Saturday, June 30, 2012

Pool Party Press

What, this morning has been a buzz with conversations from people not in Denver. Hello, friends. Nice pants, all of you.

Things contemplated:
Is dreamgasm a word?
Is sungasm a word?
Can anyone pull off wearing vintage lace bloomers/pantaloons in the summer? Can you?
Should we all change our names to The Norseman?

Also, best advice I've gotten all month, from the lovely poet Lisa Ciccarello: "feel feelings till you don't feel them."

Going to a pool party later, genuinely excited about that.

Found this photo on etsy, so someone can, kinda...I think they're too long:

Also, I think if you're gunna wear them then they must be accompanied by a wife beater or something to make it less precious.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Bloody Grove Press

I’ve been trying to listen to all the music on my computer. Which is 15.8 days worth of music. Then, once I listen to it, I will allow myself to go to the library & check out CDs. Right now I’m listening to Flying Lotus & what makes me most happy, besides their song “Nose Art” is that they have a song titled “German Haircut.” I decided Vetiver is kinda p*ssy. I like Big Blood more every time I listen to Big Blood + The Grove.

Now I’m listening to Ducktails & working on my dissertation. For the last month, I’ve been sort of stuck, editing one particular piece called, “A Year to the Day: A Love Supreme,” loosely about Coltrane & tightly about much more personal stuff. But I hadn’t been writing anything to fill the gaps in the manuscript I know are there. This morning I think I made an inroad into a new lyric essay, tentatively called “A Book Is Not an Ark.” We’ll see, I have a long ways to go on this one. But I feel relieved, now I have a direction to work through/toward.

Happy Birthday Renee Gladman. I love your first book, Juice, so much. Now I need to go read everything else you've ever written!

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Violet Wrens Versus Hazel Wrens Press

Probably you should watch this Red Fang video:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY JARED WHITE. I hope you're celebrating in style with your lovely wife. If I was in NY I'd do this to your face:

I was all ready for a quiet night at home, writing letters and going to sleep early, and then MF reminded me that there is a sludge and doom metal show tonight. What's a girl to do.

Monday, June 25, 2012

Picnic Cake Press

Oh dear, I didn't make it to any of the shows I was trying to get to. Well, actually, we stood outside of the Plume Mountain show but it sounded too jammy so we left. Mostly, all adventures to listen to music disintegrated into hanging out with friends. But that's good, too, maybe better. Many hours sitting around picnic tables this weekend. A welcome party for Kristen & a Bday potluck for MS all in one, long drinky, outdoorsy night.

The Ache Poem
for Nelly Sachs

To send paper boats to your sink.

Books are not orphans.

To swim out of the coffin.

My eye-lid raised.

To pinch a cloud through the window.

Crystalline letters, fever.

A capsized ache, to look.

Polar light.

To look at your wet—

Sunday, June 24, 2012

This flowing-the-world-to-its-end Press

I’ve been reading Paul Celan & Nelly Sachs: Correspondence. M was reading this around a year ago,  & at that time, I couldn’t bring myself to read it, too. I think because I knew I couldn’t understand what it meant to him or I was afraid of what it might mean. Now I’m reading it for myself. To see what it means to me. Nelly sends Paul this poem, it totally made me almost cry. There are very few poems that do this. The only one I can remember is Farrah Field’s poem, “In Opelousa.” Anyways, here is Nelly’s poem:

Why this sadness?
This flowing-the-world-to-its-end?
Why in your eyes
the pearling light that dying is made from?

Quietly we slip down this sheer cliff of terror

it gazes at us with star-studded deaths
these dust-stiffened afterbirths
where the song of the birds leaked away
and the lip entombed the wine of speech.

Oh beam that awakened us:
how you took us weary for home
in your darkening arms
then left us alone in the night—

This is how Nelly’s letter ends. All letters should end like this, alone in the night.

I have been debating getting internet for the summer, but reading these letters made me decide not to. I think I’ll write more letters to friends without wifi. I want to reach out. I want to pluck leaves from your hair, to dusk your shoulders with eyelashes, to send paper boats to your sink, to swim out of the coffin, to pinch a cloud through the window.

Also, I want more (translated) German syntax in my life.


Photos from this morning. Because I can't get my ISO off of automatic, everything must blur. Everything must blur!

 Also, this was a search term. Imagine the conversation we were having:

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Fingering Reagan Press


And then a photo of two lesbians kissing underneath it:

Friday, June 22, 2012

Faygo Press

I've been listening to Anthony Braxton all day. And been trying to work, but entirely distracted by my new favorite website: Juggalos on OKCupid.

