ululations

love eternal for Stacy

2012-02-01T14:33:00.001-05:00

part of The Cake Part from Stacy Doris on Vimeo.

kitties

2012-01-30T12:10:00.002-05:00

Love IV

2012-01-27T19:13:00.001-05:00

Love bade me welcome,

adopting a Black Power fist

with terrible conviction:

yet my soul drew back,

a study in trite ballerina glamour,

with fixed smiles and no sense

either of powerful wings or

fingertips that give off sparks,

guilty of dust and sin, trailing pieces

of cardboard and black drawstring bags.

But quick-eyed Love, in a blond wig,

with blue false eyelashes attached

to his lower lids, observing me

grow slack in rapid, jerky trajectories

from my first entrance in,

drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning

if I lacked anything. Her staccato use

of her head and the mighty wing beats

of her arms gave weight

to the drama.

"A guest," I answered, "worthy to behere":

Love said, "You shall morph into a jokey,

sinister figure with slinky, sexualized movements.."

"I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,

I cannot look on thee." The fur dress

she crawled into, which rattled as she moved

and pulled her off balance, was a marvelous prop.

Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,

"Who made the eyes but I? Let’s try

not laughing for a change."

"Truth, Lord; but I have marred them; let my shame

go where it doth deserve." Suggestions of real pain

remained safely hidden in the pop song sentimentality

and running mascara. And when the walnuts inside it

flew out, that was a fine bit of theatrical whimsy!

"And know you not," says Love, "who bore theblame?"

As always, his gawky elegance is entrancing —

giving way to wiggles that crinkles his arms

like a silken accordion.

The palm tree and giant swan,

also cardboard, are slowly wilting,

"My dear, then I will serve."

The only effrontery left

was the effrontery of dullness.

"You must sit down," says Love,

donning a mask with red beard

and multicolored afro ,"and taste my meat."

Then he went into a fervent lap dance

for a blow-up Prince Charming doll

tied to a seat in the front row.

I thought I heard the flapping wings

of the Owl of Minerva, or a

kittenish duet, all wrist flicks

and shoulder rolls. It was like boxing

with the divine.

"Let’s try not laughing for a change."

SoI did sit and eat.

THE PHONEMES & I'LL DROWN MY BOOK -- DOUBLE BOOK LAUNCH (Les Figues Press)

2012-01-27T12:00:00.000-05:00

Two-fisted launch of Frances Richard's The Phonemes and I'll Drown My Book, the women's conceptual writing anthology (co-edited by Caroline Bergvall, Laynie Brown, Teresa Carmody, and Vanessa Place), both by Les Figues Press--fabulous.

Featuring Frances Richard reading as Frances Richard

and contributors to the anthology reading as themselves and others; themselves to include:

Julie Patton
Lee Ann Brown
Monica de la Torre
Katie Degentesh
Marcella Durand
Nada Gordon
Anne Tardos
Rachel Levitsky
Kristen Prevallet
Tracie Morris
Frances Richard
Kim Rosenfield

Hosted by Vanessa Place

Books will be available on site at reasonable launch discount.

*(Kickstarter contributors contact Teresa at info@lesfigues.com to pick up your copy at the event.)

There will be drink. There will be pleasure.

Pierogi Gallery

177 N. 9th Street, Brooklyn, NY

Saturday January 28, 6-9 pm

On "The Men"

2012-01-11T17:01:00.000-05:00

I’mmodern, independent, self-determining. Or am I? Quite often since thebreakup I have had keen moments of realizing that I remain imbued with Gary’s tastes and opinions. We had similar tastes, in many ways, tobegin with. We both liked Bernadette Mayer, Clark Coolidge, Arabic music andIndian food even before we met. And in the marriage our tastes blendedinto each other more: he came to like Japanese food and Alan Davies, I toenjoy graphic novels and Jack Smith. There were divergences. Iwould never, for example, really warm up to DA Levy or Paul Blackburn (theywere both just too “guy” for me), and he never really got into my predilectionfor long colorful scarves (which he said made me look like Anne Waldman) orchinoiserie in interior decoration, but still, by the end of the marriage, hewas wearing a lot of purple, and in his own way, by the end, he exceeded meeven in orientalism.

Not toolong ago I finally got around to purging my iTunes library of a ton of music he hadput on there that I had never liked – a lot of international rap and hiphop,primarily, and Asian pop sung in tinny little voices – and I felt sort of liberated – but it was interesting to me how much of the music I still like,that I would have chosen “for my own” – the Vietnamese ballads, all the 60sstuff, just about everything Arabic or Turkish, for example. I do look athis blog. I shouldn’t, but I do. Sometimes I even download the music. SometimesI can’t fathom why on earth he would enthuse over a particular album orgroup: Deerhoof? Really? But even now I still experience muchof the music he promotes as “ours.” It’s a bittersweet soundtrack for menow, of course, but it’s part of me. He should, I think, write at least a little more deeply and descriptivelyabout the music he posts there. He has the chops - or used to. He tends instead though to put up acollocation of an eager adverb and a superlative - "jaw-droppingly great!", and now and then an anecdote, while sort of dismissively characterizing more analytical approaches by critics as “socio-semiotic.” Ah, well.

So… oneof the things I noticed I have become more and more enamored of as I notice Iam becoming more in possession of my own independent opinions is the writing ofLisa Robertson. It wasn’t really Gary’s thing, and I remember at leastone other guy poet I hang out with not really being much into it, either. Isuppose they experienced it as too precious, or too mannered, or tooimpenetrable, or something. I admire all these qualities, and in fact, thefirst time I met Lisa, I said to her, “I write a little bit like you, but notas well.” If I hold anything against her writing, it is simply that it istoo exquisitely well-done. I have a fantasy of her sitting at some veryperfectly organized writing desk, with an air of profound concentration,perhaps looking out at redwood trees (why, I wonder, redwood trees?), and I can almost imagine her internalthought processes, how gradual and methodical they must be, not like mine thatmore resemble a frightened sparrow trapped in a padded elevator. Herwriting and person give off an air of being both sublime and logical. This is of course a total projection, but I admire this construction of My LisaRobertson as a kind of goal made unreachable by the constraints of my sloppierand more fluttery personality or chemistry.

A coupleof months ago, someone (I think it was Arielle Greenberg? or Danielle Pafunda?)posted on facebook a few lines from LR’s book The Men, with a superlative gushabout how much she loved it. I loved the excerpt she posted so much that Iordered the book. It is strange that I didn’t have it. I had heardher read from it many years ago at a Segue reading, at that same reading whereI had made my awkward introduction to her. I had been interested in the poem,but there was something about LR’s elegant and distanced way of reading italoud that kept it at arms’ length from me. Interestingly, I wrote my own“the men” poem a couple of years later. I knew that my poem (“OrgoneGophers,” which appeared in Folly) owed some debt to hers, but mine wasso different, goofily bop-prosodic, neologistically bumbling, that it seemedlike quite a different animal:

OrgoneGophers

Cooingpop huckles. Minarlagy of funf. The latter craal-skeevers (anxious likebucket): froos, angle, insecure.

I keen mymeringo this hopey day. I murv it. The hopcakes are waiting for the nestedparlances, the nested parlances for a 6-month grace period, after which theywill expire.

It allcomes together as perforations in the ample slough — beastborne, tolerant,mint, and gland-handed.

Where'smy speed, the clock's a muffle, the clown raises sham hackles, the plainstripes badger the nonplain
stripesas limits to patience.

The menhack outside the door in explicatory gasses. They muddle and wink, halvingtheir trousers. The parts rattle by in pink bones. The men are wuthering. Astag wuthers the hard waiting.

The menlift up the thorny leaves of togetherness. There is a pad there.

Under thepad, another man, horning a thought as a drawing. The pink ones wonder --bastard hardcake? Terrible wuthering intertwining a lumpy duddle.

The plaidcouches, pro dusk and anti-dawn, haunched by men and soaky weapons like flagsrolled up in glands while the plaid maidens change their lamb sprockets.

Inches andinches and inches of man, boozling and edgily nuzzling. Piranha potatoes!Limbering the cud. Sweat drapes. Miracle sinews absolute the free fibers of aflexibly ordered man, half red and half blue, on a night
watch andskin patrol.

I don'tcan't — can't can't — a man. Hip dud. Catafrack. Pone.

My poem is related but different. It has the same quality of affection, I guess.

But Iwrote it, you see, without having actually read LR’s entire poem.

And whenI did… last week… oh! The sky opened!

I’d liketo note here that others have written on/responded to the book veryinterestingly. These links are worth reading just on their own merit.

http://jacketmagazine.com/33/kennedy-robertson.shtml

http://www.intercapillaryspace.org/2006/09/lisa-robertsons-men.html

http://www.villagevoice.com/2006-09-26/books/boys-to-men/

What isremarkable about The Men is the extent to which it expresses the ambivalencesof how one feels about men. As LR writes, “The concept of the men is elastic.” It is simultaneously adoring and patronizing,intimidated and pitying, critical and indulgent, yearny and austere. Men are clearlyThe Problem, on both a micro- and a macro- scale, but if you are aheterosexual woman, they seem to be The Problem one always wants more of. Ihave not even begun to approach a solution to this conundrum, and I expect Iwill go to my grave with it yet unsolved, since I seem not to be the type offish that can go for long without a bicycle.

Close readings, especially of book-length poems, aren’treally good on blogs, so I won’t do that, but here are some things I noticedwhile reading

~ the first section functions musically as a kind ofoverture

~a repeated trope is this notion of “falling upward” – bothin vertical relation to men’s power and into the exhilaration of desire forthem

~there are moments that sound like a Ted Berrigan poem(“It’s 6:45 and I’m 39”)

~there’s a sweet little Proust reference: “Albertine”

~she remarks on the Aspergian qualities of men: “At suchtimes/ in exhaustion/ they show you the liner notes”

~and yet there’s something Aspergian, or more precisely,obsessive, about the poem-project: “I study them more than any other object.”or “I’m making a record of the men as I know them”

~there are what feel to me like Scalapino moments, too:“such as the experience of the lily behind me”

~but the book this book most reminds me of is Alan Davies’NAME, even in the “handfeel” of it… it is as yearny, and as elegantly paced

~The word “little” appears a lot: “little teeth”

~”The funny pathos of men – I salute this”

~”hydromel”!!!!!

~It’s hydromel because in part this book is a song about thedeliciousness of men, their palpable heartbreaking sweetness. These are not the men who charge aboutso much as “the men who breathe into me, tender, phallic, kimonoed.” These are the luscious and vulnerablemen “both sublime and beautiful, delicate and copious”: “Nature/ is weak; the men feel pain/They fear death.” They are not somuch going out to war hairy-legged in togas to come back with their shield or on it,at least not in this book. These arethe men you LONG for: “Trashy sweet brain adoring and adoring them.”

~”Each of us psycho-sexually is a man, dreaming andcovulsing, plunged into some false Africa manically like a poet”

I asked my sweetheart to read bits aloud to me from thebook, because I wanted to hear it in his hydromel voice. He read this:

Let the thought here be planted
That the men want to float
Just the pink tip of their
Thing touching the firmament

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked. (He doesn’t reallyget poetry.)

And I just almost swooned.

here's the new year's day poem I read at the marathon; Brandon Downing wanted me to call it New Year's Dayquil, but I just stuck with the title of the poem I mangled in order to construct this poem

2012-01-02T17:54:00.001-05:00

ASIA

The surly plagiaristichipsters heard

The putrefacient beep rise upfrom a rhapsodic melancholiac!

And each ran out from hismoon-round engine room;

From his ancientlemon-scented Den flambé;

For the meatier meander oftolazoline skies was startled

At the thick-flaming solidsof tenebrous backwardness.

The daily did sing:

Yourthought-creating iguanid is mywife!

I’vebeen star-gazing!

there’sa dance of saga in the disarray!

I’mwishing! And so am I, hebraical cryogen!

Watermelonshapes are stupid,

andif ifs and ands were pies

andcommunications,

weall would flense.

Blazonyour accompanyists, and ridge your horn!

And the Kings of Catachresisstood

And cried in bitter,time-fused pantaloons.

How shall they troubleshootthe scentless smile, the faecal pop -

their libertine bosoms allpigborn, and ossiferous?

They’ve got so many Hasidim!

How shall the paradisiac, forpetulance, eschew the mauve spiritism?

Fecklessly you had a tamponof tsarinas!

Anchor, sapphire puss!

To retrain! to dismay! tospin!

The cherry red bourgeoiscontrivances;

In the day, of full-feedingfluffy narcissus horses;

And the night of matriarchychandeliers.

Shall not the Game-Birdtranquilize the oval foxily?

Of syncopation on thelaborious watermelon shape?

To fix the clog of Hellenistictics;

To invent allegoricwhiskerless spoons:

And the privy admonishers ofslick termagents

mew like light patients

For heaps of perspiring bone,

In the night of veneers &processes

To turn man from his smiletattoos,

To restrain the child fromthe timidly, velvety-plumaged

if not gray-pink, womb,

To cut off the nympho fromthe salvo,

That the rebukingly blueberryday may learn to obey.

That the pride of the breezemay fail;

That the lust of the perfumermay be quench'd:

That the ornamental gazellein its infancy

May be appall’d; and thenostrils open’d way up;

To teach mortal worms thepath

That leads from the gates ofthe tentative hello.

Leonard Nimoy sitting in thefront heard them cry!

And his shudd'ring wavinghypocritical sousaphone

Went enormous above the redflames

Drawing clouds of flacciditythro' the heavens

Of ultrasonic singsong as hewent:

And his Books of greasy air& gossip

Melted over the land as heflew,

Heavy-waving, howling,colorizing.

And he stood over hisopinions:

And stay'd in his moistyplace:

And stretch'd hisyellowish-beige clumps over Jerusalem;

For Caruso, a monastic shrimp

Lay bleach'd on a garden ofeye makeup;

And Molly Ringwald as whiteas dental implants

On the mountains of a poesyso serflike

it resists fire.

Then the plumaged furballs ofrefulgence bellow'd aloud

From the woven darkness ofthe words.

Richard Nixon raging inamaranthine darkness

Arose like a pillar of fireabove the yelps

Like a jewess of fermentedflame!

The sullen Earth

Slunk!

Forth from the passablyplummy dust rattling breasts to breasts

Join: shaking convuls'd theshivring cicada-like cicada breathes spangled

And all flesh naked stands:Poets and Fiends;

Mothers & Implants;Husbands & Concubines:

The gelatinized twinkler shriekswith delight, & shakes

Her druggy womb, & claspsthe solid stem:

Her bosom swells with wilddesire:

And theories & blooms& glandular wire.

53% Off Justin Bieber Singing Toothbrushes

2011-12-24T09:23:00.001-05:00

I’m rooted firmly in reality, by which
I mean the G train on 12/21/11. A guy reads

carefully in dove-colored Converse. A small

girl wears a fake amethyst ring, and even the bald

Dravidian man looks ashen in New York

winter subway light. I’m thinking

of the curtain of jerky in Ariana’s poem,

the god of meat, the poem’s peregrinations.

Me I am busy, sometimes I go places I don’t

want to go, the sky’s head is heavy. I can tell

already this will be a “lyric” poem, and

I’m making you think I’m writing it

right now, or all at once. Ha! Fooled

you! Now ahomeless man with a huge

protruding lower lip and two teeth on the

bottom is singing a détournement of

God Bless America: “land that I own.”

Ah well. Even those who own things

die. Trumplooks like he is going to

explode. He looks like someone I once

knew. Anyway I put a wild cowrie into

the golden expectations of my physical

nervousness – there a cloudy bank roils

around the hipper convergences – monsters

storm by my side in the form of tiny

husbands – a train caught in seaweed

belches babydolls singing, “that is a

arrow, yes it is, it’s a triangle, it’s a

arrow.” Babydoll’s purple mylar wings

wither with a kind of half-baked disgust;

maroon swooshes attack the populace

as coded glom, misread signs of Greek

woes. The mayor hits a nerve. I don’t know

what to think. A crowded poem is no excuse

for an improper touch. What did you say

your name was? Harry? Jerry? Larry?

I want to play with my rotten head.

Sex is a sport. She’s the illustration.

There’s nothing like me in the culture.

Sexy hellcat shows her claws as hubby

looks on. Everyone is a type. Even

Douglas Rothschild is a type. Flexible

dollars dot my aging hair. There’s a spider

in the next world. Depraved hillbillies

nurse their mighty peccadilloes, but I am not

a drug addict, I love with a fatal

hormone and a brighter agency! Out!

