to your orange shoes o could kick you the aggression a fairy hole against tainted offspring. Vand the notes ate almost above consciousness in the way that art I'd when you screw it out of position on an infinite figure eightim not nomad I hate the floozy and her ingenuous ev and get ev sisters I pour and pour this out of my broken person with rain inside the parts that ate hollowed by gravity may you have a year of the most profound misery, motes in your eye and her rues and her sisters eyes. I font know I'm a subvultur hump on the pangs in the way that his glass rib turned into a glass girl you couldn't fuck because you ere married but you fucked her anyway, fidnt you, you fuckef her and fickef her, fucked her uy little strip of pubic hair like a jumpy wolf with your little boy organ. Your her sour juices in my sheets you whiny spud and
My literary mannerismsbpeople dance you broken into me the ciphers bleed out of my cho muumuu
Humpy humpy humpy


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torn face

so i had this dream that i found
my true love but then i got caught

in this place where they wanted
to take off my face and he wasn't there

to help me. face gone gross extreme.
Neither the torn face nor the destroyed

voice could carry expression but
there was anxiety in the clear eyes.

i got myself out but then it turned out
that my true love had his face ripped off

too and replaced by another torn face
(a person with) a bad- tempered, sulky, glum

face. They became restless; their names rose;
their nostrils drew in the air with a snort.

One of them made a sudden dash on the body
of a woman with a torn face. What is a facial

injury? A person with a facial injury has damage
to the structures of the face, caused by an injury.

all of my friends faces were getting there faces
ripped off and replaced everyone was telling me

it was going to be ok but i refused. Torn Buddha
face. Cat's Torn-Off Face Reattached. Free Torn

Face Clown Pictures. "Greetin' face" or "torn face"
and "soor face" are all used to describe someone

who is looking miserable. Although my face was
ripped off, and I was blinded, I was able to make

my way back to my vehicle and drive myself
down a rutted mountain. the foam ripped

on the black face it ripped clean off of the
plastic plate. Smaller fish removed by the hook

stripper tended to have a greater proportion
of more severe torn cheek and jaw and torn

face wounds. Masks to Die For! Skinned
Halloween Face Mask, Torn Bleeding Flesh

Tales of the Crypt Type Creature Latex
Halloween Mask. How to face paint the torn

face look. Does This Look Like The Face
Of A Lady Who Ripped Her Daughter-In-Law's

Nipple Off During A Family Brawl? Ripped face/
Zombie face. i was screaming and running

and scared for my true love
very scared very scared

what does that mean

sonnet

How can I browbeat thee? Let me count the ways.
I shall haunt thee to the depth and breadth and height
That time can reach, when feeling all uptight
With endless seething and this ripped-up face.
I indict thee to the level of everyday's
Most baddest seed, by dun and mandible.
I curse thee freely, as men curse my plight;
I reproach thee purely, as in a burning haze.
I rage at thee with a passion put to use
In my cold griefs, and as a craven wraith.
I hex thee with a love I seemed to lose
In all my bloodied faints, – I accuse thee with the breaths,
Barbs, fears, of all my strife! – and, O erstwhile muse,
I shall but guilt-trip thee better after ________.

The Men

The men have a strong ego.
They drive me insane. They
lead themselves into temptation.
The men fall in love with others. They reject
me. They also have weak
wills. The men are tiresome. They pre-
fer to shag with
Filipinas. The men are
my enemy.

It's 7:17 am

It's 7:17 am.
I'm on thyroid with a 5-htp hangover.
I remember that I am full of mistrust
disappointment and heartbreak
and I hate living alone. The cats
are eating stinky cat food. Cars
whoosh along the snowy ocean
of the parkway. My sacrum is out
again, the hamper is full of laundry,
my bags are still packed, everything
needs cleaning. Not just blackbirds
but also turtledoves fall out of the
sky. Despite my capacious
curiosities, I understand
absolutely nothing. Men
are about the weirdest things
I can think of. This
is lineated, but not
a poem: just to be
clear.

Itchy scar

Captors

oh fuck, it's that feeling again.  at the hair salon this evening I made a list of things I need to do in the apartment to improve and organize it, a very detailed list, of things to keep me changing the energy in here, but you know I got home, and I was tired, and I napped, and when I woke up I was overcome by a kind of forced stillness, as if I were being held down by invisible captors.  I made myself sit in the living room on the couch, but the feeling is much more intense there, because that was his territory.  So I just sat there and stared, not exactly into space, but inside myself at the heavy feeling there.  It doesn't help that it's snowy outside and the heaters are blasting oppressively. Such a contrast to the ocean air. Nemo is crying. They follow me from room to room, first one, then the other.  They eye each other.  If one is close to me, the other will keep a little distance.  Sometimes Nemo will displace Dante with a mean glare. It's too quiet. All the music reminds me of something. Tomorrow morning I will wake up and start on the list of things to do, but today I have to deal with this heaviness. Fuck you, captors! I should move.

