WOOT! WOOT!
Shirts off
T's up
Tacos in
Blended drinks
New Shoes
Haircut
Airplane
NYC
Fried Chicken
Dunkin Donuts
Day Drinking
Whitney Biennial
Jewish Deli
40-40
Supermachine
Blowin' Minds
Poetrytime
Mind-Blowing
Maxou
ORTH
BB
AWs
DW
Zeecee
Sara
DZ
Glug glug glug
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Poet-Orgy Plural
Porgies
Ewww
and more
I hope
Monday, March 29, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
P's Text
At wrk. Stop. Be down
early sunday. Stop. Will
shop when u busy. Stop.
I like to shop. Stop.
WW2 style bitch. Stop
early sunday. Stop. Will
shop when u busy. Stop.
I like to shop. Stop.
WW2 style bitch. Stop
Thursday, March 18, 2010
I'ma Gonna Read in Brooklyn, NY
S U P E R M A C H I N E
R E A D I N G
S E R I E S
FRI, APRIL 2, 8PM
ZACHARY GERMAN
LINDSEY BOLDT
KOSTAS ANAGNOPOULOS
LUCY IVES
ALL READINGS TAKE PLACE AT OUTPOST
1014 FULTON ST (GRAND & CLASSON)
C TRAIN TO FRANKLIN
G TO CLINTON/WASHINGTON
and y'all should come!
R E A D I N G
S E R I E S
FRI, APRIL 2, 8PM
ZACHARY GERMAN
LINDSEY BOLDT
KOSTAS ANAGNOPOULOS
LUCY IVES
ALL READINGS TAKE PLACE AT OUTPOST
1014 FULTON ST (GRAND & CLASSON)
C TRAIN TO FRANKLIN
G TO CLINTON/WASHINGTON
and y'all should come!
Lost and Found
I thought I lost my nasal piercing retainer in my sinus this afternoon. I blew and blew and thought, "Am I going to have to go to the emergency room for this?" I was reminded of the time I stuffed a cherry pit up my nose when I was four. Honestly, I don't remember this happening but it is a popular story in my family because of all of the hoopla that resulted from this choice of mine. We were on a sailboat at the time and had to find a port, moor the boat and find a doctor. Once at the doctor's office, sitting on the exam table, I sneezed and out came the cherry pit in a gob of snot. I have to say that if it weren't for this story today I might have thought, "It's probably okay up there. It'll work it's way down." but with this previous story setting a precedent of action, I was truly prepared to call my health clinic and admit to losing my nasal piercing in my own body. Thankfully, the nasal piercing retainer had only fallen onto the couch and I only had to tell you all about it, instead of some unfamiliar medical personnel.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Eating is one of the less disgusting things one can do in public. This Twix bar was made as I was and you were--not like we were made but made nonetheless. It is unique in all the world as you and I are--not like we are unique but unique nonetheless. Even from its fellows in the 4-pack, it is unique. Though you or I might not detect the differences between them in our mouths, were we to study each, shuffle them and re-examine, we would find our Twix bar and know it by its unique qualities.
In this red plastic net bag are many tangerines. The label does not tell us how many tangerines are in the bag. Could we count them all cuddled together still in the bag? HOw would we know which had been counted? How would we know them as individuals without holding them in our hands? Touching them through the mesh sack, we cannot know the full experience of holding them. We see them but not entirely--there's mesh first, then tangerine. We feel them and feel that we are holding them but our experience is only an approximation of the real event. Can our hands isolate the feeling of the tangerine's skin from the plastic mesh of the bag? Within the bag, we can hold all of the tangerines at once. This is not something that would be possible without the bag. Still, we are not actually holding all of the tangerines at once. We are holding a plastic mesh bag full of all of the tangerines at once.