Out, vile lilt – it’s love for every one

of you, those I know and those I don’t

know, those I have not forgotten,

those I object to strenuously, and those

I hanker for in the inevitable diaspora

of molecules.

Bounced and jostled by society’s

clank, we build up job skills. The

security guard leans against the pole

with his hand in his security guard

pockets. I moan a little inside, but from

anxiety, not from lust. Lust itself

is like a free app that when you tap it

turns IMHO into a rubber unicorn,

and I appreciate that because I am

basically a sympathetic person,

left-leaning but cynical, with a

decent-sized collection of mouse

hats – and what did you say your

name was? Perry? Barry? Mary?

Anyway, I forget, and wax my

moustachios higher in preparation

for the end of the song, its indefinite

searing warble, its cloyingly intimate

swerves. The memory of you is lodged

in my labial folds – like a deer tick.

Not really, but I wanted to write that.

Really, all I need is time. All anyone

needs… is time. This drastically

oversimplified theory of survival

leaves out several essential factors,

like tea roses, vegan boyfriends, cool

French theory books, and instant

streaming. Yeah, I guess you could say

this is a kind of instant streaming.

Or instant dreaming.

Oh, the crowded city makes me tense

like a snake. Thepolice eat our pizza

as I lip the frilly edge of anxious

solitude. I don’tsay that to sound

sexy – I walk into the sun, my sheets

turn over in dismay – I’ve got a vulva

full of rage and fear and I’m not afraid

to use it in the flustered nite, all

ferklempt like a tangerine section

that is really an orphan sunchild’s

disconnected ear found somewhere

on another planet’s slushy frigid moon.

Earth balance. Beans. Well, the mangle is

the message, and the eagles (and the

eagle-faced people) have some

other – angular – planet, and wind…

will become light. He who rolled

in as internal clench, she who filed her

toenails and told me I needed to “get away

from exotica” –they will become light,

too. Thisperegrination. The zipper folders

full of DVDs - their sinister prismatic glint.

I need to build more repetition into this poem.

I want to play with my rotten head.

Play, play, play.

Babydoll belches lavender,

belches lavender

belches lavender.

Out, vile lilt.

Out, out, out.

like eating ladyfingers all the time

2011-12-16T08:43:00.000-05:00

Got up overly early as punishment for not properly maintainingthe balance of daily life, and wanting to be free. Decided to paint my nails five different colors, which Idid. Nail polish is horrible, itsmells like death, I shouldn’t use it, but my fingertips look like jujubees.

Thinking of how extraordinary it was to be sitting next toMadeline Gins at the Skirball Theatre watching a [great!!] klezmer musical, Schlemielthe First, when one of the characters said, “We need to not die!” I looked at Madeline in wonder.

Afterwards I sent her some links about Molly Picon and TheBagelman Sisters.

My notebooks are a mess, everything is kind of a mess. The semester ended and I have beencleaning up my office in a kind of exhausted confusion. What happened to all that activity. Ineed a VACATION.

I also need once again to be a more focused blogger. These little witty snippets onfacebook, it’s like eating ladyfingers all the time.

I like old people who like birds.

I like people who like birds.

I’ve been to some readings.

Ariana Reines:

“I’m not good with time.”

“Keats had hair that is also in Italy.”

“You and your firewater
and mild poses.”

She uses a lot of Anglo-Saxon simple words and her work is atonce colloquial and mythological.

Dana Ward:

“data pastries”

“our songs taught me, just do what you want to do and don’tworry about it”

“the eyelash piece of fabric I vanquished.”

“mystify the world in order to fortify its / enchantment.”

Stephanie Young:

(referencing Rodrigo Toscano) “the problem of the person as a treasure map”

“it [Hannah Weiner’s The Fast] is a book about not having abathtub at a time of extremity”

“water only conducts water from other bodies”

“I was a dog who wanted other dogs.”

I went to a talk about conceptual writing at the whitehouse.

Steve Zultanski quoted Bataille on poetry’s “instrumentalitygrounded in non-instrumentality.”

Sandra Simonds: “Work for a poetry that isn’t at home at this white house or any whitehouse.”

Rod Smith: “theavant-garde is a stance toward reality,” and he paraphrased Deleuze andGuattari: “the function of art isto create new experiences.”

Reading books flutteringly.

Jean Luc-Nancy on Listening.
An essay by Jena Osman on Bern Porter.
Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl's Booby Be Quiet.
Anselm Berrigan's Notes from Irrelevance.
Dana Ward's This Can't Be Life.
A book about The History of Dolls.

[Just sort of read on the train this morning the too too ironically named House Organ, which persists in sending two copies to the apartment. Didn't he change his address? The first thing I always notice about it is the numbers trouble. It's slightly better this time, 38 penises and 9 vaginas. Anyway, get this, there's a contributor in there named Heman! Heman! And all these "yrs" and "&s"... (one poem reads: "yr eyes &/ testicles//equally/useless here"... um... my testicles?) ... a rather nice poem opening the issue by Joel Lewis, though, ("I'll give twenty dollars to the person who can pinpoint when the 'slow clap' first appeared in a movie."), and a treasure hidden toward the back by iGloria Frym: "How come it took you so long/ To get it? Oh look, another demand:// Embrace Change." That's so Berkeley!]

I’ve been taking drops of B vitamins; it gives me the mostextraordinary feeling.

Each person has the nerve to have a life story, parents,etc., such as the mother who shot herself and her two children because she wasdenied food stamps. We must spendso much of life in a scramble for continuance.

I saw Melancholia. Joyelle McSweeney’s review of it is the best. I had a discussion aboutit with my friend Peter. I thoughtClaire’s desire to watch the apocalypse on the terrace with a glass of wine wastotally bourgeois (I agreed with Justine saying that was just shit), perhapsbecause I don’t have a terrace and I don’t drink wine. I said that the way itended was right: in a moment ofhuman contact. He said I was beingquasi religious, judging people’s reactions to extreme situations. He said something about how Claire “grew.”

And I realized that I don’t care about how characters “grow”in literature. Such a view ofthings seems to be predicated on a progress model of life and society, whereasit strikes me that really we are all just hurtling toward decay, and literatureis a way of diverting ourselves in the meantime. It isn’t to “improve” us. I suppose that notion comes from religion? And is carriedover into the post-industrial?

Society, which is supposed to be a “safety net,” strikes memore as a kind of landmine of instability, confusion, and competingself-interests. A bunch of succubi. Am I wrong? Someone tell me I’m wrong?

Foil of restiveness – dry breast – hebdomadic lyric PLOD.

Oligarchy of the stupid. I forget the “t” of “ist”: socialis, communis.

Poetry as “personal tech.”

Blue panoply. Fitters……..

ffire breasts

nice train

the most uncertain thing I’ve ever seen

cockahooply

pale imitation/pay limitation

I want to be present with people. I make imaginary structures – world of cute babies – they arehard work, and we are a dopey species, just afterthoughts of microbes.

You (“husbands,” “best friends,” “uncle figures drunk onanger”) aren’t real people, you are asshole people.

Your eyes, assholes.

Your mouths, assholes.

* *

A half-naked urchin huddles in the doorway.

It doesn’t sound like it, but I’m actually in a pretty goodmood.

2011-12-14T13:24:00.001-05:00

dandily with my gazelle

Dr. Zizmor Gently Cleanses Your Skin With a Fruit Wash

2011-12-02T07:59:00.001-05:00

Trained crows can mollify police en croute.

We’re replacing tranqs, singing gels, tranced, andblowsiness.

And rebuilding carnations.

Staring or mooing between ears is prohibited.

Simpering tomatoes of the past hands in a trend of movement.

Always conduct a trained crow in caws of agency.

Forced urgency toucan countess.

Vacuuming the tracks of tears – white people – a merged sea.

Trunklike fuschia retort. I’m tiiiired.

Like fabulous… paedic ruination!

Pepper Spray Cop

2011-11-22T11:27:00.001-05:00

Pepper spray cop, pepper spray cop, where have you been?
I’ve been to the murky depths of human behavior to pepperspray
the Queen of Sunshine and her seven little ShiTzu puppies, that’s
where I’ve been.

First there was Oakland Riot Kitty, now there's Pepper Spray Cop!

Pepper spray cop, pepper spray cop, you are a meme!
Yes, I just casually pepper spray everything: Queens, ShihTzus,
Jesus, family groups, constricting snakes, drool, suitcases,
things to hang hats on, some Halloween
costumes, parts of galaxies, hive dwellers, and no-goodnik
protesters whose pretty eyes get in the way of my pepper
spray. I casually pepper spray everything. I’m the pepper
spray cop! Don’t mind me. I’m just watering my hippies.

I hear pepper spray is good for the sinuses. By the nineteenth
century,police rubbed pepper in victims’ eyes or packed chili
powder in their nostrils. In the West Indies, British owners
rubbed pepper into the eyes if slaves dozed at work. In applying
irritants, most modern torturer avoid the eyes, preferring to
insert irritants into the nostrils, anus, or vagina. In the last
four decades, prisoners have reported this kind of pepper torture
in India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Greece, Somalia, and Tanzania.
In 2003, American soldiers applied pepper to the eyes of one prisoner
at Abu Ghraib. Advances in pumping technology now allow torturers
to apply mace, pepper spray, or tear gas directly into keyholes
or the mouth or face of prisoners. I didn't mean to spray those women,
but I'd do it again.

There's pineapple torture, lemon torture, coconut torture,
pepper torture, torture soup, torture stew, torture salad,
torture and potatoes, torture burger, torture sandwich.
That--that's about it.

Aww yeah I’m just the pepper spray cop getting
the bitches wet. I’m a fatty donut eater with a
wifebeater ‘stache. I’ll squirt the Internet
in the eye. I’m a pepper spray cop pimp!
I inspire art mash. I am where dandruff
accumulates. Dull cry of panic. May the
excessive force be with you!

lyric/flarf

2011-11-18T16:26:00.001-05:00

Flarf's tendrils reach far and wide. In this video, which I made for a group of Dutch Flarfists for a conference on new directions in Flarf, I discuss, in my kitchen and flanked by kitties, the relationship of Flarf to lyric, as well as my own poetic "practice." [ahem] Then I read a poem, "Droop Loss Slave." The video is almost twenty minutes long.

Special thanks to Wouter Beek for asking me to be involved.

2011-11-13T10:48:00.001-05:00

Come with me to the world of pleasure! I promise you won’t be disappointed!

<3

2011-11-10T23:49:00.001-05:00

IMG_0124, originally uploaded by Ululate.

selected Yiddish proverbs

2011-11-07T15:00:00.004-05:00

A buzzing in one’s (mind) head.

A cutie-pie showing off her (new) dress.

A man should stay alive if only out of curiosity.

A piece of meat with two eyes (insult).

After the wedding it’s too late to have regrets.

All of life is a struggle.

All problems I have in my heart, should go to his head.

All spruced up (lit., like Chavele on her way to herdivorce).

All the world is on the tip of the tongue.

An embittered heart talks a lot.

Animals have long tongues but can’t speak; men have shorttongues and shouldn’t speak.

Black sorrow is all that his mother should see of him.

Borrowed brains have no value.

Break your own head!

Chopped liver is better than miserable troubles.

Do me a favor.

Don’t ask questions about fairy tales.

Don’t give me a canary.

Don’t hit me and don’t lick me

Every day brings forth its own sorrows.

Every man has a madness of his own.

For this I went to college?

Give a pig a chair, he’ll want to get on the table.

Go bang your head against the wall.

Go fight with God.

Go to the toilet.

Had they put your brain inside a bird, it would have startedflying backwards!

He should be transformed into a chandelier, to hang by dayand to burn by night.

He should grow a wooden tongue.

He should grow like an onion with its head in the ground.

He should laugh with lizards.

It's getting dark in my eyes.

I keep on dropping things.

If you don’t eat garlic, you won’t smell bad.

If you’re going to eat pork, get it all over your beard.

Ink dries quickly; tears don’t.

It’s as appropriate as a pig.

It’s better to be embarrassed than heartbroken.

It’s bitter like bile and without bile one cannot live.

Life is like achild’s undershirt—short and soiled.

Lying in the ground, baking bagels.

Many songs, but few dumplings.

One even gets tired of eating only dumplings.

Pimples shouldgrow on your tongue!

So I made a mistake. So what?

The body is a sponge, the soul an abyss.

The masses are asses.

The truth has charm but it’s shy.

What’s the use of a beautiful dream, if the dawn is chilly?

You can’t pee on my back and make me think it’s rain!

just always bewildered

2011-11-01T22:16:00.001-04:00

On the train this morning I saw a tall young woman wearing akind of “boater” hat with a veil. She looked chic, not witchy. She wore some kind of long clingy gray skirt, and I noticed as she walkedout of the train that she was carrying a copy of Anais Nin’s Delta ofVenus. She was reading erotica onthe train!

Then walking toward Pratt I saw a tall and very chic womanin a fitted camo jumpsuit and an astrakhan hat she wore at an angle.

What does it mean that I saw these women on 11/1/11? Dayafter Halloween. They were so tall. I am so down, and not tall at all.

It was a cold Halloween and not so splendid as on otherrecent years, although we made a brave and beautifully absurd effort on Sundayat the Poets’ Parade. There we were, a Raven, Lady Lazarus, Spiderwoman, TippiHedren in The Birds, a Viking, a scary guy, some leopards, a Chinese opera guy,a Dickinson-inspired skeleton, etc., etc., out in the cold night with abullhorn, with only a few curious onlookers stopping here and there.

I try to stay attentive to things.

Two poets I heard recently impressed me very much. One wasthe wild genius that is David LRSN. He said “bee of Voltaire,” but for some reason I heard “B of Voltaire,”as in “B of A.” He also said/read:

It was an uphill ballet
Just to arrive with paradise pockets

and

one of those solar creatures whose face hurts from smilingso much

and

I’d like to thank the octopus
that gave its arms
so I could sing this song

The other reader was Rae Armantrout. I wrote down these lines:

demons handle route tasks
once we’re in the zone

they’re sexy because they’re needy, which degrades them

to be dressed is to emit virtual particles

after the apocalypse
we will all be in a band.
we will understand each other perfectly

the spurious pours forth as fish and circuses

I don’t know. More and more I find that I like to hear poems coming out of poets’mouths and bodies and that I am less interested in reading books, although I dolike how books keep poems in this cryonic place and all you have to do is wakethem up.

Recently I bought a funky copy of David Shapiro’s 1969 Poemsfrom Deal at Unnameable Books. It is POETRY. How did I not know I needed thisbook. Who knows, maybe it was my book? Everything confuses me.

How wonderful to be in the arms of cerebral creatures.
You taste garage, moon, strength.
You have only a live child and fresh water on your arms.

I am always scraping myself up off the floor. I have lessidea than ever of why I am, or might be, alive. Am I really actually here? Are you?

I also read Fanny Howe’s essays in The Wedding Dress. I have a hard time relating to thereligious parts, but not “On Bewilderment.” Here, please, read some of it. I am awed by its perspicacity:

The serial poem attempts to demonstrate this attention towhat is cyclical, returning, but empty at its axis. To me, the serial poem is aspiral poem.

In this poetry circling can take form as sublimations,inversions,echolalia, digressions, glossolalia, and rhymes.
….
The whirling that is central to bewilderment is the naturalway for the lyric poet. A dissolving of particularities into the solid braid ofsound is her inspiration.

….

What Shelley called “the One Spirit’s plastic stress” andHopkins called “instress” is this matching up of the outwardly observed withthe internally heard.

A call and response to and from a stranger is implied.

Or a polishing of a looking glass where someone is lookingin and out at the same time.

Particularities are crushed and compacted and redesigned toproduce a new sound.

The new sound has muted the specific meaning of each wordand a perplexing music follows.

Themes of pilgrimage of an unrequited love, of wounding andseeking come up a lot in this tradition.

Every experience that is personal is simultaneously anexperience that is supernatural.

….
The human heart, transforming on a seventy-two hour basis …in a state of bewilderment, doesn’t want to answer questions so much as tolengthen the resonance of those questions.

….

One definition of the lyric might be that it is a method ofsearching for something that can’t be found.

OK I will stop quoting from this. If what I have excerptedhere interests you, I recommend that you read it, since it is beautiful.