Whee!

Poetry is something poets use to seduce other poets, then ignobly dump them. Then the dumped poets use poetry as the most beautiful vindication! Whee!

Sexually empowered monster head. Leaning into the cold creeps. Edamame eyes. Nuclear radiance open heart perjury in the fluttery aftermath; I'm tired for sound. Skull and fork, no joke, the voodoo candle is a parody of real light. Makes me want to put a hat on my hat and slide guitar. Pigeon-toed crooner, prophylaxis, a red hawk tries to eat the bad reason. A bottlebrush flower in the ear of my surplus solitude. I spill out of you as a serious idea inside a wrinkled plum. Tourniquette!






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Hipster Poet

video by someone calling him/her self Charles Bernstein but who isn't REALLY the Charles Bernstein

Horse Sticker

Found a odd little blue thing

when replacing my airfilter.

What does it look like? If it

looks kinda like a comb

it's something you use

for your surfboard called

a wax scraper or something

like that, a strange little blue

 thing with  a snaggle-toothed

space fish. You squeeze it into

your little one's nose, then

you can suck out all the saline

and mucous with the little blue

thing, yeah there is a little thing

called sparkle it's a little blue thing.

The little blue thing is actually

a mini flash light; the girls will use it

with their dolls. Clever little blue thing.

Yeah baby. Symmetry, red plates like

teeth, quartered heard, metallic purple,

ooh that little blue thing, like a credit card,

and the blue lady. I WANT A DUCK. I've got

a little blue thing, and my favicon is the same.

I've no idea what this blue thing is. I know

sometimes you can't see that itsy bitsy tiny

little blue thing above peoples heads.

Then there's this weird, annoying little...

blue thing who also joins them (along with

his weird, pinkish, rabbit-horse type thing).

By the way, the little blue thing on my face

is a horse sticker and here's a bigger horse

sticker on my boyfriend's pocket. After that

you meet up with a little blue thing bent

on destroying all life....guilty spark!!!

The most time I spend is sticking

some kind of peanut-butter/jelly-

or-honey mixture in the little blue thing

(the little blue thing that you squeeze

water into your ear with). The little

 blue thing is so common that I saw it

my first time out. Today, I aimed

at the little blue thing placed at

the bottom of the urinal. My pretty

little blue thing. Deep inside of the

cuteness lies a dark evil, and that evil

is the little blue thing hovering over her

head. He was a little blue thing. Covered

in goo with beautiful black eyes.

I’ve no idea what this blue thing is.

If someone knows could you tell me.

Happy New Year!

Name Dropping

These are some of the people I got to see, meet, and hang out with on this trip:

My mom
Elia Haworth
Eve Haight
Konrad Steiner
Jim Brogan & partner
Ailene & Ryan
Liza & Dave Bobrow
Juliana Spahr
Charles Weigl
Bill Luoma
Sasha
Alli Warren
Brandon Brown
David Brazil
Sara Larsen
Rob Halpern & Lee
Robert Kocik
Daria Fein
Steve Dickison
Barrett Watten
Kit Robinson & Ani
Alan Bernheimer
Melissa Riley
Erika Staiti
Kate Pringle
Brian Ang
Suzanne Stein
Lauren Levin
Dan Fisher
Andrew Kenower
Stephanie Barber
Lindsey Boldt
Steve Orth
Cynthia Sailers
Susan Gevirtz
Nick Dorsky
Melia Franklin & children
Astrid Al Mklaafy & Kaatje
Stephanie Young
Joseph Mosconi
Rita Gonzales
K. Lorraine Graham
Mark Wallace
Vanessa Place
Teresa Carmody
Christine Wertheim
Brian Kim Stefans
Aaron Kunin
Andrew Maxwell
Ara Shirinyan
Matt Timmons

and this is only a partial list! I am so fortunate to know such fascinating and lovely people.

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Last day here. On BART. Bright shiny sun through the window here at West Oakland. Didn't they use to call it pretentiously Oakland West?

Trying to psych up now for my return to bleakest Brooklyn and probably snow. Envisioning the apartment and my greeter cats. Nemo will want to be held a lot, will cling to me as I walk from room to room. The apartment will be very warm. Trips are bookends to eras of experience. It is important to sometimes go away. I always love how I see my space and my possessions anew when I get back from a trip. The volume and variety of my wardrobe especially always astounds me, like, is this really all mine? Part of the psyching up is remembering ensembles to wear in winter's most severe frigidity.

There will be parties and poetry duties and prospective partners to follow up on, and job things to sort out, new students and a new course to plan and all these things will make the winter go faster. Or so I tell myself. I'm dreading the potential dread, the empty nights and void-feeling...

But since the dread is only potential and not real, maybe I can avert it?


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