The new Lamination Colony is up. There is new work by Peter Berghoef and William Walsh. There is new work by Tao Lin and Ryan Downey. There is new work by Mark Cunningham and a lot of other people. My inventions are here. They are two of my most favorite inventions yet. Tell me you agree with me. Tell me with jarring punches. Thanks so much to Blake Butler. Dude is awesome. Also, check out the contributor notes. I filmed my foot this morning. I am three up from the bad motherfucker brushing his teeth. I can't wait to read everything in here.

Got another invention accepted this morning in the righteously named Death Metal Poetry. It is for the invention called The Scout. DMP has published good works by Noah Cicero, Juliet Cook, and Amy King, and those are just the ones I've recognized and read. The Scout will be floating above a Daniel Olszewska poem called Dinosaurs in the Garden of Eden. It's good.

I love death metal. I love death metal, black metal, grindcore, etc. I say this without irony. At one time it was ironic, but now its not. Things dont remain funny that long. Unless your friend is around to make it funny again. But he lives in Los Angeles. Go to Dark Lyrics. Find some inspiring words and interpret them into your daily life. This is not funny. This is metal. Some lyrics are extremely poignant. Take these lyrics from the amazing Pig Destroyer,

Crippled Horses

push my fingers past her ear watch them disappear into her brown hair I wish the rest of me could go with them her bedroom is quiet but my heart screams a horrifying sound like a hundred crippled horses lying crumpled on ground begging for a rifle to come and put them down

That's better than most inventions. Some people would argue the validity of Pig Destroyer because of their broad appeal. You must be hated to be real metal. These people are mostly from Norway. Don't listen to people from Norway.

Here is some awesome wildfire slang. I will find a way to incorporate this into something, if not just my life jargon.

I like the first poem written by Daniel Spinks a lot.

I am in a coffee shop. I have seen rain, sunshine, and snow today at different times. I also saw them all together. They must have been confused.

Yup. I figured out how to justify my script. So I went back to some posts and fixed a few things. I feel like a retarded eight year old girl.

I am now browsing around for a small press to dump a short manuscript upon. Somewhere in the 10-20 page variety with a nice design aesthetic. There aren't that many that take unsolicited submissions. Does your cousin have a small press? Could you pass this along for me? I'll slip you an Abe Lincoln for your troubles.

Woodpecker

A sick tree had puked leaves on a man's lawn. It was that time of year, said his wife. He had heard this said before. No one had ever told him what it meant. He instead took the tree for a rogue and the next morning sought revenge. He battled the bark with a pair of metal scissors. He came at it from several different angles - sideways, over the hedge. They did little damage. He couldn't understand it. He tried the scissors on his own skin, cutting off his thumb. They still had their magic. But now he was in tremendous pain. From the upper levels of the tree, a dry knocking sound. The tree, laughing at him.

I Should Have Known

I read this poem in The Boston Review this morning. Then Mitt Romney dropped out of the race. So it has been a pretty good morning.

The Drawing

Walter B. hurled a plum at his congregants, looked unsure,
and began his sermon.“I stand before you today because I am
secretly . . .” He paused, sat down on the pulpit, and
unwrapped a second plum. His congregants flinched. Walter
B. took a bite. Beatrice sat in the second row. She drew a
pond on her lunchbag. Beside the pond she drew a nurse, and
beside the nurse, on the wet ground, he drew a plum. And
leaning over the plum she drew Walter B. “I stand before you
today,” resumed Walter B., “because I am secretly . . .” Beatrice
considered drawing a shed, but would there be ramifications?
Perhaps too many. With each bite Walter B. seemed closer to
the pit. Nevertheless Beatrice felt brave. She drew the shed,
and as she drew her small dark mouth opened a slice. “Like
a plum,” whispered one congregant to another. The conger-
gants flinched. Capturing a scene was beginning to feel more
difficult than Beatrice had imagined. In order for Walter B.
to look like a real Walter B., she would need to draw action.
Should Walter B. move closer to the shed? Was the plum dis-
tracting? “Because I am secretly . . .” resumed Walter B. He
rocked back and forth. He coughed. He took another bite.
The congregants were beginning to drift off to sleep. How
could he put this, he wondered. In order for Walter B. to look
like a real Walter B. he would need a purpose. Maybe the nurse
is lost. Maybe there is something about the nurse Walter B.
likes. Something to do with the way she is eerily staring into
the pond. And where is Beatrice, wondered Beatrice. She is
in the shed. There would be ramifications. In order for Walter
B. to look like a real Walter B. he would need to approach the
nurse and speak to her until one thing led to another. “I stand
before you today . . .,” resumed Walter B., but how could he go
on? How could he go on without hurting Beatrice? Poor plum-
less Beatrice with no one to talk to but the chickens in the shed.
But there were no chickens. Which was why, when the sermon
was over, and the congregants gathered around to study the drawing
they agreed unanimously that the scene was not believable.