What else in my mind did I tell myself I wanted to writeabout. I feel like the AllTomorrow’s Parties girl a little bit in that it’s Monday and I am crying behindthe door. I mean it is Tuesday butit feels like Monday since yesterday as Halloween still had the fragrance ofthe strange. It was fun on the weekend that Kasey was here to visit. He left a pile of poems in my recycling pile amongst NY Timeses getting ready to be thrown out. I rescued the poems to peruse at leisure.

One moment post-parade I liked so much I will preserve ithere. As we were descending intothe subway at West 4th at the end of the evening, we passed a strikinglymiserable-looking beggar. Kaseyripped one of the dollar bills off of my costume and gave it to him.

Last night I made the pronouncement that I didn’t likeslutty Halloween costumes. Kasey begged to differ. He said that they should be either slutty or scary, or bothif at all possible. Since I wasdressed last night as some kind of Bavarian mime peasant, or just some silly color scheme, I was neither slutty nor scary, I felt a little inadequate, but then I so often do, rock star moves notwithstanding.

dumb violent grin
I did the laundry.

coping – with a kind of fragile – yellowness. um, huh.

shut up your xylophone.

MLK Jr. fucks his mistresses’ vaginas.

the hairy slits of civil rights

little curly uncertainties

specialty glass – I’m

on another pane

rumbling deft insides –

reader, I married him.

wasn’t that…?

the raw edges of the fennel.

fluorescent swoosh all over the stupid branded universe.

what do you care about? all swollen up

like beaming amphibians.

obliged
to insert
a clove of garlic.

maybe I need to be more distant, like an orange bird

I love plastic.

It’s cheap and easy to buy.

And it’s a great vehicle for color.

like black hair on a watermelon. flax goop.

smush her. like a rotten grape.

we made the world this way? “New York”?

the rats come tumbling out, exultant.

chaos swings all around, “bop prosody” a perverted smidge.

Shtreimel? [I wonder] Or Spodek?

Happy HALLOWE'EN

2011-10-31T06:20:00.001-04:00

POEMS ON / ABOUT

2011-10-29T11:01:00.006-04:00

• alone

• america

• angel

• anger

• april

• baby

• ballad

• beach

• beautiful

• beauty

• believe

• birth

• brother

• butterfly

• car

• carpe diem

• change

• chicago

• childhood

• children

• cinderella

• city

• courage

• crazy

• dance

• dark

• daughter

• death

• depression

• despair

• dream

• family

• fate

• father

• fear

• fire

• food

• football

• freedom

• friend

• frog

• funeral

• funny

• future

• girl

• god

• graduation

• greed

•grief

• haiku

• hair

• happiness

• happy

• hate

• heart

• heaven

• hero

• home

• hope

• house

• husband

• identity

• innocence

• january

• joy

• june

• justice

• kiss

• laughter

• life

• lonely

• loss

• lost

• love

• lust

• marriage

• memory

• mirror

• money

• moon

• mother

• murder

• music

• nature

• night

• ocean

• ode

• paris

• passion

• peace

• people

• pink

• poem

• poetry

• poverty

• power

•pride

• racism

• rain

• rainbow

• red

• remember

• respect

• river

• romance

• romantic

• rose

• running

• school

• sea

• sick

• silver

• sister

• sky

• sleep

• snake

• soldier

• sometimes

• song

• sonnet

• sorrow

• spring

• star

• success

• suicide

• summer

• sun

• swimming

• sympathy

• teacher

• thanks

• time

• together

• travel

• trust

• truth

• war

• warning

• water

• wedding

• winter

• woman

• work

• world

HALLOWEEN POET PARADE

2011-10-29T10:15:00.002-04:00

this is your life

2011-10-27T20:23:00.003-04:00

Your job is your life, and your mom

is your life, just as I am (or was)

your life. Your money or your lack
of it is your life. Thefood prepared
and ladled onto plates is your life,
the beds, the pets, the clothes – your life,
your secret huddling your life, it is all
your life, you can’t cross out your life, you

can’t conduct erasures on your life,

you can’t be drunk every day

of your life, you can’t put a cloud

of smoke around your life, this is

it, this is your life, the past bleeding

pathetically into the present that blossoms

out in turn into inky (petulant) shapes of futurity (grief).

This is a poem. The cool thing about poems
is that they are ambiguous. They may seem
to refer to a specific person or situation, but in fact
they are generalizable. That is why we are able
to press the language of others into the service of our
own expression. This is your life, this expression,
and what, exactly, is life? Some kind of sticky
protoplasm. Life is short and squat,
or vaguely meandering. It is also fierce.
Life mutates, loops and rewinds and feeds
back. It is on infinite repeat. It forms patterns.
It jerks. It jolts. It sneaks. It shudders.
I am both afraid of it and not afraid of it.
Sometimes it makes the shape of explosions.
Sometimes it is rags. Sometimes it is verdant.
It's all...life. Sometimes it takes the form of
someone who is almost brainless. Life
has too many sisters. Life wiggles in
confusion. You know what I mean
about life. All language is the language
of others: saints, adulterers, children,
liars, mothers, thieves, wives, inner beasts.
Life without language would be
unimaginable. Life isn't language
but it constitutes itself in language.
Reflects back to itself in language.
What if a life took the form of a text?
Would it look something like this?

untenable in a way that is tenable

2011-10-27T18:25:00.003-04:00

That’s what I love about comedy, the way you navigate yourself through a horrible situation. You paint an exit tunnel and walk out of it. You reconceive the facts you find unpleasant and untenable in a way that is tenable and makes you laugh. I think it is the greatest invention of mankind.

~Merrill Markoe

FLARF ORCHESTRA CD NOW AVAILABLE

2011-10-27T16:19:00.001-04:00

THE FLARF ORCHESTRA CD IS NOW AVAILABLE.

Buy it or be...oblong?

Flarf Orchestra
Drew Gardner
ISBN 978-1-890311-35-3

Audio CD , Cover by the author

Genres: rock, jazz, avant garde, poetry, alternative, flarf
2011

~~$14.99~~
$11.00 direct from Aerial/Edge

Track Listing:

1. Rodney Koeneke (D)

2. K. Silem Mohammad (A)

3. Sharon Mesmer (D)

4. Nada Gordon (B)

5. Katie Degentesh (A)

6. Michael Magee (D)

7. Mel Nichols (C)

8. Eiríkur Örn Nor∂dahl (D)

9. Rod Smith (A)

10. Outro (A)

(A) Ty Cumbie (guitar), Avram Fefer (clarinet), Adam Lane (bass), John McClellan (drums),

Gregory Wildes (alto sax), 4.20.06, The Medicine Show, NYC

(B) Michael Clayville (trombone), John Orfe (piano), John Pickford Richards (viola), Kate

Sheeran (french horn), Elisabeth Stimpert (clarinet), 9.30.06, Dickinson College, PA

Kaul (brainwave music), Rodney Koeneke (percussion), Rod Smith (kazoo), Gary Sullivan (keyboard),

Lesley Poirier (percussion), Ryan Walker (ac. guitar), 2.18.07, DCAC, WDC

(D) Frankin Bruno (el. guitar), Katie Degentesh (el. bass), Ehran Elisha (drums), Eiríkur Örn

Nor∂dahl (el. guitar), Dave Ross (el. guitar) 4.26.08, Bowery Poetry Club, NYC

2011 Elklag Music (ASCAP)

New York City-based multi-instrumentalist and poet Drew
Gardner creates wild, spontaneous conductions of improvised
music played by indie rock, jazz and classical players and fuses it
with the outrageous poetry known as Flarf. Gardner has
painstakingly edited this compilation from several live recordings
into a suite of music and poetry that goes from post-rock to free
jazz to minimalism and back again, with an atmosphere that is
mesmerizing and riotous by turns.

Flarf Orchestra is one of several configurations from Gardner's
Poetics Orchestra project, dedicated to combining the arts of
music and poetry. Gardner's unique card and hand-signal
conduction system expands on those used by John Zorn and
Butch Morris.

Gardner often combines different types of musicians in his
groups: rock, jazz, classical and folk. The players on Flarf Orchestra
include indie rock guitar player Franklin Bruno (from the
Mountain Goats) classical piano player John Orfe (from Alarm Will
Sound), and jazz players Adam Lane, and Avram Fefer.
The nine Flarf poets include writers from all around the US as well as
Icelandic writer Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl. The Flarf poets use collaged

texts gathered from Google search results to create poetry.

Born in 1968, Drew Gardner is a pioneer of the Flarf poetry
movement and a multi-instrumentalist. He spent his early years as
a punk rock and avant-garde jazz drummer. He has written three
books of poetry, the lastest of which is Chomp Away (Combo) .
This is his debut CD.

HEAVY

2011-10-26T10:59:00.001-04:00

Sooner or later, most people need to move

something too heavy to lift or too awkward

to handle.. We’re not floating around in a gaseous

haze. We hear it all the time “lighten up!” Almost

all of it comes from stars. We call it socially

transformative television. Is it possible

to damage your womb while moving

something with your leg? Picked a box

and bleeded pregnancy: Alien Swarm

Parasite. Heavy drinker (someone who

drinks too much). Almost all of it comes

from stars. These heavy elements float

around in the Universe for a while and

eventually collect together around new

stars, forming planets, credit cards, malls,

and mail order catalogs. Books, artifacts

made of stone. He sold my books. Nuptial

spoils. We’re not floating around in a

gaseous haze. A heavy burden. A person in

space. A planet. A pile of blankets on top

of you. Gold bars. The earth. Ocarina

of time. Whatdo you call someone

who carries heavy things in Spanish?

As a child, enter the Lost Woods and go

right, left, right, straight , left. Dizzy,

unsteady feeling and heaviness in head?

I have a somewhat rubbery feeling beneath

my breasts. It’s like all my thoughts

are clustered up in a ball in my head.

This unbearable heaviness of pomo

individualism. Nipple itching. Chest

heaviness means feeling heavy in

chest, most people describe it as if

someone is holding their hearts,

feeling of wringing of heart and pain

in chest. A feeling of heaviness in the

pelvis or vagina. Do I have a gift of

discernment? I can just be by myself

and all of a sudden it is as though

something is place on me heavy.

I can barely lift. Ocarina of time.

Gold bars. The Earth. “Swigging.”

“Parbuckling.” Where did all that

heavy stuff cluttering up your bedroom

come from. Shelay for a week, neither

feeding nor excreting, on the floor,

among the straying frogs and starving

voles. Ununoctium. In this hidden

meadow, walk around in the grass

where the butterflies are hanging out

and you’ll find a hole. In this secret area,

wear a mask (usually the Mask of Truth).

What is this heaviness I am feeling? My

ears will feel like they are filled with water

and my head feels really heavy-like with

fluid. Feeling Sad/Stiff Neck/ Heaviness in

Head/Slepplessness. What happends if you

life too much when pregnant? Books, artifacts

made of stone. Just don’t burst your poo

valve. I’ve been in the garbage again: wading

around, searching for discarded bank statements

and soiled swimwear catalogues to set me straight

financially and corporeally. Remember me as a

Unicorn: purechemicals, hard shapes, acute

angles, helium, enclosed combustion.

hyrax

2011-10-20T22:58:00.001-04:00

IMG_9725, originally uploaded by Ululate.

I finally went to OWS today

2011-10-16T01:02:00.001-04:00

IMG_9595, originally uploaded by Ululate.

I liked the meditators. They looked very chic.

I stare at the screen

2011-10-13T16:47:00.001-04:00

sometimes i just can't move waiting for the dragon to stop breathing

Sometimes I just can't move In a blue dream

once I finish sticky jumping I have littlehealth left or sometimes I just can't move in midair

I look like a dummy sometimes on over thefaces of struggles

I hate being dirty especially if I start tosmell, but sometimes I just can't move.

sometimes I just stutter

grief

2011-10-12T09:27:00.004-04:00

did he come in to get his bike "stealthily."
why must he always behave in stealth.
who let him in the building.
shudder.

and she, she is making big plans.
we had a story once, I was to play a part.
as she did for me.

I thought these people "loved" me.

people. are __________.

grief
grief
grief
grief
grief

grief

now back to grading papers
and working on the confusing future.

reading about anxious attachment

2011-10-11T13:18:00.001-04:00

Ersatz helium veal enduring, no, besplendoring, the aching sense of raw philosophy. Mother cleans the harmonium, brother slaps dingbat fascists. Cousins while away the basic needs in a humdrum rush of pathos. I don't know, how to reason with cheese, do the elves like me, etc. I had a "man." I "had" a man: am I part of history? The slime, the reasons, the elves, the contours, the crumpets are parts of history. He got...his cells in me. I'm in his cells as "history," and to mark time, I write...on the...walls.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Grappling

2011-10-10T09:28:00.001-04:00

This thought: the aim of a revolution should be not simply a redistribution of power and resources but also a practical application of caritas-love. Grappling with the disappointment of eros-love, the eros-love that was supposed to "solve everything," to be the magic balm on the open wounds of the past, makes me suspicious of the ability of human beings to structure the best possible world for the greatest possible advantage to all. Is this just a terrible flaw in my thinking. Is it not even really thinking at all.

Depression really is just an awful bugbear of a thing.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

here's Drew, though, helping to incite the masses

2011-10-10T07:44:00.001-04:00

Toe (in which I am confused about the "personal" and the "political")

2011-10-10T07:08:00.001-04:00

I feel bad that I am not demonstrating. My toe hurts and Iam disconnected, wrapped up in anxieties I am endeavoring to unravel. I feel that people might be takingattendance, and somehow judge me. This feeling makes me not want to take partas a kind of resistance to pressure. I want a revolution? But since I thinkthat “human nature is basically bad/flawed, etc.,” I am not convinced… Zizeksaid in his speech that the problem is not greed or corruption, but the system.I wrote in a youtube comment to that speech that if that is true, why is thatthat all systems - religious, political, economic, interpersonal - are infectedby greed and corruption? The personal betrayals that have been visited on meinfect my “politics” to the extent that I can say I have “politics.” Of course I feel moral outrage (overmany many things, not just the political and economic crises of our times) (andall times). But when poets postthings like “if you don’t follow Occupy Wall Street there is something wrongwith you,” I feel a resistance to a kind of bullying groupthink. It disturbs me.And then there is my toe,and a kind of exacerbated sensitivity at the moment to noise, public places,and so on. Don’t misunderstandme. I may participate, later. If they (we) get their (our)revolution, I will happily embark with ecstatic others on a dérive to end alldérives, I will revel in the vibrations of the freed/ transformed city andshare what I notice with others. It's weird, I guess I see the end result of a revolution as a kind of "radical transformation of consciousness" or a sublime "rave" rather than the more pragmatic "better social policies" for which it makes more sense to struggle. That's a kind of surrealist thing, I suppose: revolution in the service of ecstasy. I have in thepast struggled for worker’s parity, I don’t know why I am trying to legitimatemyself, I don’t need to do so to please them. They are judgmental, and I am feeling weary (and wary) both in life and of their potential judgment.Indeed, the political, even moral ambivalence (no, not ambivalence…can we call it confusion?) is one of mydistinguishing characteristics

It is a great pity I am not more “political.” For one thing,from a selfish viewpoint, if I were more political I would be a more popularpoet and my books would be studied in classes, etc., because people want to be “firedup.” Still I think I am better at “humor” and “melancholy” and “decoration”than “firing up.” Recently though I re-bought Diane diPrima’s RevolutionaryLetters. Just in case. Inthe same way that I have the cat carriers in a hall closet rather than in thebasement. Just in case one needs to flee or fight, or in case there is some kind of disaster.

I have nightmares. Last night a nightmare thatGary was going to take a younger wife. In fact he had already claimed theyounger wife of another friend, a past and estranged acquaintance of his. Sheseemed like a bit of a zombie. So did he. Ibelieve she had some elaborate headgear– a wig? a hat? She and he were both unflapabble. They were, I think, staying with me. Nice, right? They were staying with me!Or in any case in some semi-public space sharing meals with me (it took place,as do so many of my dreams, in a kind of “Japan” at a mall I have visited beforein my dreams but not in fact in real life; my dreams are rife with these sortsof places, parts of cities that seem very familiar but not in the waking world).At one point I stole a paper bag (or was it plastic?) from him that wassupposed to have contained his balls. In fact it had hard boiled eggs, and a grapefruit. I remember eating thegrapefruit, which was something I generally do not eat. There were other parts of the dream that I amcensoring.