Some of my favorite "self summaries" are:

Get out da faygo if ur in da family

I am violent, beautiful, and a juggalette

ive been down since 1998

whoop whoop! whats crackin my ninjas? Skulls BITCHES….
i’m the wildest lette u ever met. i know u want to so just hit me up! i’m down for whateva.


Hot Topic would be a kickass store if it wasn’t so damn shady and had clothes that mainly fit raver chicks. 

and then in the "You should message me if" category:

If you a freak and live near

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Death Weather Press

A bighappybirthday to Katie Jean Shinkle, aka “Babyface.” This song is for you:
I need to give the pup a bath. This has been a bad asthma/allergy week. Screw you, pollen. It just makes me tired, like my limbs are growing into the ground. I’m turning into a root system. My dog’s napping vigorously at the foot of the bed after spending two hours in the park this afternoon (where I slept on a towel in the sun) and a morning at the reservoir yesterday. He chased some ducks, or rather a few ducks taunted him and he took the bait, splashing around in what looked like rather gross, cold water. Thus, the bath necessity.

Is everything felt?

Why do some trees sound like water?

How many postcards with hand drawn images of Gertrude Stein will EP send me & how shall I frame them all together?

Does anyone have extra headphones? I need headphones. They can be janky as long as they work.

I’m debating going to Leon (1112 E 17th Ave) on Friday for the Plume Giant show (8pm). I’ve only been there for poetry readings, so I’m intrigued by what the music set up is. And on Saturday, I want to go see Boom Chick.

Um, also next Tuesday there is a metal show at Blast-O-Mat with Bone Dance, Iron Horse, and Vomit Slaughter. Kinda want to go, yo.


So this happened today, in 1 Act Play form:

[Jules walks down the street with D’Count, in her own world. Crazyman interrupts]
Crazyman: Are you going to finish that ice-cream?
Jules: Um?
Crazyman: I’m going to stay on this boat.
Julia: Okay.

I think I was thrown because I was not eating ice-cream nor was the man on a boat.

Tomorrow I’m rising early and heading to DU to work on the Denver Quarterly. And I will retrieve my bike with it’s stolen wheel. As MS said, “Fucking thieves.”

Complete Blood Press

Hello there. I have an agenda. Did you ever think how an anagram for "agenda" is "DNA Age"? Ok, stop thinking about it because it's stupid. So, the agenda:

1) I want to tell you the jeweler & awesome poet Paige Taggart has a new website & a sale going on right now so you should check it out:
I want the "dutch cargo ship" necklace. What do you want?

2) I was sent a disposable camera from Flying Object. And due to their magic, the photos are posted here:

3) JP & I are going to open a food cart that sells italian-style tacos. Well, no we're not.

4) If you're in NY tonight, please go see Beasts of the Southern Wild at BAM, 7pm, & the director, my bff Benh, will do a Q&A.

5) Cindy King was here for a brief visit & now she's flown to LA. How did we let her leave? You can see her cute self here:

6) It's hard not to be a coward. But we should try.

7) New Denver low, finding these dentures on the sidewalk:

Monday, June 18, 2012

Rodney King Press

Check out the new issue of Jellyfish Magazine, with peeps like Seth Landman, Joshua Ware, Leora Fridman, and Thibault Raoult:


Ah, someone stole the back tire off my new bike. What a jerk. Looks like I'll be walking this summer.


Rodney King died yesterday, found in his pool. I'm sad. I can't explain the sadness.


Check out The Aviary:


Are We All Reading Books Waiting for Someone to Talk to Us?

Splash me with blood, with wings
of yellow jackets, with infested
lecterns. Books squish
the nectarine in my bag
& snack juices into extinction.
We're something else outside, inside
this whirring hour, the economy
of sound. Bees higher than pollen
could float. What is a research rut?
Or a break from studies? Turn over
the book. I remember the first person
I was afraid to love. Or rather,
how-I-loved lost to the fear-of-sex-parts,
the uncontrolled. To manifest, yes.
I see through paper, leaves,
the face, to the back of your bold blood.
How the chalk on my hands
used to be words. I'm not afraid
to die, I just don't want to yet.
Ice-cream & grass stains belong
to children. A book props my head
above the green & its drafty prongs. Once
I was afraid of judgment & now I'm not.
Nothing belongs unless we want it to.
The ache, the ache, the ache, yes sonically.
Sear fruit to our blood, gasp & gasp back.
I see bees high-fiving leaves.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Dive & Drive Press

My friend Mitch runs this. Do you have an instrument to donate?