The man on the train completes a Rubix Cube. I witness him do it. I have seen this happen once before and that time it was done by a young man on a bus. This time, I did not know that he was working a rubix cube until I looked up seconds before he completed it. When I looked up and saw that he was working a Rubix Cube, I wondered if he would complete it while I was watching (as the other man had). Three turns later and he had, then moved the completed cube to his lap, looked to his left and then back. I looked away, wanting to see the possibly proud look on his face but afraid he would see me looking and avert his gaze, or guess my reason for looking and look back. I did not see his look of pride because I looked away. I don't know if he had one. Now when I look at him I feel afraid that he knows this, that he saw me not see him. He sees me writing and must be afraid that I am writing about him. I avoid looking up so that he will not think that I am writing about him. When I look up again, he has left the train. The young man who completed a Rubix Cube on a bus, did so in my home town. My friend and I sat and watched as he quickly manipulated the cube's sections. Though young, college age, he wore a gray suit, gray argyle sweater, leater shoes, black framed glasses and wore his hair slicked back into a fifties-style do. He wore matching gray gloves, the kind with a layer of leather that lines the palms. He turned the Rubix cube quickly in his hands while listening to music on headphones. We timed him and each time he solved the Rubix Cube in under 2 minutes. We wondered what kind of music he was listening to. Techno, we guessed. It was a crowded bus so we knew that he must know how conspicuous he was and we knew that if he had an sense of self awareness, that he would know that we and the other passengers watching him must know that he knew. He probably did know how intriguing he was. We hoped that he did not, of course. I was dissapointed when my friend told me later that she had seen him performing the same feat in a bar downtown surrounded by girls.
When I was young, I would press my two index fingers together and try to differentiate between the sensation of touching and being touched. Could my left finger feel my right finger pressing against it? Could this left finger feel itself pressing my right finger? and vice versa. The answer was usually, no. The four possible sensations that were no doubt happening: right finger-pressing, right finger-being pressed, left finger-pressing, left finger-being pressed, simultaneously registered as one sensation--one throbbing that seemed to happen somewhere both between the two fingers and in the center of each. How sad, I thought. I could feel the difference between the sensations only when I moved one or both of the fingers. Did you ever press your index fingers together and move your hands side to side to create a rubbing between them to simulate kissing? "Oooh, kissing." you might have said and this might have been accompanied by some kind of tease. At the time you did not know how similar this action was to the real thing. When you kiss, how does it register? as kissing or as being kissed? Can your mind feel both at once? What I mean to say is, can your lips feel both at once or can your brain register both at once but it amounts to the same thing. It makes me sad that we don't have the potential to feel the quadruple sensation even though it is no doubt happening all at once: lips kissing, lips being kissed, lips kissing, lips being kissed.
In this red plastic net bag are many tangerines. The label does not tell us how many tangerines are in the bag. Could we count them all cuddled together still in the bag? HOw would we know which had been counted? How would we know them as individuals without holding them in our hands? Touching them through the mesh sack, we cannot know the full experience of holding them. We see them but not entirely--there's mesh first, then tangerine. We feel them and feel that we are holding them but our experience is only an approximation of the real event. Can our hands isolate the feeling of the tangerine's skin from the plastic mesh of the bag? Within the bag, we can hold all of the tangerines at once. This is not something that would be possible without the bag. Still, we are not actually holding all of the tangerines at once. We are holding a plastic mesh bag full of all of the tangerines at once.
The man on the train completes a Rubix Cube. I witness him do it. I have seen this happen once before and that time it was done by a young man on a bus. This time, I did not know that he was working a rubix cube until I looked up seconds before he completed it. When I looked up and saw that he was working a Rubix Cube, I wondered if he would complete it while I was watching (as the other man had). Three turns later and he had, then moved the completed cube to his lap, looked to his left and then back. I looked away, wanting to see the possibly proud look on his face but afraid he would see me looking and avert his gaze, or guess my reason for looking and look back. I did not see his look of pride because I looked away. I don't know if he had one. Now when I look at him I feel afraid that he knows this, that he saw me not see him. He sees me writing and must be afraid that I am writing about him. I avoid looking up so that he will not think that I am writing about him. When I look up again, he has left the train. The young man who completed a Rubix Cube on a bus, did so in my home town. My friend and I sat and watched as he quickly manipulated the cube's sections. Though young, college age, he wore a gray suit, gray argyle sweater, leater shoes, black framed glasses and wore his hair slicked back into a fifties-style do. He wore matching gray gloves, the kind with a layer of leather that lines the palms. He turned the Rubix cube quickly in his hands while listening to music on headphones. We timed him and each time he solved the Rubix Cube in under 2 minutes. We wondered what kind of music he was listening to. Techno, we guessed. It was a crowded bus so we knew that he must know how conspicuous he was and we knew that if he had an sense of self awareness, that he would know that we and the other passengers watching him must know that he knew. He probably did know how intriguing he was. We hoped that he did not, of course. I was dissapointed when my friend told me later that she had seen him performing the same feat in a bar downtown surrounded by girls.