This is all very uncomfortable. I saw this weekend in a usedbookstore a book that had belonged to me, a signed book, with a hefty pricetag, one that Gary had sold to finance his move out. I was overcome by the injustice of this. I left a note forthe proprietor asking for it back, although I feel bad that the booksellershould have to take the financial fall for something that was not really hisfault. I do want the book back,but of course it is “not about the book.” The book is a stand-in for everythingelse, for all those years of bad communication and neglect and sorrow. If Icould somehow transform the rage I feel about the injustice of this to a publicrage against social injustice and take it to the streets, that might be a goodthing. I just don’t think that asystemic shift is going to prevent people from doing things that aretraumatizing, hurtful, illegal, and immoral, and that sort of makes me wonderabout the extent to which “a change in material conditions” is going to (might)(would) lessen the misery of being a human being. A little. Some. Maybe a lot.Perhaps the problem really is me and my bad attitude, especially my bad civicattitude, and if this is so perhaps I deserve all the chaos that has beenvisited upon me. I don’t know exactly what to do about that, however.

How much more angst would amuse you this morning? I hopethat by writing this I can transform my mood a little, get some of the poisonout of my system.

I have been thinking some of the first wife… of how I hardlythought of her… or only as a cardboard figure… and wondering what she must havefelt, what she must have gone through. I wonder how she felt seeing the publicaffirmation of what initially was and what must have seemed like such an idealpartnership? All these real people, with their real lives, just strugglingthrough. I am sympathetic to The Struggle. What else can we do? More power to them; I mean, more power to us.

Would the end of, or at least the transformation of,capitalism, contribute to the healing of our emotional lives? Would the end of workplace hierarchiesand long alienating hours in jobs that don’t fulfill us and bills that mountevery higher and the ranklings of resentments about Differences racial, sexual,and economic trickle down into our emotional lives? I suppose they would. Itwould be so lovely if that would happen. I’m not convinced, though, that my going out to Zucotti square on mycompromised toe that makes me unable to dance is going to help that processalong. We will see.

May our lives and hearts be healed.

quinoa thingies

2011-10-05T16:29:00.001-04:00

I made some quinoa thingies. They are pretty good.

I guess I used about a cup and a half of quinoa flour. I added about a cup of chopped moroccan oil-cured olives, a little salt and pepper, and sort of a lot of olive oil. I'm sorry my measurements aren't more precise. Then maybe three tablespoons or so of water? Not much, because the water makes them chewy, whereas the oil makes them flaky. A sprinkle of fines herbes. I made flattish shapes in my palm, patting them flatter. Those went on oiled baking sheets for ten minutes at 375 degrees, then flipped them and let them bake for another five minutes.

They are good. Careful of the salt: not too much, since the olives are salty. The thingies ("crackers"?) have the texture of pie crust. If you are a real baker you might want to consider rolling them out or something. Anyway I like them, they are addictive: the bitterness of the quinoa flour against the nutty bitterness of the olives.

They are good with just salt, too. Fleurs de sel if you got it. Yum.

very small pink clump

2011-10-04T16:33:00.003-04:00

few things are sadder than the sight

of a thin gold anklet trapped beneath

a suntan-colored nylon. the people

in the morning clutch their warm cups.

they have water bottles and sensible

shoes, earbuds, catalogs, and weary

faces. theworld pulses with violence.

maws are gateways to realms as mysterious

as they are frightening. a garbage car

slithers into it, the particularly

frightening vagina embroidered

on soiled vintage linen. how are they

not beset constantly with anxiety?

the activists take to the streets, maws

gaping. a man’s calf nearly as big as my

waist, which also makes me worry.

a garbage car slithers into it.

the absorption rate for the Soul

Eater’s melée attacks is increased

by 5%. I wantedto put the lobster

into a comic, because he’s been

distressingly absent… on soiled

vintage linen. gaping maw. many

of these links to my poetry are broken.

why are women so angry?

I also clutch a paper cup. the world

pulses with violence. illness waits

as ninja. Nearly half a century old,

I pop a pill. I’ve been a busy little

bandit lately. young gulls. you are

here: foul grin. yes, it swam up his

penis and into his bladder. it is human

nature to have fears and phobias:

mutant wooly worm alpaca.

why are women so angry?

they always throw things like

an angry gorilla when they get mad.

whazzat? critique zombie sex

feels good duh. why are women

so angry? lifeis harder for chicks,

their all pissed off cause they feel

feelings. howto use slither in a

sentence. example sentences

with the word slither. I wanted

to put the lobster in a comic. why

are women so angry? anyone already

say “sand in Va-J-J?” they cannot

even cook a decent meal anymore so

why bother. venomous email young gulls

foul grin. Itried to hold it and take it out

but the eel was too slippery to be held

and it disappeared up my penis. Sar

Chasm is a massive socially progressive

nation. do theyfeel nothing? with their

tote bags and lack of parity. is he going to

“marry” her, too? will his mother “welcome

her into the bosom of the family”? you’d

be angry too if you bled 1 week a month besides

you should never trust anything that bleeds

that much and doesn’t die. young gulls. trashy

sisters. horrible shiny dresses. abandoned

me. the main goals of feminism were destruction

of the nuclear family unit and emaciation

of the males. paper-cup clutchers: “mama.”

my students’ fresh faces. women rely on

emotion and not so much analytical

rationalization, in short they don’t think

as much. a very small pink clump. catalogs.

you just want some female to feel sorry

for you and take care of you and wash

your stinky underwear and your dirty

dishes and cook for you. hello! I am

the virgin mary magdalene! I am carrying

miraculous triplets similar to the virgin

mary. all things astronomy. you are here:

foul grin. whyare women so angry? you

want to sit on your lazy asses all day,

and watch tv, and drinkin beer and smoke

dope. I tried to hold it and take it out. sex

feels good duh. sometimes it amazes me.

the sensible work shoes. gateways.

a particularly frightening-looking vagina.

the throat, gullet, or jaws especially of

a voracious animal. many of these links

to my poetry are broken. he’s been

distressingly absent: the insatiable lobster

at the end of the course. The insatiable clown

prepared to go shopping, but realized

that he actually forgot his wallet. heactually

forgot his gullet. he actually forgot his

particulaly frightening vagina-Cicada;

Clouded Leopard; Clown Anemonefish;

Coelacanth; Common Earthworm;

Common Loon. unicorns for

socialism. the insatiable clown

at the end of the course, many

of these links to my poetry

are broken

2011-10-04T15:46:00.001-04:00

I now have made $4.56 from this blog.

2011-10-03T21:04:00.002-04:00

James Wagner reviews Scented Rushes!

2011-10-03T21:04:00.001-04:00

I just feel anxious.

contusion

2011-09-30T19:48:00.000-04:00

I have a “contusion” on my right ring toe, which means thatfor two weeks I cannot dance or do yoga, according to the toe doctor at the clinic I went toyesterday.

In the lobby I was almost beaten up by a Latina twice mysize in pink flipflops because I and the other patients in that hellish ghettowaiting room were trying to watch Erin Brockovich on the TV monitor there andshe started playing Lady Gaga really loudly on her iPod and I said to her, “it’sa little loud.”

She was hateful, but I tried to stay compassionate byreminding myself that she probably had to be tough to survive, probably hadbeen raped by a series of stepdads, probably had no job or a shit one,etc. I hate this country. I was trying to explain to two of myChinese students why this country is so hateful. They haven’t been here for very long and they think NYC isparadise. I told them the story ofthe obnoxious woman in the waiting room and said no one in China would act likethat, no one in Japan would act like that.

Anyway after the encounter the staff moved me into anotherpart of the clinic, a hallway in the inner sanctum that was even more likehell. Everyone looked so ill anddesperate. One older sort ofdrugged-out looking black guy was talking to someone on his cellphone, saying, “Almostdone with all this medical crap. They keep putting white people in lineahead of me. You know I don’tlike that and they want to get me out of here as soon as they can. I just need to get my medication.”

Some parents wheeled out their emaciated teenage son in achair. He looked as if he had somekind of mental disorder as well. The doctor was a very beautiful dark-skinned woman with long hair in anonly slightly frizzy ponytail. Iadmired her.

Anyway after being forbidden by the doctor to dance or doyoga for two weeks I was in a foul mood…and was sulking all the way home, butthen a woman walked past me with her arm in a sling and her ankle bandaged upand I reminded myself how very much worse it could be.

I have a lot on my mind, I have too many responsibilities, it’shard to make poetry right now. For one thing I’m teaching in the mornings andso I can’t just sit down at work and spill out poetry as I can when I teach inthe afternoons. Afterteaching I sometimes get a little zombified. I don’t know, I feel confused, I’min a bit of a limbo space right now. I thought I had some idea, some picture, of how my “future” wouldunfold, hazy though it was, when I was married. Then suddenly the big seismic thing and now… what? I knowthis is an opportunity for all sorts of things to happen, it’s just hard to beclearheaded still, I’m still, a year in, trying to put pieces back together. I’mtold it really takes two years for the feelings to settle, and for theimagination and memory to stop going to such horrible and alarming places.

I loved this poem I got on one of Buck Downs’ poem/postcards(The linebreaks are a little different in the original.):

         thanks in reverse
               internal stakeholders

               rage’s tart strain
           fantasizes the experience

my secret currency
lifeless as a pound
of mercury dimes

my condition is a pleasure
good way to get run over

What a good poem this is!

And I still have conversations with them, those people, the infidels, in my head. Sometimes I try to tell them how theymisunderstood me, sometimes I wish them ill, although I know I shouldn’t.

My mother in law just read this blog, I noticed in my stats. She was so unjust to me. Her narrative was so totally wrong,completely skewed, wrong wrong wrong. I was thinking I wanted to make a list of all the terriblywrong unfair tactless horrible things people said to me in the wake of themess. But then, you know, theywould be there even more reified and objectionable, just staring me in theface.

Lately I’ve been thinking, you know?, people should just besterilized at birth.

Now I have to go get the laundry.

speaking of women in the 17th century

2011-09-24T07:33:00.000-04:00

Today, a poem by Margaret Cavendish, with nods to AB

[I Language want, to dressemy Fancies in,]
I Language want, to dresse my Fancies in,
The Haire's uncurl'd, the Garments loose, and thin;
Had they but Silver Lace to make them gay,
Would be more courted then in poore array.
Or had they Art, might make a better show;
But they are plaine, yet cleanly doe they goe.
The world in Bravery doth take delight,
And glistering Shews doe more attract the sight;
And every one doth honour a rich Hood,
As if the outside made the inside good.
And every one doth bow, and give the place,
Not for the Mans sake, but the Silver Lace.
Let me intreat in my poore Booke's behalfe,
That all may not adore the Golden Calf.
Consider, pray, Gold hath no life therein,
And Life in Nature is the richest thing.
So Fancy is the Soul in Poetrie,
And if not good, a Poem ill must be.
Be just, let Fancy have the upper place,
And then my Verses may perchance finde grace.
If flattering Language all the Passions rule,
Then Sense, I feare, will be a meere dull Foole.

myopic hindsight

2011-09-23T09:01:00.002-04:00

I'm reading Lawrence Lessig's Free Culture on my iPhone (I enjoy reading on my iPhone, do you?). He makes the interesting comparison of the pre-WayBack-machine internet to the newspapers in Orwell's 1984, which are constantly edited to conform with the government-sanctioned version of the present.

I love this early sci-fi image: "Thousands of workers constantly reedited the past, meaning there was no way ever to know whether the story you were reading today was the story that was printed on the date published on the paper." I imagine the workers all as women dressed in the same drab grey uniforms and grey headscarves and no facial expressions.

There are ways around the WayBack machine, actually, which any savvy girl can figure out without too much trouble. Suppression of history is still totally possible.

But with older technologies, like, say, paper, there are other, more primitive ways of altering the public record.

A couple of years ago I went to visit my mother-in-law, who seemed very happy to show me a number of family albums. There was something strange about them. In many photos a person had been cut out. She had excised all of the pictures of my husband's first wife, and when I asked her why, she said that she hadn't wanted to offend me or hurt my feelings.

I found this quite bizarre. It wasn't as if I hadn't known that my husband had been married once before he married me. I don't understand the sort of family culture of denial/secrecy that would drive anyone to bowdlerize a photo album.

Perhaps it's because I'm a Jewess? I like my history all up front, unretouched, and in plain view. Else: condemned to repeat, and repeat, and repeat....

equinox

2011-09-21T07:47:00.000-04:00

First day of fall. The trees are gathering their energy in order to wither moremagnificently. I suppose that’s how I feel about my lifestage as well. I’m drinking a “grain beverage” – new addiction- I like to change my addictionsoccasionally. My obsession alwaysat this juncture of the year is boots. It isn’t that I don’t have boots or that I need them. Suddenly though they become totally engrossing,the place where my attention goes as if to nudity. I will spend hours looking for the grail of boots. There have been many boot fails. I havesent back many boots. Honestly itis more fun to look for boots online than boyfriends, although it is easier tofind the latter. A perfect pair of boots changes everything – all the items thatwill magnetically attract into outfits around the central sculptural fact ofthe boots.

I got these which make me look like I have cankles a bit but I like their exaggerated pirate feeling, since I think I am, when I am at my best, sort of an exaggerated pirate:

These are on their way to me. They are orthopedic. I'm not sure if you can tell but they have a design of embossed roses:

There are on their way to me as well. If they are comfortable they will be whatever the boot equivalent of "crowning glory" is. Just look at them! That color!

My semester is very busy and started especially busily so Iam not into the swing of journalism by which I mean recording what happens inmy life and consciousness. I miss this terribly. Doing it right now is a littledifficult, a bit like walking in a marsh. But I am trying to do it. I got Studying Hunger Journals yesterday andyou know there has always been something about Bernadette’s onrush that I haveidentified with and she makes me want also to enter a stream, the “life of thewriting” if that doesn’t sound too clichély insufferable. If we follow thatmetaphor, what then would be a big shiny silver fish? Autumn food in Japan isdesirable; I would like to eat some sort of broiled fish for breakfast thismorning but it isn’t feasible. Also what’s it called, go-moku gohan orsomething with all the ingredients, dried tofu, gingko nuts, carrots, etc.; Iwould like to eat that. I’m in aphase of eating brown rice with just some flavoring for two of my three meals aday. Olive oil, salt, pepper, andmaybe some spaghetti sauce. I don’t know why exactly I have started doing this.It’s not like I’m following a “diet” although I do want to slim myself. It just seemed appealing.

Thyroid all over the place as usual: it was too high forquite a while, and I was amped up and fried, and then I improvised the dosagefor about a week and it was too low I’m sure since all I wanted to do was sleepand I could barely get through the days. Now I’m on the right dose again and wewill see. Will I feel as if I haveenergy to accomplish the long list of projects that is always somewhereunderneath my forehead? The energy vacillates so much that I begin things andthen don’t continue them. I wroteon facebook that I felt a rant coming on against the fetishization ofappropriation-as-strategy. I didn’tmake the rant materialize, but I did begin a verse of “advice to young poets”that I also at least for now have abandoned, but here’s what I wrote:

You don’t need to have

anything to say: you only need

the desire to say it. That desire

will inhere in your selections

and your combinations. It’s only

those two things, finally: word

following word following word.

There is no innate value

to any approach or technique.

Beware those who preach

a gospel: they are marketing.

Beware appeals to authority:

they also are a part of marketing.

Respect only those whose value is

unequivocally clear to you: do not

adopt the values of others. You need

not like what you respect or value.

Your “tradition” should be at least

slightly different from the traditions

of others. Obsession is good. Follow

your obsessions. Don’t worry about

being “healthy.” Poetry is not about

being “healthy” although on some

miraculous occasions it might actually

heal. It won’t heal The State. Don’t think

it will heal The State.

And that’s where I stopped. I suppose I should continue. If I were to continue, I wouldprobably say that poetry can make people think about The State and there mightbe some change as a result, but it is indirect at the very best. I also think a line soon after this mightbe, “The desire to eat Moroccan olives naked.” I should put a “while” in there but I enjoy the ambiguity.

I think I would like to refer young poets to Stan Apps’Handbook of Poetic Language.

Do you ever have a day when you are not at least on somelevel disappointed and confused? If so, I think I envy you. The BigDisappointments do tend to loom over everything and I think so ruefully abouthow I bought her a cat or about how I meant to care for him in his dotage andalso the world is a big disaster, nothing like the 60s at all, just a big chaotic& agonistic open sore. That is why I suppose I am given to obsess overboots. How to be stylishly grounded? Protected? Tough as well as comfortable? That, my darlings, is the question.

telescopic philanthropist

2011-09-16T14:07:00.000-04:00

A very interesting post that takes as its focus the "telescopic philanthropist" Mrs Jellyby of Dickens' Bleak House.