I'm going to try & write a book review today. And maybe send some poems out to journals. And then I have to do something that involves the outside. I.e. the sun & the heat.

Friday, June 8, 2012

CDs on Dashboards Press

It's official, I'm ABD. All But (Motherf*cking) Disseration. You might think it's the year of the dragon, but it's actually Year of the Dissertation.

So many of my friends leave Denver this weekend. I'm trying not to be bummed out. But I wrote a poem to all those who are leaving. So the "you" is all of you who're "exodusing," you slinking silhouettes, and those already gone. So long, sailors:

The Ache Poem

From inside the mountain I’m
a drum. Inside the drum, I’m
counting slowly to ten, trying to step
out of the hottest shower. Next
& naked, I wash the dishes to air-dry.
People leave by airplane. They leave
by UHaul. By cloudy Fords. With full
tanks. By noose & ash. I know they’re not
leaving me, per say, but how do you not
feel left. Silhouettes fill with pollen &
slivers of soap. Somewhere you’re
eating breakfast or hanging from my mind’s
bridge. Somewhere you’re sidereal, fixing
high beams. Or blowing eyelashes from your
computer keyboard. Inside the mountain is
room temperature. Air circulates through
a series of words. I stack three towels
for guests. An extra bar of soap for the squeamish.
Soon a silhouette will send a painting in the mail.
Of a bloody train, a lace carousel, the sound I’m trying
to fill each space with. Outside the mountain
my hair glints like a CD on your dashboard.
Transportation means I miss you. Or maybe
a mountain could find a tunnel. Like how right now
my arm reaches into your guts. You are a drumset.
The sky above these plains looks like it belongs
to the sea & here I am with those excited eyes.


I'm at KJS's new apartment right now. It's cute & I'm watching her unpack sieves & dishes. She had to give me fashion advice this morning. I think I'm dressed like a white collar criminal, & she told me even though I am, that's acceptable. Although I should probably buy a white bra. Any men reading this, you have NO idea how annoyingly expensive bras are.

Look, a night yard filled with dandelions:

Thursday, June 7, 2012

The Lightning's Gone Apple Bobbing Press

The lightning was rather terrifying last night. I watched it at SS's house for hours before realizing that it wasn't going to stop & at 11:30pm, headed home. Slightly afraid the metal tip of the borrowed umbrella might bring my demise.

last night I also went out to dinner with JD's family & a few friends for her pre-phd-graduation festivities, then to Sweet Action, where I got to watch a row of 5 little kids smearing ice-cream all over their faces. Ice-cream & grass stains-- they belong to kids.

On the bus to the DQ office I read Fen Sun Chen's Butcher's Tree. That book is effing good. I need to read it a few more times & then try to write a review.


The Ache Poem

The split hairs of lightning, you
know how it goes: a peek, a point
of view, you fall over. Dust the lungs
for a release of lanterns. A centrifugal baby
or banshee in a shopping cart. Somehow
we’re here to open up. Between library pencils
& a cabin of flush cosmos. Summer screens
grate the rain. Nice bicycle-boat. I want to
avoid something like the allure of that
golf course green, then the toxic ticking sprinklers.
I’ll greet you with a smoking umbrella, wishful.
Open. I skim regret from the lake, fling it
through the tire swing so nothing stains.
My dress is soaked, like your handlebars are
meant to hold me up
against all the falling apple heirs.

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Thunder Goat Press

I want 2 chickens & 2 goats.

I want Team Fingerbang band practice to actually happen.

I want the thunder not to scare me tonight.

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Real Talk Press

Arda Collins sent me this video. Typical boyfriend/girlfriend phone argument, R Kelly style:

This is amazing. "I wish you would burn my motherf*cking clothes with your triflin' ass."



I'm adjusting to my new 1 gear bike. For the first two weeks it felt like my neck muscle was going to die after biking to Phd school because the handle bars were lower. But I made it to campus today without feeling it. Now I'm trying to get work done but all I can do is watch Nicki Minaj videos:

Monday, June 4, 2012

Slow Dance Press

One final paper to grade & then tennis tonight with SL. I think I need to go the supermarket & actually cook something for dinner. Like, make potato salad? Or, I don't know. Suggestions? This week starts slow & ends hard: Thursday my bff BZ is in town for a single night & we're going to the screening of his movie Beasts of the Southern Wild & then destroying his fancy hotel afterwards with friends. Minibar, watch out. Pillows, you will be ripped to shreds as I crack you over my friends' heads. Then Friday an improv show. I think I'm cooking for a friend on Saturday. I also have to start reading my stack of books that have been accruing on my nightstand to write reviews. But I'm looking forward to that-- this last quarter has been mainly reading theory/philosophy, so actually picking up a book of poems seems amazing.