When I was young, I would press my two index fingers together and try to differentiate between the sensation of touching and being touched. Could my left finger feel my right finger pressing against it? Could this left finger feel itself pressing my right finger? and vice versa. The answer was usually, no. The four possible sensations that were no doubt happening: right finger-pressing, right finger-being pressed, left finger-pressing, left finger-being pressed, simultaneously registered as one sensation--one throbbing that seemed to happen somewhere both between the two fingers and in the center of each. How sad, I thought. I could feel the difference between the sensations only when I moved one or both of the fingers. Did you ever press your index fingers together and move your hands side to side to create a rubbing between them to simulate kissing? "Oooh, kissing." you might have said and this might have been accompanied by some kind of tease. At the time you did not know how similar this action was to the real thing. When you kiss, how does it register? as kissing or as being kissed? Can your mind feel both at once? What I mean to say is, can your lips feel both at once or can your brain register both at once but it amounts to the same thing. It makes me sad that we don't have the potential to feel the quadruple sensation even though it is no doubt happening all at once: lips kissing, lips being kissed, lips kissing, lips being kissed.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
CA Conrad
Frank's sister grew long blue feathers
she said it was worse than cutting teeth
she spent a month screaming in the cave
pushing them out
Frank would lie in bed at night
touching his back
crying
praying it wouldn't
come to him
but the day his sister flew to the house
he stood by the window in awe
giant blue spread coming in across the lake
he heard the hunter's shot before she did
she said it was worse than cutting teeth
she spent a month screaming in the cave
pushing them out
Frank would lie in bed at night
touching his back
crying
praying it wouldn't
come to him
but the day his sister flew to the house
he stood by the window in awe
giant blue spread coming in across the lake
he heard the hunter's shot before she did
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Fan Fiction Poetry
A Freudian Reading of Avatar
Earth was our mother but we shunned her
We sublimated our inability to fully possess her
which resulted in a desire to wreak havoc on civilization
Now we have come to demostrate our prowess
by demolishing the largest tree in the forest as if
it were our father's dick
Sexy Alien Fan Fiction Poem
Put your muzzle on my muzzle
fat straps wrap my noggin
batton down my ear flaps
Which brand of alien am I this time?
You be bumpy, I'll be gilled
You be winged, I'll be unable to breathe
Your planet's air works spores into my fatty lungs
Cover my mouth with filters
Stare me down with your infrared gaze
Show me what it's like to have tentacles
Earth was our mother but we shunned her
We sublimated our inability to fully possess her
which resulted in a desire to wreak havoc on civilization
Now we have come to demostrate our prowess
by demolishing the largest tree in the forest as if
it were our father's dick
Sexy Alien Fan Fiction Poem
Put your muzzle on my muzzle
fat straps wrap my noggin
batton down my ear flaps
Which brand of alien am I this time?
You be bumpy, I'll be gilled
You be winged, I'll be unable to breathe
Your planet's air works spores into my fatty lungs
Cover my mouth with filters
Stare me down with your infrared gaze
Show me what it's like to have tentacles
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
What is Happening to Me?
My life is weird.
I just made the "Yes!" gesture, arms raised above head, fists locked in triumph and hissed, "Yesss!" , after successfully loading a toner cartridge into the printer here at the Post-Apollo office.
Just before that, I got all pleased and excited when I found return postage included in the new cartridge so that the old cartridge can be recycled. I think I actually said, "Oh COOL!"
James Taylor somehow managed to get onto my Bob Dylan pandora radio station. I thumbed it down but still.
I felt annoyed by second hand smoke earlier today while waiting for the bus. I'm pretty sure I made that "ick" face.
I spoke with a tax preparer over the phone about whether I should be considered an independent contractor or an employee.
I comparison shopped for postage scales.
I put on sensible rain-proof shoes this morning.
Thankfully, I dreamt of tigers and foggy bridges and poetry last night.
I just made the "Yes!" gesture, arms raised above head, fists locked in triumph and hissed, "Yesss!" , after successfully loading a toner cartridge into the printer here at the Post-Apollo office.
Just before that, I got all pleased and excited when I found return postage included in the new cartridge so that the old cartridge can be recycled. I think I actually said, "Oh COOL!"
James Taylor somehow managed to get onto my Bob Dylan pandora radio station. I thumbed it down but still.