"L'amour physique est sans issue"

2011-09-12T16:45:00.006-04:00

Unchecked lubriciousness: general degeneracy.

I, wife = an abstraction!

Rhinestones... all over his paunch.

dark cartoon apostrophes, bad marriage mantra, etc.

2011-09-08T17:06:00.000-04:00

I am busy with almost no time to write anything, that drivesme crazy, too busy looking for comma splices in student papers

Found on new sweetheart’s bookshelf an extremely obscure CDby a close friend of the someday-soon-ex-husband. The title? “BadMarriage Mantra”

He, the new one, so beautiful with eyes like darkapostrophes. Dark cartoon apostrophes. A pleasant ache about his beauty, just sitting next to him.

So beautiful, but so private. I’m not allowed to write about him, although perhaps I canwrite about not being allowed to write about him? This is a conundrum for me. When I love, silly me, I want tosound trumpets.

In general, I enjoy speaking up, making noise. What’s leftuncommunicated hurts. Because we have…language. Privacy troubles me.

Every day I am having internal conversations with a crueltriumvirate of absentees. It isn’t as if I imagine any “outcome.”

They haunt me, those three. Sometimes there are more. Others. But mainly those three.

So hard to be “buddhistic.”

What is “friendship.”

What is "marriage."

The conversation has nowhere to go but swirling, or ratherbanging, inside me. It’s not somuch conversation as something furious. I am always having this too muchinternal activity, that’s how I wrote the last book.

When I don’t have writing time the internal activity getstoo noisy and exhausts me, I’m sure many of you can relate.

A reaction formation like that of a dog who has beaten by aman in a green shirt and reacts with fear, anger, etc., to men in green shirtsthenceforth.

Except that instead of men in green shirts it is Asianwomen. How unfair to me! Since they are also my friends, myhistory, my livelihood, etc. (Even my therapist is an Asian woman! This is a good thing because it will perhaps help the reaction formation.) Hisnew “lifestyle accessory.” I countseveral pictures there in his new public self: Asian women. “I’m not into thatstuff,” he often said.

Sitting at the bar at a sex show in Patpong, Bangkok, with aboyfriend, then later, with another boyfriend. A woman comes up to me and compares the color of her arm tomine. I experienced this scenario precisely twice.

I had to walk out of “House of Bamboo” when it got to theline, “All the guys have kimona girls [SIC].”

creepy

Anyway I need to work through this reaction formation since it is my desire to move through the world lovingly, no matter how badly I have been treated.

Back to "privacy." Want to read my journal? Here is a journal entry from 7/27 of last year. I just came upon it in a notebook:

Think of it as opening a little door inside the head. Then there is this cadenced world. Making the collages, I startedhallucinating collages. The bookis making me a little sick, or that might be the moon, or a combination of thebook and the moon. I rarely goback through my books and read them – do you? [who was I addressing? who am Iever addressing?] Whole pieces, sections, I’d totally forgotten – in the olderbooks. I don’t know if this forgetting is good like postpartum chemicals or badlike not being sufficiently invested in my own productions.

and then this one I found also… really kind of freaked meout, since it was two days before I found out about the betrayal. I was staying up north in a motel in BarryvilleNew York with other poet friends, and G. had chosen to stay home, for reasonsthat soon became obvious:

In dreams –things materialized next to me – a snuffling St. Bernard – Gary – a stranger– so real – also so real: theterror on the bus – thinking I had got on the wrong one – along a dark highway – afraid even toask the driver for fear it might be true.

I’m going to go dance. Along a dark highway. For fear it might be true.

$2.18

2011-09-03T13:15:00.000-04:00

I've made $2.18 since I monetized this blog.

licking

2011-09-03T13:12:00.000-04:00

on melancholia

2011-08-31T13:27:00.001-04:00

According to José Esteban Muñoz, "In Freud's initial definition, melancholia spills into the realm of the pathological because it resembles a mourning that does not know when to stop."

today's googlebot ads! yikes!

2011-08-31T10:11:00.006-04:00

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I mean... wtf... ROMANCE TOURS??? I almost feel like I'm going to hyperventilate.

here was a good typo
Lain Singles Tours -

I wrote to this company, saying that I thought they were pimps and/or human traffickers.

MY WORST THING

2011-08-31T07:43:00.002-04:00

'My worst thing is a flowery gypsy skirt I've never worn'

My worst thing is cravings

my worst thing is when the chick said wtf is the problem with you. i straight up said what are you talkingg about. then we had sex. the she broke up with me

my worst thing is when i threw my mic at the wall and it broke piece a shiiii then i dented my t.v. by throwing by controller at it

Oh weird, my worst thing is wisdom tooth related too

My worst thing is rice.

My worst thing is people going around and asking the price of everything while the tag dangles in front of them

My worst thing is the "AAANNNNG AAAANNNGG AAANNNGG!!!!!!!!" sound of an electronic alarm clock going off. for Boner.

My worst thing is my ears.

Now my worst thing is the foggy-headedness.

My worst thing is my hair... it's like a weird curly wavy bushy mess and I used to just paste it to my head to get it under control.

My worst thing is anything that involves cleaning toilets or bathtubs.

Probably my worst thing is intrusive thinking.

Funny that my worst thing is fractions

My worst thing is I can't stay away from caramel. I will keep it up until I bend a wire or break a bracket and then I will go back to being humble.

My worst thing is menus describing non-meat dishes as a “vegetarian option”. What nonsense.

My fave thing in the world is laughter!!!

My worst thing is fear and the red covering I have over my shiny blue light.

My worst thing is the dry mouth and bleachy/mouthwashy type taste

My worst thing is the dizzyness!!!!! I hate it.

Absolutely my worst thing is drugs and learning about stds.

my worst thing is my parents think its just in my head, ...

My worst thing is charlie horses in my calves in the middle of the night.

my best thing is my smile and my worst thing is my naughtiness(lol).

My worst thing is that I'm alone,. I'm not wanted, nobody interests themselves in me... nobody cares. Role and Self.

My worst thing is I beat myself up after a situation where I didn't speak to anyone or was really shy.

my worst thing is my think

What the heck did you buy so many quail eggs for. My worst thing is coming away with a random single bird that looked unloved LOL

And my worst thing is champagne.

Though actually, my worst thing is when people ask me why I don't do girly sexy costumes all the time.

My worst thing is that (I am poor student.)-"I hope to fly freely like fish."

I've just started competitive trampolining and my worst thing is chickening out!

My worst thing is, well, I can't stop playing with my pussy.

But my worst thing is the hair twirling, i wrap my hair tightly round my fingers and then start chewing it - gross i know, then wonder why ive always got a headache and my hairs splitting.... crazy, i contemplate having my hair cut short, but now its even started to develope a ringlet effect with the amount of twisting and turning i put it through- gives a whole new meaning to a 'home perm'.

My worst thing is the way boys whack their willies in your back in the morning as a wake up call. It’s not as if we have an erogenous zone in the small of our backs, you know.

what do you think of this picture?

2011-08-30T23:07:00.002-04:00

a vampire bat with the head of Jim Nabors

2011-08-30T20:59:00.002-04:00

nothing but a waste of time

2011-08-30T18:38:00.001-04:00

What a spot-on horoscope today:

Capricorn (12/22-1/19)
The mists of your memories will do nothing but cloud up your vision today, and you will need clarity to make some important decisions. So try to live in the present moment each step of the way today. Face forward and keep thinking about the next adventure instead of leaving some of your heart in the past. Dwelling on failures -- or successes -- is nothing but a waste of time. Turn away from your memories and toward the opportunities that will come your way.

On Hurricane Sunday I finally began the much-dreaded project of rearranging the decimated, chaotic, divided books. It was something I could not bear to do before. I needed a full year before I could do that, and a helper (I had a helper). There were keen moments of noticing what was missing as well as gratitude for what was still there, and newly here.

I came upon a little green notebook, one of those French ones with the laminated plaid covers, of Gary's. Some of the material in it seems to have pre-dated our relationship, other stuff comes from when we were corresponding, and then also there are several poems that we wrote collaboratively. They were good. When we were first together, that kind of notebook passing-back-and-forth was one of our favorite and most productive activities. I guess I am not allowed to post the poems here, although they are half-mine. Oh... well...

My friend Peter asked me whether I felt pain at discovering this notebook. I wrote:

It was less painful than it was confusing.

It's still hard for me to understand what it was that exactly went wrong.

The creative alchemy for a while, and to some extent throughout, was
truly extraordinary. Why couldn't that survive the quotidian, the male
ego, etc.?

OK: so I don't understand, and I should just stop asking why why why why why, like the tiresomely insistent child in the elevator with her overly patient mother..

Clearly by posting this I am not following the horoscope's advice at all, but I do mean to, really, in good time.

Addendum: I realize this seems like it is about "me," but essentially it's not. It's about anyone who has ever lost anything. That would be everyone, I believe.

one year

2011-08-29T23:04:00.000-04:00

to the day.

I spent the day on the beach
with someone sweet.

swirl my heart to song

2011-08-27T00:47:00.000-04:00

Just like a hurricane, Just like a hurricane,

the way you broke my heart and now

I'm left with the pain. After the hurricane.

Ooh Ooh Ooh Ooh Ooh Ooh Ooh Ooh Ooh

Ooh Ooh Ooh Ooh Ooh Ooh Baby

You're a headless woman, you're a hurricane.

Let the hurricane swirl my heart to song.

Oh (yeah, yeah), oh

Oh, oh Oh, oh

Hello hurricane

You're not enough

Hello hurricane

You can't silence my love

I've got doors and windows boarded up

All your dead-end fury is not enough

You can't silence my love

Oh (my love), oh

Oh (yeah, yeah), oh

Oh, oh Oh, oh

take a bite of my heart tonight ~ hurricane //

panic! at the disco are you worth your weight in gold

cause you're behind my eyelids

lyric in hurricane rhythm my empty heart lyric

Only working lyric in hurricane ...

Oh (yeah, yeah), oh

Oh, oh Oh, oh

can melatonin hurt my heart

stomach hurtscheast painstired. difference hurrican

Hurricane swirls with mellow acoustic guitars,

lush arrangements, and soaring

what does it mean if my lower right side hurts

kermit the frog sings hurt

exotic blue point kitten

why does peeling skin by nails hurt

nudist russian family pics girls

hurful insult

headaches with nausea and fatigue and hurting eye

does edema hurt

2 broken legs and a hurt arm clip art

hurricane vase flower submerged

Oh (yeah, yeah), oh

Oh, oh Oh, oh

'o why is my heart unchained', the poet

questions herself why she feels the way she does.

The hurricane represents her inner turmoil

'o why is my heart unchained', the poet

questions herself why she feels the way she does.

The hurricane represents her inner turmoil

Crash crash

Burn let it all burn

This hurricane chasing us all underground

This Hurricane

Oh (yeah, yeah), oh

Oh, oh Oh, oh

You Make My Heart Go Crazy

(Like a Hurricane) Trying to wash away

all this pain near, the agony inside my chest

takes me away from here. The whole world

falls over this innocuous soul

And you breathe trying to escape

from that unhappiness that degenerates my head.

Could somebody please save me from this

hurricane of pain here? I’m just trying to hold on,

but this wind keeps getting stronger. I bend.

Could somebody please save me from this

hurricane of pain here? I’m just trying to hold on,

but this wind keeps getting stronger. I bend.

'o why is my heart unchained', the poet

questions herself why she feels the way she does.

The hurricane represents her inner turmoil

Oh (yeah, yeah), oh

Oh, oh Oh, oh

Let the hurricane swirl my heart to song.

their mishigas

2011-08-24T00:21:00.002-04:00

Human relationships in our time and culture seem to have been reduced to a kind of disposable commodity. They are treated shallowly; conflict, rather than something to be examined, worked through, learned from, negotiated, etc., is regarded as a cue for dissolution: it's easier. There are always plenty of replacements. That one might spend years, say, absorbing (and knitting oneself into/ being knit into) someone’s narratives, and then, hardly with an augenblick, that person banishes you from their life or disappears from yours, is rivaled in its injustice only by its absurdity.

Several recent events have made me wonder whether I am too loyal? Too loving? Too tolerant? Am I the sort of person who will put up with a whole array of inconsiderate and even cruel behaviors in order to preserve a connection that I feel is precious? If so, I am asking myself, do I need to change? Do I need to become more hardened? or more impervious to people’s inevitable mishigas?

There was an earthquake here today, I suppose you know… not a big one, but a rare one, and you know, it made me think, coming up on the tenth anniversary of 9/11, of disasters, and of how one’s first impulse in a disaster is to find one’s loved ones and be near them. My whole world has changed so completely in more or less exactly the past year (yesterday was the first anniversary of my discovery of Gary’s betrayal, and it has been a struggle to keep myself from obsessing about that, about the events and turmoil that ensued that week and in the months that followed) that I have a quite different set of loved ones, and yet there are these former loved ones sort of floating about the world, some in the same city as me, and it is very likely that I shall never speak with them again, and even if I do, it will not be with any degree of trust or intimacy or warmth. This knowledge is a little like a terrible headache that never goes away.

When that pang gets too intense, I soothe myself in various ways: by eating cherries, or doing yoga, by folding things or reading books or petting cats, or, perhaps most usefully, by reminding myself: it is their mishigas. The relationships weren’t “working” anyway, and these people weren’t up to the task of repair. They had neither the tools nor the desire, and they didn’t value me as I valued them. I want to pity them for that, and for having to carry around with them now and forever the fact of their inadequacies, their cowardice, their cruelties, their… littleness. Pity is something I can only feel, though, when I am feeling more or less solidly inside myself and not in a state of just-glued-back rupture. I know you all want it just to be over, you don’t want to hear about it anymore, you counsel me to forget, move on, look to the future, and I think that mostly I have and mostly I do… despite the fact that in the span of this year I have lost, at their will, the two people I believed were closest to me (and others ancillary to those relationships). Even though that closeness may have been a self-deception, and even though I may understand that self-deceptiveness conceptually, my very cells… in an emotional sense…feel bereft and shocked and confused still. I often feel memories of specific injustices rise up very suddenly and I am overcome by the unfairness of them and of how powerless I am to do anything about them.

I just threw away several Chinese movies he left behind. There is always all this detritus, all this evidence: Gary was here. When he left he radiated such meanness: well, you can do what you want, you can stay here or move away, whatever you like: as if we had hardly known each other, as if we hadn’t had an agreement. He was just this horrible bundle of bad vibes, a cornered animal, his eyes little slits, his body all crumpled and contracted. It’s not like I’m pining away for that. It’s just that the shock, you know, doesn’t just dissipate, as the memories do not, and then, you know, I massage them sometimes, as if (counterintuitively, maybe) by really going into them I can lessen their power.

I’m not taking any pharma-drugs anymore to muffle anything now. I don’t know if that’s a good idea or not, but it didn’t feel right to do that anymore. So now, I guess, I just have to deal.

nemo moving his leg

2011-08-22T22:33:00.001-04:00

Women Will Vote for Hitler

2011-08-19T23:04:00.002-04:00

People spend between three and four

hours a day opposing desire,

but every morning when a woman wakes up

in the crack of 10:30 she is thrilled to see

that shit for sun in the sky again and

her orange self-tanner will look as radiant

as she did yesterday. They know nothing

about anything dirty. They know nothing.

Marriage is a fascist dictatorship and

oppression - and so is any relationship

with a woman, they are all alike. If you

do not like the taste of Kool-Aid,

prepare to have a siren scream bullshit

to go along on your ear.

Women will vote for Hitler. Not because

a woman could be persuaded to buy a ketchup

popsicle while she was wearing white gloves,

but because women are all fascists.

It's probably true because us men

have something called integrity.

Ten Ways to not suck in bed?

Six things to do for your man who lies

as a Futon? Completely Honestly,

who gives half circle your socks on or off?

Jesus Christ is pathetic.

Also, just like a wall probably does not like

or do not care to play tennis with you,

it's certainly not your fault. Do not let

your sympathetic male compassion

get the better of you.

All women do not understand the hate label.

They are annoying as fuck and logical node,

ties around viper millions as leaders of

feminism leap their heads explode small –

and have glitter and shit-ass all over the

country, but women are also prohibited

because they are fascists.

Women must think about this

while they are enjoying their breasts

and Frappaccinos halter instead of

burkas and punch-Rapping. They

apparently do not. They are women.

They are not designed to think.

Men are stronger. Men are smart. Men

are able to put their thoughts into words

to communicate, while women can not

mentally hold onto something

that is not shiny or fluffy.