—Sabrina Orah Mark


Awesome. I've never heard of Sabrina Orah Mark, but she has a good webpage here. I've been trying to find modern prose poets like this, and have had little luck. If anyone has further suggestions, make a note. For now while I wait for Sabrina's book (which I just ordered) to arrive, here are some more poems of hers from an old issue of Octopus Magazine. Octopus. I should have known.

work poem

While No One Was Watching

He tried to find the place where no one knew him. But before he could do that, he had to use the bathroom. He joined a fat man already at the urinal. After a moment of quiet he grew impatient. Don't you think I know you know who I am, he cried. The fat man shook off and left abruptly. You didn't wash, he yelled, but was relieved to have a moment to himself. He concentrated on the situation in his hand. He was having some difficulty. The sweat upon the fat man's brow had left him troubled. Why should he have prolonged the inevitability of their exchange? Had the man no sense? He was glad he was not so fat and manner-less. But he wished he now had the fat man's method for relief. Just then the director burst in. There you are, he said. I've been looking all over for you. He sighed, feeling the crushing inevitability of everything. What's the matter? asked the director. Why aren't you pissing? We've got work to do. He said, it's been a long year. The director said, I know a technique. He called a camera unit into the bathroom. He called in lighting and makeup as well. After a dash of power to dry his brow, the director perched in a folding chair behind the scene, called for quiet on the set. At the sound of action, all were silent, save for the gentle trickle of water on porcelain, as tranquil as a melting winter stream.

Does anyone know how to format Blogger from Microsoft Word? I cant find the cure.

I got this email from Blake Butler of Lamination Colony last night.

FOR FEATURE IN THE NEXT ISSUE OF LAMINATION COLONY I AM ASKING CONTRIBUTORS TO PROVIDE YOUTUBE FILMS OF THEMSELVES DOING ONE OF THREE THINGS

(1) drawing and/or writing on one's skin
(2) performing oral hygiene (ie: brushing teeth, flossing, rinse and spit, etc.)
(3) removing on putting on an article or several articles of clothing

Since Im in the upcoming issue, I am compelled to comply . Please leave your suggestions of which i should do below.

I have a new poem up today on Thieves Jargon.
Thanks to Matt for the admission.

Vacation is Ending

I went to write at the coffee shop, but there were no seats. I traveled fifty minutes on a train to eat at Wendys.
My Vacation is ending. It was pretty good. I wrote a lot more than usual and am happy with the results. I spent a good amount of time with friends. I didn't sleep too late. Still, I wish i could continue in this manner.

Here is a poem by Noah Falck.

from Life As A Crossword Puzzle

3. Down

Beyond the screen door,
sidewalks
busy with unshaved men.
Junked-
up minivans
tear down avenues,
tinted windows
mounted
with bumperstickers
reading –
“Fight Terrorism:
Eat at Denny’s.”

The Scout

I decided to stay in the hotel. What I saw no doubt surprised me. A Greek fountain in the lobby wept black blood, but something inside me half expected that. I had lived in the neighborhood for a long time and seen stranger things. The concierge cracked walnuts with one finger. You’d have to try harder than that, I told him. He smiled and showed me eight small children he kept in between his teeth. I didn’t have my glasses but something told me they were alright. He pointed me in the direction of the room, a carcass of a red horse with a well concealed slit down its belly. It’s very quiet, he told me. You will not be bothered. It was as if he’d read my mind, solved a crossword I could not finish. For years I had searched for solace in the eyes of my collie, but found only fire and brimstone. I felt close to this man, an understanding that superseded the usual boarder/concierge relations. I told him I’d take it, asked him how much. It is yours for as long as you like, he said, providing you play a game of catch with me. We went out back, through the hide around. It was then I saw it. This kid had talent.

This post is just a reminder to me to go to this.

Saturday, February 9, 6 pm
Ana Bozicevic-Bowling, Justin Marks and Ravi Shankar
Ada Books
330 Dean Street
Providence

Justin Marks does this, and Ana Bozicevic-Bowling just released this. -

Here is a nice poem from Octopus Magazine -


RHODE ISLAND

From water and wood



you build on the jetty

a shrine, and place



1 an acorn

2 a button



on the salt-worn planks.



(O traveler. Grey star.



From your hat, when you upend it,

your small family upturn their faces.)



And morningly

nebulae, red-throated

waterbirds,

typestrokes of

fish



visit the shrine



(to view the film

of a coat, departing.)

Fuckin A part 2

Holy shit. I'm got a piece accepted in EYESHOT. I wrote it this morning and sent it out today.

Wrote this for the Bostonist today. I met Chad's wife at the Showgirls viewing on Friday and my friend Michael broke out a copy. I read two poems and was floored. I was further pummeled by the drawings within. I make it sound like black metal. Brutal! Hopefully it will sell some copies.

Fuckin A

Blake Butler has agreed to take two of poems for his Lamination Colony. That is good good news, for a couple of reasons. 1.) I really like Lamination Colony. 2.) A lot of writers I like have been published there. 3.) One of the pieces I wrote yesterday. Therefore this trip has been worthwhile. 4.) Blake Butler is awesome. I read his blog everyday I can. I like his opinions. Mostly because he can back his shit up with his writing. He is probably one of the most prolific writers out there right now. He's everywhere. And for a good reason. I don't know how does it, but he has my admiration.

An excerpt from Russell Banks' new book, the Reserve over at Conjuctions, I enjoyed this book, to say nothing about it at all. It was classic.