I felt annoyed by second hand smoke earlier today while waiting for the bus. I'm pretty sure I made that "ick" face.
I spoke with a tax preparer over the phone about whether I should be considered an independent contractor or an employee.
I comparison shopped for postage scales.
I put on sensible rain-proof shoes this morning.
Thankfully, I dreamt of tigers and foggy bridges and poetry last night.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Poets or Just Me Continued
(originally written in comment box but got all long so I decided to make it a post and that is what this is)
Hey, brother! I'm not sure exactly what I was aiming for with that post except to encourage folks towards engagement with their work through positive means. I am not so interested in the possibilities of self-promotion as I am in developing confidence and self-assurance to go forward rather than hold oneself back out of some kind of guilt or misguided allegiance.
I think poets especially tend to be afraid that to be ambitious or successful might mean supporting or colluding with a society that we deem corrupt and oppressive in many ways. By success and ambition I don't mean monetary success or career-oriented ambition although I do think that I have made the mistake of conflating my negative associations with that idea of success with any possible ideas of success.
For the poetry community that I am a part of (this is in itself a generalization), money is not often an issue. As my friend John pointed out, it is a gift economy. Money is of course an issue for every poet in many, many senses but it is not often seen as a marker of "success". Success tends to be marked more by popularity, which can mean both popularity of one's work but also socially. Success is also measured by the literary achievement of the work, of course but I think it is important to note that in the absence of validation through monetary gain, social validation will often suffice. This is not to say that it should not.
I think too that poets/artists/PEOPLE often make the mistake that to celebrate any aspect of a potentially corrupt society is to support it as a whole.
I want to make clear that many of these motivations and associations, are or can often be unconscious, or at least had been for me to a degree for quite some time.
I was inspired to write my previous post and this one, in part because of an incredibly exciting and inspiring poetry event that I attended a few weekends ago, which was a benefit for Try! Magazine. Without getting into too much detail about the event, I would just say that it incorporated everything I love about being part of a poetic community including more than anything the celebration of an incredibly "successful" venture. One, I might add, that has never made anyone (I am pretty sure) a dime.
I am in the process of trying to understand where my own associations with success come from and fully realizing how they have affected the choices I have made. I realize that it is unfair to project my own worries about success onto my friends and colleagues but do feel that as we share many positive reasons for engaging with poetic (especially avant gard) communities, we may also share some that come from places that are hidden from us as well.
Hey, brother! I'm not sure exactly what I was aiming for with that post except to encourage folks towards engagement with their work through positive means. I am not so interested in the possibilities of self-promotion as I am in developing confidence and self-assurance to go forward rather than hold oneself back out of some kind of guilt or misguided allegiance.
I think poets especially tend to be afraid that to be ambitious or successful might mean supporting or colluding with a society that we deem corrupt and oppressive in many ways. By success and ambition I don't mean monetary success or career-oriented ambition although I do think that I have made the mistake of conflating my negative associations with that idea of success with any possible ideas of success.
For the poetry community that I am a part of (this is in itself a generalization), money is not often an issue. As my friend John pointed out, it is a gift economy. Money is of course an issue for every poet in many, many senses but it is not often seen as a marker of "success". Success tends to be marked more by popularity, which can mean both popularity of one's work but also socially. Success is also measured by the literary achievement of the work, of course but I think it is important to note that in the absence of validation through monetary gain, social validation will often suffice. This is not to say that it should not.
I think too that poets/artists/PEOPLE often make the mistake that to celebrate any aspect of a potentially corrupt society is to support it as a whole.
I want to make clear that many of these motivations and associations, are or can often be unconscious, or at least had been for me to a degree for quite some time.
I was inspired to write my previous post and this one, in part because of an incredibly exciting and inspiring poetry event that I attended a few weekends ago, which was a benefit for Try! Magazine. Without getting into too much detail about the event, I would just say that it incorporated everything I love about being part of a poetic community including more than anything the celebration of an incredibly "successful" venture. One, I might add, that has never made anyone (I am pretty sure) a dime.
I am in the process of trying to understand where my own associations with success come from and fully realizing how they have affected the choices I have made. I realize that it is unfair to project my own worries about success onto my friends and colleagues but do feel that as we share many positive reasons for engaging with poetic (especially avant gard) communities, we may also share some that come from places that are hidden from us as well.
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