Men's super sticky glue keeps one company

out of the country along his ass, and women

are crappy tape that keeps Post It notes

on the computer screen along her asses.

Marriage is still stupid. This is a stupid game

invented to entertain stupid minds and to teach

basic lessons of fidelity that even snakes

are born with.

I am a man. I will kill a dragon to get laid.

But if there is another dragon, a Rubik's cube

on a face or something to get in the back,

she can go fuck themselves.

I usually do not like "skinny",

but this chick above me give me

wood and gives me the time

I was finished with her. Her

face will look like a giant glazed

donut, so I will put a

vibrator up her ass fuck her

and make a floor to ceiling mirror

while I peed in a dog bowl.

I hate her face, but if she had

a good wash and hydropower

colon cleansing, I would push

my face in between those giant

buttcheeks ass her and her tongue.

So I will put my beef its rectum sword

(if I can get her when he pushes so far

that ass out! : Eek:), and it was used

I will push a table leg up her ass. I wonder

if there is enough lube if I can get my face

to go in her ass. * Bet the

KERPUNK have turds

the size of a baby's arm!

Yes it is good. I wonder if she

has ever been in a choke slammed

QueenSized Rhetoric mattress with 1800

thread count sheets, and engage and puked

on the edge of the bed itself? Intensive SEX

sheetrock walls have indentations from all

figures, smearing eyeliner, grunts and groans

of sexual happiness as it is plugged into a

pretzel shape and xXxtremely rolled hardcore.

It looks like a cock tease, the kind that talks

a good game but can not handle a barbarian

raiding party for 45 minutes straight (or longer).

And the thunder she hears it snapping out of her

mind releases moisture ulitmate of sexual freedom.

These examples are fucked. I want to see some

really ugly bitches with teeth up to increase eyes.

An ugly overshot and a unibrow, there could be

another head of hair. All I see is a bunch of

Asian women I will never meet, since

im a greek dirty hair (with moderate to

terrible ass hair as well). I would probably

kill these women to bed one or otherwise.

I mainly just so freaky deaky, militant women,

overweight and Thicky, so I think ___ has a right

to his love of Asian poontang. I had a false increase

in some Asian in my time and received nine new ones,

but they can not deal with Godzilla as the thickness

or the cries of shock nut. So sore from the floor

until they were, and learned to speak English

with my old futon as well.

I imagine a Jewish boy wearing a Pancho,

depending on talk about bad events to follow

some meteor hiting the Earth. Wasabi has no foil,

pushing his Sandy mustache Persian

into another sandy mustache persian

With regard to the opinion of banging

a wooden panel, average Asian little girls

are in the hearts of white or black women,

yes. But you can also expect smaller areas

and strong as an average Asian women.

This is all personal choice. For me,

I do not think I could ever get in a serious

relationship with a white woman any more.

Finally, I think that's true everywhere,

so do not judge women acting in bed with porn.

It's just not true. 99% .

You do not think those girls, thick ass I love.

I'm mostly in Italian women themselves,

so it was not my thing to begin with.

Various licks dicks different though,

so it all cool.

Pubic hair when they exist is kinda rough: (

I am very happy to have a beautiful Italian

woman with a very sexy body, healthy

and a donkey who is out of this damn world...

so charming

2011-08-17T16:52:00.000-04:00

Varieties

2011-08-16T10:35:00.003-04:00

I am entwined in, with, and by objects,

the small cute-face people – pompous face –

the no-face people, fear or startle-gesture face.

The thing is. Every time I see ~~his name~~ the world

slashes into ribbons. It was my name after all. Blue

lights flash in the dusk of gawds (gourds) that

are never appreciated as viscera. I wail: there

are pipettes in me; these drugs attack

the conceptual mind. I’m up at four ~~his name~~

cutting ribbons into my dust and stagnant

memory energy. The fuzzy heart is glimpsed

barely in the insect-heavy lights of haunted

knowledge, but I was just… a text. What

would make me feel safe’s a total clampdown

on all cell walls. What’s today? Discomfort

squirrels crazily in the human shadow room

where I ache like an ache of strychnine,

arsenic, ptomaine, etcetera. In fact, there

are many varieties of variety

to choose from:

Amphora

Aurantia

Baby Boo

Big Moon

Black Zucchinu

Blaue Banane

Butternut

Citrullina

Early prolific straightneck

Futsu Black Rinded

Jack O' Lantern

Kabocha

Lebanese

Maliformis

Orange Früchte

Pumpkin

Pyxidaris

Reticulata

Scallopini

Sweet Meat

Trombone

Vegetable Spaghetti

White Custard

Yellow Hubbard

The decibel lilt of these

in the night garden, dehiscent

and gaily gnarled!

Plumbed murk

of seedy flesh: strings

of lite ribbons

of lonely

and art-like

decibels.

Who can trust

what? The rain

is a machine.

Your soft silver hair

brushes my abdomen.

This is part of "love."

I suppose I do mind
the clutter, its dense machinic
excess, but I can't help it.

I want my goat back.

I ask you:

How can I be
the relatively large giraffe
I know I am?

On things and The Squeakquel

2011-08-12T16:13:00.004-04:00

Death holding a sun parasol
a strong man
a panda
a tortoiseshell cat with a food bowl
a white tiger, an orange tyrannosaurus rex, three little matroyshkas, some puppies, a cowboy, a fake lotus, an army-green triceratops, a bunny smoking a a cigarette, a tiny ambulance with a miniature doctor's kit inside, a meercat, a Kwan Yin, hear/see/speak-no evil monkeys, a mini-snowglobe with a leprechaun inside, tiny mini-cartons of mini vegetables, a tiny metal lantern, wee groceries like bread and orange juice and onigiri, miniscule zaru-soba set, tiny blender with bananas, strawberries, ice, koi, a woodchuck, a metal lantern, a zebra, a relatively large wooden giraffe with gumby hanging from his ear and a tiny pink human infant in his horns, a brass genie lamp, some kind of African antelope with striped legs, a branch, fake poppies and irises in a red plastic faux red-crystal vase, ETCETERA

This is what I see from my desk.

Even a little exposure to me will confirm the extent to which I am (maybe notoriously) entwined in, with, and by objects. I can't help myself, I search them out and they come to me. I find them on the street, I buy them online and in the real world. I arrange them and rearrange them and discard them and give them away and make them and pet and covet and alter them. I suppose I do mind the clutter but I can't help it.

On a recent visit to Alli Warren's Arts & Crafts-style bungalow-studio in Oakland, I was so impressed by the crisp sparsity of her living quarters: a small pile of library books, a shelf of chapbooks, a shelf of lovingly curated LPs. With few arrangements of objects to gather dust and stagnant memory-energy, there was an air of freshness. Konrad Steiner's little house was only slightly more thingified, although in the garden grew quite baroquely some radicchio that could have been painted by Caravaggio as well as cascades of nasturtiums, some of which I happily munched on. My mom's house is full of crystals, faux-lotuses, and Kwan Yin statues, but still there is a general air of spaciousness that I don't think I could cultivate even if I wanted to.

I mention all this as a way to bring myself to begin to write about what I have been wanting for weeks to write about: Dana Ward's twin chapbooks, The Squeakquel, pts. 1 and 2, recently out from The Song Cave. He writes in part 1 that

...I never had much of a feeling for 'things'. On Easter Sunday last year I was visiting New York & David & Sara were there from San Francisco. After lunch we got onto the subjct of the object (haha), & I admitted to David I never spent a whole lot of time on the topic, & how, with respect to Walter Benjamin (& Proust) this often made me feel insufficiently bathed in melancholia & thus somewhat detached from the haunted modernity I loved as emotional color & theory but never appreciated as viscera. David, a curl of mild shock in his voice, said, "You don't think of our lives as it's lived amid things?!."

Two points. No... three points, really:

1) David and Sara's apartment is filled with things. Books, mainly. Hundreds of books in piles. I don't remember a whole lot of other things, but the books are there with a kind of radiant, possibly sinister, seductive energy, because that is what books are: radiant and sinister and seductive.

2) Dana goes on in these chapbooks to sort of disprove this statement and notice mindfully that in fact he is as intertwined with objects as anyone, his protestations to the contrary notwithstanding: "I was so happy to get the scarf back I can barely tell you how happy I was! It provided me not only with a feeling of narrative completeness but also it perpetuated the seditious upending of my own bland coolness toward objects..." (pt. 2) Plus I remember the time before last when I saw him he was wearing these amazing blue suede boots; no one who was truly indifferent toward objects could choose and wear such footwear.

3) I'm in love with his "prose style." "A curl of mild shock in his voice" is just the right amount of mannered and inventive, and it's just exactly right.

But it's not prose like, you know, prose. It's got poems in it (by which I mean verse poems as "part of" the narrative" as well as poetry woven into the non-verse paragraphs):

"dense machinic excess"

"horrifically licentious little algebras"

"bewildering opacity figured through poetry"

"oh, poetic time"

I've written before somewhere that I sensed a whiff of Kerouac in Dana's tone-constructions, and that statement holds. Two more observations:

1) He fondles his pop culture references just as lovingly as everything else, but not in such a way that one feels, oh, the obligatory pop culture references. They are key.

2) There is a moment that feels like Sartre to me. Do you remember that famous "tree" passage in Nausea? Let me see if I can find it online... yes, here it is:

So I was in the park just now. The roots of the chestnut tree were sunk in the ground just under my bench. I couldn't remember it was a root any more. The words had vanished and with them the significance of things,their methods of use, and the feeble points of reference which men have traced on their surface. I was sitting, stooping forward, head bowed, alone in front of this black, knotty mass, entirely beastly, which frightened me. Then I had this vision. It left me breathless. Never, until these last few days, had I understood the meaning of"existence." I was like the others, like the ones walking along the seashore, all dressed in their spring finery. I said, like them, "The ocean is green; that white speck up there is a seagull," but I didn't feel that it existed or that the seagull was an "existing seagull"; usually existence hides itself. It is there,around us, in us, it is us, you can't say two words without mentioning it, but you can never touch it. When I believed I was thinking about it, I must believe that I was thinking nothing, my head was empty, or there was just one word in my head, the word "to be." Or else I was thinking . . . how can I explain it? I was thinking of belonging, I was telling myself that the sea belonged to the class of green objects, or that the green was a part of the quality of the sea. Even when I looked at things, I was miles from dreaming that they existed: they looked like scenery to me. I picked them up in my hands, they served me as tools, 1 foresaw their resistance. But that all happened on the surface. If anyone had asked me what existence was, I would have answered, in good faith, that it was nothing, simply an empty form which was added to external things without changing anything in their nature. And then all of a sudden, there it was, clear as day: existence had suddenly unveiled itself. It had lost the harmless look of an abstract category: it was the very paste of things, this root was kneaded into existence. Or rather the root, the park gates, the bench, the sparse grass, all that had vanished: the diversity of things, their individuality, were only an appearance, a veneer. This veneer had melted, leaving soft, monstrous masses, all in disorder—naked, in a frightful, obscene nakedness. I kept myself from making the slightest movement, but I didn't need to move in order to see,behind the trees, the blue columns and the lamp posts of the bandstand and the Velleda, in the midst of a mountain of laurel. All these objects... how can I explain? They inconvenienced me; I would have liked them to exist less strongly, more dryly, in a more abstract way, with more reserve. The chestnut tree pressed itself against my eyes. Green rust covered it half-way up; the bark, black and swollen, looked like boiled leather.

There is a passage like this in The Squeakquel Part 1, a kind of sister to Sartre's:

I remember one night as a kid sitting in an over-lit Subway, nursing an enormous Dr. Pepper, being 14, in love with my solemn isolation & considering, lost in a trance of new thoughts, the fact, or the meaning of the hard yellow both [sic] I was sunk in. I was trying to picture its origins & sources, who'd made it & where,, & under what conditions. Until then there'd been a fuzzy kind of magic that governed my relations to things & their appearance in the world, but the table seemed to quit this spell, suddenly breaking through clouds. Deprived of my immature chains of causation through which to substantiate the facts of its existence, the table seemed to seek not the breakdown of a magic bet a better brand of sorcery to compliment the absence of a theory I was wholly conditioned to persist in. The table grew tired of feeling my eyes boring into its surface with mute incomprehension, & so, as if to satisfy my mystical impatience leapt up & started dancing there, not possessed, come true. When it danced it was like a Swiss army knife dancing with each step revealing more lacerating plumage that cut through the tender & tactile air above my head (which had something like the dampness of a sapling), & when it was done with its volleys & cuts a dewy light-bulb had been carved and stationed in the orbit of my skull. It burned warm, & would multiply too; I would find it screwed into the socket of every single lamp, fastened under the cradles of glass-hooded streetlights, & fixed into heaven – the sun.

In both instances, the objects melt with the viewing subjects into a kind of busy revelatory space, but where Sartre gets nauseated, Dana sees kinetics and light. I think they are tied for "vision" and "imagination" – what do you think?

The worst thing about Dana's Squeakquel books is that they are too short. I want to stay ensconced in them for a much longer time and/but I am glad and grateful that they have become part of the objects that surround me in my universe and into which I can project my own bouncy and visionary [?] perceptions.

Horny Makeup Goat

2011-08-04T11:03:00.002-04:00

The goat looked me in the eye.

I hoped I didn't have any dew

in my hair. What scares me,

however—what continuously gets

my goat, what still occasionally

makes me feel weird about sex—

is how easy it is to perform

it as a goat. And of course by goat,

I mean buck-toothed lama

that got worked over by a

Sharpie and has weird shit in its

ears. Horny makeup gets

my goat: Orgasm, Super Orgasm, Sex

Appeal, and DEEP THROAT! Come

on now I know that I am the coolest person

on the planet (its true. My mom said so.)

but I have zero interest in sounding like

one of those Atlantic City HBO

documentary hookers when I

am at the makeup boutique.

Kind of off topic but do you know

what really gets my goat? When people

throw themselves in front of trains. Also

when people drop their nasty cigarette

butts on the ground, like they are special.

Disgusting. Already I have the sore boobs

and fatigue. Blah. And if my pregnant

sister-in-law's boyfriend shows his

motherfucking face in this house again

there's going to be a problem. You know

what really gets my goat? Chupacabras.

Those chupacabras really get on my tits,

like Uncapitalized third grade grammar.

You wanna know what chaps my

hide? What gripes my bottom?

What gets my panties all in a bunch?

What really gets my goat

is this notion that English and Maltese

are both “our national languages.”

Excel gets my goat sometimes

Das bringt mich in Zorn.

George Clooney gets my goat,

and the quota system, and

when certain games do not

let you get the complete story

without amping up the difficulty.

Fugly shoes get my goat. Some parents

worry about teen pregnancy. I worry

about my daughter wearing sandals

that look like some sort of bedazzled

fiesta unicorn excrement. Okay,

this really gets my goat. In fact

it gets my goat, chews it up,

swallows it and then regurgitates

it, semi-digested. Now

I want my goat back.

I hope I don’t

have any dew in my hair.

content

2011-08-03T07:59:00.000-04:00

his work is very excellent

he tells human stories

the guys who earned higher ratings had

more control over their upper bodies

and were twisting, bending, moving and

nodding instead of simply pumping their fists

in the air. Women scored men whose movements

were twitchy and repetitive the lowest — so try

to stay on beat and avoid shuffling back and forth

aimlessly.

a very “I like myself” kind of pocket

the wide pant

and the very red lip

puking clown

Interest in cats who like Hitler

isn’t a new phenomenon.

people

2011-08-02T22:21:00.000-04:00

people are there and then they are not.

it's horrible.

kasey goes mainstream

2011-08-01T13:47:00.001-04:00

Watch the full episode. See more PBS NewsHour.

droop loss slave

2011-07-30T10:52:00.003-04:00

I just got these… sorrow pants on…

as an ascii kitten in the lasso of tiresome

attachment, a fever inside the EZ-pawn

coconut of “social parity” so that I want

to go again to the beach. O Daisy of

Gory Insouciance, give me some

compliments, for I am prettier

than that girl with insufficient space

between nose and upper lip. Grace juices

shrewishly the supposed pubescent bodies

of animated classical music babies. I’m not really

into things “fading” or the “bendability”

of mind-boggling “progress,” its

profoundly colorectal fluid tossing.

The Jewish bride circles her husband

seven times, to show she will protect

him while he reads books. The cyclones

starshipped grandiloquently then are not (then)

the spooky nudists of my will. Problems

shall surely jingle, silenced by the shabbiness

of unwooded rejections, inferring their pirogi

from what is quickly einsteinian

by shamble. I do believe in marriage,

its solemnity, the smell of caves,

the nearby (unwedded) albino crocodiles.