Bands this week I've obsessively been listening to:
Shovels & Rope
Flying Lotus

Baths is becoming my new Album to Play While Getting Dressed In The Morning In Order To Face The Day.

I think I'm going to try and force myself to write something creative every day. Here is today:

The Ache Poem

The sexual darkness is not different
than any other darkness. Glowing
limbs, rustling & droplets, the hive’s
motor. My computer tells me I’ve played
a particular song 97 times. Today
I accidently dressed like a sailor.
Today my heart’s a spigot. We can’t
turn off anything, really. Music is
a root system, clasps & we are shaken.
By I don’t know what— a slow dance,
a leaf sinking in a pool, as car engines
shred illegible darkness, the lost coast.
What does breaching 100 mean.
I block the sun? Then the poem
shakes it free.

Sunday, June 3, 2012

The Sea The Sea Press

I just bought a new conditioner that seems to be made out of tomatoes. Which was why I had to buy it. That & the fact that I was out of conditioner & don't know anything about hair products.

What else? Graded more papers today, almost done. Gunna re-learn how to play shuffleboard tonight.

My dog was acting sad & maladjusted last night. So then I wrote a poem:

The Ache Poem

We think the sea is invulnerable & we are
wrong. I watch water evaporate from
the vase. I watch your face as it turns to water.
Cars are louder than I am. Above the street I am
staring at two green shelves leaning against my wall.
Like a sailor, I whittled my heart into an arrow & threw
it in the sea. The sea is a sink, a ceramic duck,
your stack of paper plates saved for picnics.
Our dog whines & I don’t know why. I’ve failed
in someway that has yet to be revealed.
Replace my heart with a lightbulb, a bleacher.
Nothing fits. I replace my heart with your
face. Scallops hold my hand, lead me to
that wet, grey scale. From the raft, I will
the shelves onto the wall. I will your face to
look up at me, from inside my chest.
Have I failed the sea. Refill the vase.

Saturday, June 2, 2012

Cold Shower Press

Thursday was my last day of PhD classes. Did I already gloat about this? Can I? Well, I feel relieved. I worked my *ss off this year. "For realsies." I lost at poker last night. Although here is the thing, by the time I was taken down, OS had bought back in 4 times, and NEG and DR had bought back in once. So I don't feel too bad about it.


Since moving into my own apartment, I've been thinking a lot sound. I mean, human sound. Particularly because when my dog stays with me, I think he is used to hearing my conversations with M. And now that those don't exist, I realize that the dog might be a little lonely. So now I talk directly to D'Count occasionally and he seems to perk up. I forgot that even though he's a dog, he still likes to hear my voice. Also, I've been noticing the few times where I end up saying things out loud although I'm the only one in the apartment. This actually ONLY happens when I'm in the shower and the temperature changes wildly (usually to freezing cold without any warning). And then I yelp and say, "F*ckers!" or "AHH." Why do we say things outloud to ourselves? Habit? Because we hope we'll be overheard?

I overheard a phone conversation today when walking D'Count in which a man on the phone said, "Today is going to be a day I don't remember." Is that because he was planning to get wasted? Or because he was planning to have it be uneventful?


I have also been thinking about Stein and feelings:

The thing about Gertrude Stein is that often people forget that she is mostly concerned with feelings. They see her work as conceptual, removed. Yet, she attempts to place her feelings at the center of her writing, which reminds us that those raw reactions are not necessarily straightforward. I think what she offers us is more genuine, because she’s not translating it into a coherent narrative, it is more unfiltered than most literature. She explains:

“The thing that is important is the way that portraits of men and women and children are written, by written I mean made. And by made I meant felt.”-165, from “Portraits and Repetition”

“I am trying not to give to myself but to you a feeling of the way English literature feels inside me.”-17, from “What Is English Literature”

‘You must remember each time I took something, I said, I have got to satisfy each realistic thing I feel about it. Looking at your shoe, for instance, I would try and make a complete realistic picture of your shoe. It is devilishly difficult and needs perfect concentration, you have to refuse so much and so much intrudes itself upon you that you do not want it, it is exhausting work.”-29, from “A Transatlantic Interview 1946”

Friday, June 1, 2012

Photo Explosion Press

Ah, photos: Picnic, Scrabble, etc