Incoming

A Glacial Parade is now up at Eyeshot. I really like this one. Is that weird to say? Thanks to Lee Klein for taking it, and for being so quick about it. I love expediencey.

It's all snow outside. A man outside is using a snow blower that sounds like a chainsaw and leafblower making out, What happened to shovels? My girlfriend has been lost at sea for three days. I am tired. I should drink some coffee and write all night. I won't though. I am in a mind cubicle.

A Hanging Moment

At the end of our adventure, it came. We laughed in grand unison and leapt high into the air. We froze that way, in the air. This was our moment. We stayed there for some time. After a while my back began to ache. I had not positioned myself the way I'd practiced. We were waiting for someone to tell us to stop. Or we were waiting for a moonless night to come so we could sneak away. I did not want to be the one to say anything, or to break the integrity of the fourth wall. I only hope that I looked good, hanging there like an old ghost suspended from the limb of an invisible tree.

Pequin has accepted an invention called The Idea of Michael. It is inspired my friend Michael Bewley. In the invention the narrator calls Michael's lack of hair a lonesome prairie. Then Michael stabs the narrator as due process. It will be up in April, about the time the invention in Pindeldyboz is posted too.

Matthea Harvey gets her due in the New York Times. While the reviewer hits upon her style (and those like it) pretty closely, he irreverently claims its an easy one to pull off. I hear these other inventions of art were also easy to pull off and took no time at all.

Rheumatism with Landscape.

Meat Pie.

Abstract Graveyard Dancers.

Homo Rainbow.

Loitering Redneck waiting to become an Icon.

So much easier to understand, now we've stripped artist of stylistic privelage.

What an asshole.

Here is a similarly well written and interesting article on Donald Barthelme, except I enjoy the author's description of Barthelme's style, which, after 2000 words, he surmises as "pleasure bursts." That seems about right.



I've been reading Zbigniew Herbert's Collected Poems that Ecco put out. I love it. Particularly the prose poems from his '57 collection Hermes, Dog and Star. They are some of the most masterful prose poems I've ever come across. And isn't that the most badass book cover ever? A lot has been written about this collection in the last year, which I will keep away from until I form my own opinion. An opinion further than "awesome." But really, I probably won't give a fuck.

Another post from me today on The Bostonist. It involves the charms of the idiotic.

Pindeldyboz has accepted one of my inventions. It should be up in a few months or so. For the time being go visit Death Metal Poetry and read a new invention by me while its still on the front page.

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.