Of this I can sob masterfully,

loftily, coherently soured, all mushy

with the birdsong of the mind.

She (Rachel) asked why I have to write love

poems, and what about ideas…

but isn’t love an idea? The

idea? Deliciousnessing? First:

the cessation of oestrus. Then, its waxy-

tortuous crystals, forming homes around

dependent young, or surrogate

dependent young such as Nemo

and Dante… sebaceous watercolor

hopes stewed in a nonexempt golden

junk, an ungual kinescope swooshing

in a metaphorically barebacked

toughness. How to routinely

badger myself in the unfrosted

careerism of thrum? My husband’s

junk, harmfully collapsible. My husband’s

birthday, filled with the sweetish

dreamings of polysnthetic mythicized

dogs. Incurvate as kismet, uninstructively

meaningful, leathered by mistakes, tensely

deep-seated. I give myself fair warning.

Free of him. Free of her. Swallows’ wings

around a looming breast, why want what

one wants? Fake freedom of hummingbirds,

universal music all over my hippie

headband. What is eruditely unexcitable

can sit mussy on the variations of these

banal astonishments: “The Promise Breakers.”

Eternal reproach of rotated to soaked.

Eternal reproach of aromatic rust-colored

bodies. Eternal reproach of quintillionths

of fear images. Medications are not

dogfights. Eternal reproach of auric

blathering lustfully quantifiable truth

serums. Uncivilly that I am. Eternal

reproaches that are not adoptive, as

pink-purple smocks or brazen-faced

antiquarian raptures. We should

ptyalize the doors as unassailably

unstirred ghostfish, the ghost in the

apartment, shells of shapes, shells

of sounds, shells of smells. Noncolumned

it is inexpressible, and it quilts

the petty cactus of doubtful imaginings.

Its enchanted runch. Eternal reproach

of these nonmodern verse sardonics:

they slaver on the looming irreality

of the señorita, smashed as from

a sheika or hajj or cygnus. I suppose

I am the chick of the clunky hindfoots,

diabolizing tamarillos and pennywhistles

with fancily confusing tunes. I do believe

in marriage, its amaranthine blubber.

What can you hydraulically have?

There is a thorn tree India. Like

a truth serum. How not to fear images

of soapy bodies’ riddles? We should

ptyalize the doors. Eternal reproach

of a conscientiously belittling buffalo

wallowing in the montmartre of its

flightiness. It is Sumatran by finiteness:

marriage, I mean. The oddballs of ringleader

whining. Her feet smelling in those rubber

boots as she waits for the lipgloss. Patchily

again I have the cactus of imagining,

polymerizing the psychotropic seed-time

of a plane-polarized organza. The high-tech

viridity of self loving. The bird-hipped

dinosaurs of marriage – we manfully research

our skin. A hollow pianissimo, marriage’s

iridescent spareribs, precedently retroflexed.

The mysterious chatter of the lions. Tired

of men and their alphabets. He wallows

in the grandest blindspot. Chock. Fracture.

Weblike. Tight. The mesmerizer is not

punitively crimson. We were stonelike

and licensed as retrievable doves,

puckishly justifying vermillion

songs-as-gadgets in the cool midnight.

The subtreasuries of our minds husked

heavenwards as hollow pianissimos;

I was the cloven-footed schoolmarm

(many-chambered droop loss slave)

unswayed by the WILL of those

off-putting bodies, their ordinariness

and lustfully quantifiable bunts.

Final rule: can you actually have the

maladjusted rhinal pup? Patchily

I despise the deliciously prognathous

slaughterers, immunized from heart

to heart. This womanly motorized

scholastic body. It is a kind of vaginitis

of the mind. We should ptyalize

the doors, and grapple, notwithstanding.

Snail-like, they were…

psychotropic. Indeed: there is

a kind of thorn tree India in them.

In this nearsighted doubtful opinion.

i don't know

2011-07-28T16:03:00.001-04:00

it feels weird to be both bitter and blissful at the same time...

kind of... vertiginous...

whoremongers, etc.

2011-07-23T09:20:00.001-04:00

IMG_0262, originally uploaded by Ululate.

stream

2011-07-22T23:02:00.001-04:00

IMG_8229, originally uploaded by Ululate.

feeling

2011-07-19T13:51:00.001-04:00

the chemical dialectic

TYPING OUT LOUD

2011-07-19T05:59:00.002-04:00

I put lemon in my eyes?

My main reason for choosing to write this review is that now, the absence of a scent is bothering me. Although it is 'unscented', I smell something, and it isn't pleasant! To be perfectly honest, it smells like worms. It just reminds me of those rainy days, walking to school when there were lots of worms on the sidewalk. It smells like wet, rainy weather worms.

Even after my third wife went cold, i kissed her.
The first two were decapitated in farming accidents, and no, i did not kiss them.

Yeah, is death suppose to make them gross instantaneously?

What did I know of worms and skincare?

shook shook shook

2011-07-19T00:12:00.002-04:00

Third day off Effexor.

it’s as if my head were an old band-aid can full of dried grasshoppers then shaken

or like there are these alligators made of cardboard who chomp their jaws repeatedly in a way that stops time

it is rather like time stops for a second, or like the brain is kind of throbbing in that transition from past into present

it’s percussive, sort of electric, shuddery

it’s a kind of gap in “normalcy”

often in the literature it’s called a shock or a zap or a jolt… I don’t quite experience that…it’s more like, as it’s sometimes often called… shivers

I can’t see myself when it happens, but I wonder whether something weird isn’t also happening with my eyes… if they are rolling back slightly, because I have that feeling

it’s a little like the scratching a dj does

as I said sometimes I have to just stop if I am walking or kind of steady myself

it isn’t serious, doesn’t feel dire… but it feels weird, especially in the heat

a whispery sound like shook shook shook
and a tension in my skull and temples

if I move my head to the side
or my eyes to the side
quickly.

p.s.

from the FDA medical products reporting program, the list of withdrawal symptoms from effexor include:

agitation, anorexia, anxiety, confusion, coordination impaired, diarrhea, dizziness, dry mouth, dysphoric mood, fasciculation, fatigue, headaches, hypomania, insomnia, nausea, nervousness, nightmares, sensory disturbances (including shock-like electrical sensations), somnolence, sweating, tremor, vertigo, and vomiting.

2011-07-18T00:16:00.001-04:00

star pasta and black night carrot

!!!

same old argument

2011-07-17T19:17:00.001-04:00

This were my responses to someone who posted the following quote on Google+, which is better than facebook, by the way.

“We believe there are times when you are empty and times when you are full. When you’re full to overflowing, you write poems until you’re empty, then you wait around while you get filled up again.”
- Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux, The Poet's Companion

Nada Gordon - This is absolutely ridiculous and annoying. When you feel this way, just steal something.

Nada Gordon - I don't think you could pay me to read that book!

Nada Gordon - The whole notion of "inspiration" posits a bourgeois Privileged Self with a Special Inside. To me it's dopey and cloying. We make things out of enthusiasm, excitement, ambition, or some other sort of motivation, but "inspiration" is nonsense, as is the idea of "fullness" or emptiness," as if we weren't always permeable and therefore neither full nor empty. Besides, we didn't make language, it moves through us, it came from outside to begin with, so the idea of being "empty" is just... fallacious. Just think about it, people! Don't rely on worshoppy drivel-marketing for your consolation or guidelines. "The poet's companion" MY ASS! If you want to make something, just f***ing assemble it. Addonizio and Laux are symptomatic of the ingrained simpering wrongthinking of "creative writers" who think their precious little epiphanies are Of Great Import. Angst anyway is not "emptiness" and neither is "joy." Emotion may imbue/ exude from/ project onto a poem, or not, but it doesn't make a poem. Will makes a poem. Selection and combination make poems, not emotions. I find the book, the post, the comments, the whole mindset utterly annoying. We can't BUT "steal another person's words" unless we use a zaum language no one else can understand. If you don't know what zaum is, look it up instead of reading Addonizio and Laux.

tameiki ga dechauu yo!!

2011-07-17T10:48:00.001-04:00

(the post title means "a sigh totally escapes")

(song: Koi no Vacance [Passion Vacation] sung by The Peanuts)

nightmare

2011-07-16T10:53:00.003-04:00

boyfriend had an affair with husband's girlfriend

I called the husband to tell him, he said don't call me, I said I have to tell you this news

at first he said hedidn't mind, saying that people were supposed to have one-night stands

but then I said it seemed more serious

and he posted something bitter on some social network, I can't remember...

I suppose I am not free. silly subconscious!

it was... where was it... there was some bank, or hotel... where there were these tropical island tours. it was near me but I had never been there.

on the lawns of the tropical island were these golden tongues

sculptures of golden tongues

they meant something... memorialized something, I am not sure what... some sort of... sea leprechauns?

and a friend lived near there with a prairie for a huge backyard... his children were frolicking there with his girlfriend... it was "India"... and it looked as though there were a huge fire in the yard, all red and purple and vivacious colors

and there were tumbleweeds, but maybe the fire was an illusion

since everyone seemed happy and unconcerned

today

2011-07-15T22:13:00.002-04:00

I took my last dose of Effexor today. I feel free. There has been a weird side effect over the course of the discontinuation...moments of buzzing vertigo, with a strange tapping sound in my head, and a rush of numbness around my lips and the lower part of my face; this has been happening when I am tired or if I move my head or eyes too suddenly. Sometimes I have to steady myself a little. It hasn't been too bad, though; I have read many horror stories online, about zaps and tinnitus and the like.

I've had a couple of bouts of tearfulness I've been grateful for since going off this drug is a little like unwrapping oneself from a thick, muffly blanket. The tearfulness is a sign my emotions are back, and so are my... appetites.

When life is good, it is so very good indeed, I was just saying to Sharon this afternoon. I feel almost strident with happiness, having learned at least temporarily how to free myself from sorrow. It certainly took a lot of effort.

Tomorrow I am planning a trip to the beach, with a vegan picnic and a beautiful genius in tow. I bought suntan oil. Suntan oil? Do people still use that stuff? I like the smell and I want to darken myself a little.

I am marinating tempeh in soy sauce and agave and ancho chile powder and paprika. Will this actually be good? In a sandwich? A TLT? It sounds good, but I don't know. Should I put tomato paste in the marinade too?

Sometimes I rub the scar on my chin as a reminder of all sorts of things. What to do, what not to do.

I am going to write lots of words on a dress. What kinds of words should I write?

(Nemo is sleeping on my inkjet printer under the lamp and dreaming, his paws and eyebrows twitching wildly.)

all I see are these puppets

2011-07-15T09:11:00.001-04:00

Where are all my lovers
All those who loved me so much
Once when I was beautiful?
Farewell to the infidels
They do not know where
In other appointments
Me my heart has not grown old yet
Where are all my lovers,

In sorrow and the night comes
I remain alone, isolated without support
Without any hindrance, without love
As a derelict my heart is heavy
I've known that once the happiness
Evening of celebration and worship
I am a slave to my memories
And that makes me suffer.

The night ends and when the morning comes
The dew cry with all my sorrows
All those I love
Who loved me
In the wan days
are cleared
I see fog move on me
All I see are these puppets, they are the ones
Still struggling, supreme effort
I think the hug again.

(Actually, I don't feel like this, but the occasion called for it.)

(Also, not to be petty or anything, but that is my CD.)

purrrrrr

2011-07-13T14:31:00.004-04:00

I love this piece because I love Claude...
when he's not tapdancing or granny
crotcheting or just being plainly

freaky wierd. CLAUDE IS THE WORLDS
GREATEST CHARACTER!!!!!! CLAUDE! ♥
"Sorry for my poor English" SQUEEEEEEEEe!!!!! CUTE!

I like my men with tight pants and eyeliner.
Staring at the sun, I want that art
has died.^^ I'm from Russia.

Logic is a little bird tweeting in meadow.
You're so right about glasses. Haha
it's the cool and smexy Claude!

omg i love him guys with glasses
are so awesome! *warning* by reading
this you just lost half ur brain cells

Here comes the smoulder...
If karma was a dude I'd kick him in the nuts^-^
Oh God...Do what you want Claude.

I can honestly say that this is, hands down,
the best Claude cosplay I've ever seen.
Utatane Piko + Coconut = Love

So serious. I badly know english. Write
briefly and clearly. I love claude's expression,
looks mischeivious, sneaky, kuku.

I want to devour my master to the very end.
And the shadow of the day,Will embrace the world in gray,
KYAAAAA *nosebleed* Wewt~~~~

Sarcasm is a sort of humor which shouldn't be used
while giggling like some kind of gymnast. yeah don't
just love when he pushes up his glasses?

Sorry for my bad English, I learn this
beautiful language! I love Claude. although
i feel that Claude looks like the beautiful man child

I swear, I love Claude so fucking much.
HHe had the cutest smile out of every character
I've seen. Claude you can have a nibble

WHAT THE FACK? I DON'T KNOW
WHAT THIS IS BUT *drool*
I'M GONNA HUMP IT ANYWAY.

Variant : Wonderland.
[3-D simulator of a flying soul]
one word: purrrrrr

　／l、
ﾞ（ﾟ､｡７
　l、ﾞ ~ヽ
　じしf_, )ノ

I feel as if I can hardly live without these items

2011-07-13T10:22:00.000-04:00

Are these garments unsuitable for a 47-year-old soon-to-be divorcée, do you think?

Claude Dancing

2011-07-12T23:42:00.001-04:00

Claude Jeter

2011-07-12T23:30:00.002-04:00

Claude François

2011-07-12T23:21:00.002-04:00

Claude Cahun

2011-07-12T23:19:00.002-04:00

translucent on air

2011-07-09T08:52:00.002-04:00

cluster bomb removal
in lace

the green cyclorama has been replaced
with a blue cyc, so make sure your talent
is not wearing bright blues
as those colors will appear translucent
on air

"this feels really coital."

cheese, menopause, bone density.

an erection slides along the grass

lying in a gray relaxed source

2011-07-09T05:42:00.000-04:00

Torch someone to say
with you. Killed winding
after terrible sliding
and little ground.

Palm tradition
facing a certain gary
in your gary.

There are behind horns her
route sweat on your tried horns.
Stuff hands over a high wondering
at the tour. Clock affection
sorts you for a hoarse cement note.

Lying in a gray relaxed source.

Despite you for a cologne
or symbolic gently on display.
Wanting to bulk and home things.

Sighed times two... gray waves.

How Do Both Your Subconscious and Superconscious Mind Powers Affect Your Prosperity?

2011-07-08T16:10:00.000-04:00

My mother sent me an email (one of those that go out to her list of subscribers) with the heading above.

I replied:

How do plutocratic oligarchies affect your prosperity?
How do entrenched categories of value affect your prosperity?
How do issues of race, class, gender, species, and geography affect your prosperity?
How does a cabal of super-elite power-mongers/puppeteers affect your prosperity?
How does corporate hegemony affect your prosperity?
How does the rape of the earth affect your prosperity?
How do painstakingly engineered campaigns to stimulate consumer desire affect your prosperity?

etcetera...

love you,
n

Drooping Novice

2011-07-06T15:28:00.002-04:00

Sometimes my chest has these odd
sensations: I get a rush and then I shake
like I want to eat sugar and I'll fuck there

quick drink after my bath. In good condition
I sang out to the charter of the skin at different
levels to ensure that the next day it will become

slippery and smooth. I also like my corn
to taste like corn ¬¬¬– cow corn and people corn.
The drooping girl novice was just a edit

of the male version: the antennae were
shortened a bit for this picture.
People are using their regular eyes

and if you want I can mirror them.
But I'm so nice! In the summer
I'm also seeing it flying like fireflies.

Let us then suppose an ugly Soul,
dissolute, unrighteous: teeming
with all the lusts; torn by internal

discord; beset by the fears of its
cowardice, performed by Life Of Agony.
Why don’t you let Mommy suck out your

soul? All wound up around the fur.
I don't apologise for loving avocado.
Drooping Novice - Beg for zeny and

items in style? O Drooping Novice,
commit suicide is a silly stuff to me.
y? itz because every life has a beginning

and an end. all living things die eventually
by nature(automatically). thus, there is
no point to work hard to die manually.

still, i want to live in a peaceful world
without stupidness. so, if there is a lot
of blocked heads still insist to go to hell,

please and please! go ahead!
or the world would never peace.

Sometimes my chest has these odd
sensations. Fuck you and your bad vibes,
awesome sprite. Your sprite aint garbage.

People aren't forced to share their sprites;
it's just that I would like to eat sugar
when I want to eat sugar.

And if you want,
I can mirror them.

the sensation of its own realisation

2011-07-06T07:58:00.002-04:00

“Each line is now the actual experience with its own innate history. It does not illustrate – it is the sensation of its own realisation… To paint involves a certain crisis, or at least a crucial moment of sensation or release; and by crisis it should by no means be limited to a morbid state, but could just as well be one ecstatic impulse…”

~Cy Twombly

the dress is designed to be most beautiful as the woman walks away

2011-07-05T07:31:00.000-04:00

divorce ceremonies on the rise in japan

Create Game

2011-07-02T00:36:00.000-04:00

Do not believe that if women oral sex
to make people happy, but the day
itself suffering at the thought of how

it was and it may seem strange.
As a man you can never feel
the semen itself, is not it?

So no wonder that sometimes
women do not feel that the game
is. But for men, has been a sex game

oral sex more exciting! So how oral
sex more fun? Who knows, if you
managed to do what I can, it will

do so again and again … hmmm.
Clean. Yes. Cleanliness is very
important for them to perform

oral sex comfortably. Not only try
to make it comfortable, but also to
explore. Imagine how it is uncomfortable

to work when your genitals smell bad!
Do not forget that language plays a role.
So, wash and dry there. Remember

that the daily activities of the population
there, have caused the region less attractive
to women. If washing is necessary, both by him

that you both an exciting prelude. Tips for last,
but not shave all the hair is necessary, at least
not too big disappointment since. As a man,

women, full of beauty are like, a little cleanliness
will be very beneficial! For most women, lead
by the oral route is very important. Take

a comfortable position to build a good mood
to mate. For men, get to a position just relax to it.
Only the tips are not all women are like

when you’re standing and waiting there,
then feel hip like a king, or if your partner
does. You can not go to promote more couples

to swallow his head. Hey! gagged women
you might have! Have not most movies you see,
not all women can be influenced!

Create Game. Well, let’s say your partner
is still the woman does not like them, maybe
you can change to give food like chocolate sauce,

whipped cream, or other food scattered in the target
area and in other areas as additional games.
Do not forget to ask the impression, even if

need him with a sentence that says a lot
because you have been treated like a king flattered.
Although not as great, but trying your spouse.

In general, most women who do not swallow semen
when, but perhaps the man may taste more
interesting. Did you know that what is eaten by a man

so influential in the direction of his sperm?
As the taste of semen is not very strong.
If it is not ready to eat only vegetables

without meat, try eating fruit like kiwi,
watermelon, pineapple, celery, and are also
able to “relieve” a sense of sperm. In fact,

try to eat the fruit of plum, blueberry,
cranberry, because it will taste sweet at all.
Only information, beer and coffee will taste a little bitter.

some random questions

2011-07-01T08:31:00.000-04:00

Have any real-life Jonahs been swallowed by whales and lived?
Can you lose weight by keeping the thermostat turned down?
How do doomsayers cope when the world doesn't end?
Has 1 in 8 people had sex with an animal?
What are those threads that float in your field of vision?
Why do we have sinuses?
Why do you always see just one shoe by the side of the road?
If you hold your eyelids open while sneezing, will your eyes pop out?
How can I make my own spaceship?

part of The Cake Part

2011-06-28T22:48:00.002-04:00

text by Stacy Doris
video by me

Untitled from Stacy Doris on Vimeo.

more parts of The Cake Part here

The Adjustment of Inmates to a Sentence of Life Without Parole (or, "The Longest Time")

2011-06-21T21:24:00.001-04:00

Hi, when I go to bed, I have a feeling

of a line of thin mucus on right side

of the throat, which does not allow

to sleep unless it is thrown out

with coughing. Perhaps because

i gave head for a whole hour and

only stopped cos my lips got numb.

This is a list of spaceflight records.

Mangosteen for sure.

I got my queen today.

It never happens during the day time.

According to a pringle potato chip,

the longest time to stand motionless

is 20 hours, 10 minutes, 6 seconds. huh.

What is the longest time spent in

direct full body contact with ice?

What is the longest time any person

has stayed awake? For the longest time

I really thought his last name was Boner.

What's the longest you have had a hickey?

What is the longest time you held from

breaking wind in yoga? And in what asana

was it finally released?

Like, were you ever addicted to a game

and played it for hundreds of hours?

and do you regret it? What was the game

and how did you feel?

I don't wanna have a thing Up my but to remove the poo.

I'm afraid there's no denyin', I'm just a

dandy or

blah jellyfish.

Well, I hope everyone's poo ordeal

will be resolved well.

Happy pooing =D

where hair grows

2011-06-20T17:24:00.002-04:00

Hair grows in the areas of our body that are most closely associated with appetites that require discipline and self-control; the mouth, pubic area, the head, the brain.

Un-outrageous

2011-06-20T15:07:00.002-04:00

Here's the realized outfit.

You know what's funny? Those hot pink net gloves left a net-shaped tan on my forearms. Ha!

Compared to lots of the parade costumes, mine was decidedly un-outrageous. Next year, it's body paint, pasties, Victoriana, etc. for me.

I am gaining weight again. I'm not entirely sure I'm happy about this.

I'm replacing

2011-06-20T11:44:00.000-04:00

little by little some of my favorite books that Gary sold to finance his independence.

The one that came in the mail today (I ordered it off Amazon) is Alice Notley's "Alice ordered me to be made."

The seller, to my surprise, was the great Eileen Corder. Eileen Corder! I had no idea! Cool!

the problem

2011-06-20T09:41:00.002-04:00

with new love is that it is really really hard to get anything done

bellydancing pink coral

2011-06-18T09:26:00.000-04:00

Nemo is trying to climb up the armchair in my bedroom to get to the long pink balloons I have inflated for the headdress of my "bellydancing pink coral" costume I shall wear at the mermaid parade today. He mews plaintively. I yell at him to get down, and now he is lying under the lamplight on my desk as I type this.

Ingredients:

pink tulle crinoline
boy shorts to wear beneath
iridescent eggplant net scarf
pink coin scarf
gold coin belt
pink bra to wear under another pink bra edged with pearls and rhinestones
belly drape of yet another gold/pink coin belt, pinned on with an antique pink rhinestone brooch
fluorescent pink net fingerless gloves
armlets of koosh balls with bulging eyes/ the balls light up when bounced
fake curly burgundy hair that looks rather like my own curly burgundy hair to wear beneath my own as extension so that I am more mermaid-like
copious bangles with shisha (mirrors) in two shades of pink
large pink rhinestone earrings
false eyelashes with rhinestones in them
gold body glitter
child's pink & rhinestone birthday tiara as base for the pink balloons
gold ankle bracelets
gold sandals
pink and gold eyeshadow
possible miscellaneous items to pin on: pinkish-gold fake roses, starfish earrings with pink rhinestones, large, tentacled looking koosh ball that lights up when bounced, etc.

pictures, possibly video, to follow eventually

Malachi 2:16

2011-06-18T00:55:00.002-04:00

"I hate divorce," says the LORD God of Israel, "and I hate a man's covering himself with violence as well as with his garment," says the LORD Almighty. So guard yourself in your spirit, and do not break faith.

For I hate putting away, saith Jehovah, the God of Israel, and him that covereth his garment with violence, saith Jehovah of hosts: therefore take heed to your spirit, that ye deal not treacherously.

away of a wife, says the Lord, the God of Israel, and against him who is clothed with violent acts, says the Lord of armies: so give thought to your spirit and do not be false in your acts.

"For I hate divorce," says ADONAI the God of Isra'el, "and him who covers his clothing with violence," says ADONAI-Tzva'ot. Therefore take heed to your spirit, and don't break faith.

When thou shalt hate her put her away, saith the Lord, the God of Israel: but iniquity shalt cover his garment, saith the Lord of hosts, keep your spirit, and despise not.

Denn ich hasse Entlassung, spricht Jehova, der Gott Israels; und er bedeckt mit Gewalttat sein Gewand, spricht Jehova der Heerscharen. So hütet euch in eurem Geiste, daß ihr nicht treulos handelt!

"For the man who does not love his wife but divorces her, says the LORD, the God of Israel, covers his garment with violence, says the LORD of hosts. So guard yourselves in your spirit, and do not be faithless."

Che se pur l’odia, rimandila, ha detto il Signore Iddio d’Israele; e copra la violenza col suo vestimento, ha detto il Signor degli eserciti. Guardatevi adunque sopra lo spirito vostro, che non usiate dislealtà.

"I hate divorce," says the LORD God of Israel. "I hate the person who covers himself with violence," says the LORD of Armies. "Be careful not to be unfaithful."

"I hate divorce," says the Lord God of Israel. "I hate it when one of you does such a cruel thing to his wife. Make sure that you do not break your promise to be faithful to your wife."

For I hate divorce," says the LORD, the God of Yisra'el, "and him who covers his garment with violence!' says the LORD of Hosts. "Therefore take heed to your spirit, that you don't deal treacherously.

"If he hates and divorces [his wife]," says the Lord God of Israel, "he covers his garment with injustice," says the Lord of Hosts. Therefore, watch yourselves carefully, and do not act treacherously.

For the LORD, the God of Israel, saith that he hateth putting away : for one covereth violence with his garment, saith the LORD of hosts: therefore take heed to your spirit, that ye deal not treacherously .

Porque yo detesto el divorciodice el SEÑOR, Dios de Israely al que cubre de iniquidad su vestiduradice el SEÑOR de los ejércitos. Prestad atención, pues, a vuestro espíritu y no seáis desleales.

Porque Jehová Dios de Israel ha dicho que él aborrece que sea repudiada; y cubra la iniquidad con su vestido, dijo Jehová de los ejércitos. Guardaos pues en vuestros espíritus, y no seáis desleales.

Car je hais la r?pudiation, Dit l'?ternel, le Dieu d'Isra?l, Et celui qui couvre de violence son v?tement, Dit l'?ternel des arm?es. Prenez donc garde en votre esprit, Et ne soyez pas infid?les!

Wer ihr aber gram ist und verstößt sie, spricht der HERR, der Gott Israels, der bedeckt mit Frevel sein Kleid, spricht der HERR Zebaoth. Darum so seht euch vor vor eurem Geist und verachtet sie nicht.

"For I hate divorce," says the LORD, the God of Israel, "and him who covers his garment with wrong," says the LORD of hosts. "So take heed to your spirit, that you do not deal treacherously."

The Lord God of Israel says, "I hate divorce. And I hate people who do cruel things as easily as they put on clothes," says the Lord All-Powerful. So be careful. And do not break your trust.

"I hate divorce," says the LORD God of Israel. "I hate it when people do anything that harms others," says the LORD who rules over all. So guard yourself in your spirit. And don't break your promises.

"For the Lord God of Israel says That He hates divorce, For it covers one's garment with violence," Says the Lord of hosts. "Therefore take heed to your spirit, That you do not deal treacherously."

"For I hate divorce!" says the LORD, the God of Israel. "It is as cruel as putting on a victim's bloodstained coat," says the LORD Almighty. "So guard yourself; always remain loyal to your wife."

For I hate divorce, says the Lord, the God of Israel, and covering one's garment with violence, says the Lord of hosts. So take heed to yourselves and do not be faithless.

Car je hais la répudiation, dit l'Éternel, le Dieu d'Israël, et celui qui couvre de violence son vêtement, dit l'Éternel des armées. Prenez donc garde à votre esprit, et ne soyez pas infidèles.

"For I hate divorce, says the LORD the God of Israel, and covering one's garment with violence, says the LORD of hosts. So take heed to yourselves and do not be faithless."

Poiché io odio il ripudio, dice l’Eterno, l’Iddio d’Israele; e chi ripudia copre di violenza la sua veste, dice l’Eterno degli eserciti. Badate dunque allo spirito vostro, e non agite perfidamente.

El que la aborrece enviándola, dijo el SEÑOR Dios de Israel, cubre la iniquidad con su vestido, dijo el SEÑOR de los ejércitos. Guardaos pues en vuestro espíritu, y no seáis desleales.

Want de HEERE, de God Israels, zegt, dat Hij het verlaten haat, alhoewel hij den wrevel bedekt met Zijn kleed, zegt de HEERE der heirscharen; daarom wacht u met uw geest, dat gij niet trouwelooslijk handelt.

(for I hate putting away, saith Jehovah the God of Israel;) and he covereth with violence his garment, saith Jehovah of hosts: take heed then to your spirit, that ye deal not unfaithfully.

cum odio habueris dimitte dicit Dominus Deus Israhel operiet autem iniquitas vestimentum eius dicit Dominus exercituum custodite spiritum vestrum et nolite despicere

"I hate divorce," says the God of Israel. God-of-the-Angel-Armies says, "I hate the violent dismembering of the 'one flesh' of marriage." So watch yourselves. Don't let your guard down. Don't cheat.

For the LORD, the God of Israel, saith, that he hateth putting away: for [one] covereth violence with his garment, saith the LORD of hosts: therefore take heed to your spirit, that ye deal not treacherously.

"For the LORD, the God of Israel, saith that He hateth putting away; for one covereth violence with his garment," saith the LORD of hosts. "Therefore take heed to your spirit, that ye deal not treacherously."

"I hate divorce," says the LORD God of Israel, "and I hate it when people clothe themselves with injustice," says the LORD Almighty. So be on your guard, and do not be unfaithful.

For I hate divorce," says Yahweh, the God of Israel, "and him who covers his garment with violence!' says Yahweh of Hosts. "Therefore take heed to your spirit, that you don't deal treacherously.

when thou hatest her, leave thou her (not), saith the Lord God of Israel. Forsooth wickedness shall cover the cloth of him, saith the Lord of hosts; keep ye your spirit, and do not ye despise. (even if thou hatest her, leave thou her not, saith the Lord God of Israel. Yea, let his cloak cover his wickedness, saith the Lord of hosts; so keep ye watch over your spirit, and do not ye despise her.)

For [I] hate sending away, said Jehovah, God of Israel, And He [who] hath covered violence with his clothing, said Jehovah of Hosts, And ye have been watchful over your spirit, And ye do not deal treacherously.

Rachel Hyman on Flarf

2011-06-15T14:53:00.000-04:00

Rachel Hyman on Flarf.

She poses some provocative questions. What do you think?

~~ululations~~

love eternal for Stacy

kitties

Love IV

THE PHONEMES & I'LL DROWN MY BOOK -- DOUBLE BOOK LAUNCH (Les Figues Press)

On "The Men"

here's the new year's day poem I read at the marathon; Brandon Downing wanted me to call it New Year's Dayquil, but I just stuck with the title of the poem I mangled in order to construct this poem

53% Off Justin Bieber Singing Toothbrushes

like eating ladyfingers all the time

Dr. Zizmor Gently Cleanses Your Skin With a Fruit Wash

menu

Pepper Spray Cop

lyric/flarf

<3

selected Yiddish proverbs

just always bewildered

Happy HALLOWE'EN

POEMS ON / ABOUT

HALLOWEEN POET PARADE

this is your life

untenable in a way that is tenable

FLARF ORCHESTRA CD NOW AVAILABLE

HEAVY

hyrax

I finally went to OWS today

I stare at the screen

grief

Grappling

here's Drew, though, helping to incite the masses

Toe (in which I am confused about the "personal" and the "political")

quinoa thingies

very small pink clump

contusion

speaking of women in the 17th century

myopic hindsight

equinox

telescopic philanthropist

"L'amour physique est sans issue"

dark cartoon apostrophes, bad marriage mantra, etc.

$2.18

licking

on melancholia

today's googlebot ads! yikes!

MY WORST THING

what do you think of this picture?

a vampire bat with the head of Jim Nabors

nothing but a waste of time

Capricorn (12/22-1/19)

one year

swirl my heart to song

their mishigas

nemo moving his leg

Women Will Vote for Hitler

so charming

Varieties

On things and The Squeakquel

Horny Makeup Goat

content

people

kasey goes mainstream

droop loss slave

i don't know

whoremongers, etc.

stream

feeling

TYPING OUT LOUD

shook shook shook

same old argument

tameiki ga dechauu yo!!

nightmare

today

all I see are these puppets

purrrrrr

I feel as if I can hardly live without these items

Claude Dancing

Claude Jeter

Claude François

Claude Cahun

translucent on air

lying in a gray relaxed source

ululations