Sean Blog: It All Relates 2 Writing

Sunday is a Mechanical Flea

November 22, 2009 · 8 Comments

I want to do some really shitty mechanic work on my car. Like I want to change the oil but leave the little nut on, or mis-thread the nut or something and oil all dripping behind my car and staining my driveway all permanent Rorschach potato flavored glisten can’t get out really but can try with kitty litter. I want to work on the wiring under the hood. Like mix the red and blue wires all MacGyver Level Four and cause a small fire and have to call those car guys that laugh too much and dishonestly and then they tell me how I spell my name and maybe a chipmunk got under my hood and burned up and then more laughing. I want to tape my ceiling cloth and I tape it wrong and it dangles atop my head, I feel it in my hair. I want to fix the little lock on the glove compartment but then I squeeze vice grips too hard and shatter the plastic and now the thing yawns open, always.  I want to put a tire on wrong and have it tumble off on the highway, rolling along the shoulder like a ghost tire and I’m gripping the steering wheel while I slide off into a ditch. I just want to work on my car in a really, really, seriously shitty manner. That’s what I want to do.

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Tomorrow a publisher tells me something good or maybe not so good.

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There is a waffle shortage going on.

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Going to go float in fog.

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Lunch is Level Seven:

S

 

S

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Karen Volkman is a Better Poet than We

November 19, 2009 · 4 Comments

Karen Volkman does things with words, I don’t know how. Like lots of people can write about kissing, but how many go:

the clang and strop of it, the undercover wet.

In the bluebit, heartquit leaping I might be binded. But tongue, lip, lap are brim beginning, a prank of yet.

This is one of those times I read something and I think, “I’m not sure exactly what you mean but I am sure exactly what you mean.”

Volkman commands words. That’s the correct verb, command. She takes their usual uses, then reorders them, then marches them into some form of dance or battle. What exactly is a kiss? Good question. It is many things, and poetry seems the way to examine the idea and actuality. You must be able to make things not what they are, off-kilter, both feeling and non-feeling, both press of lips, and the space between the lips, and all more after…

I was trying to tell a student how they need to work their language, bend their syntax (They were doing this–I wanted them to do it more), to make the form and function of the text help each other along. After a while I quit talking and copied some Volkman poems and gave them to the student. I said, “Read.”

Here is an interview if you want an interview.

Another thing I like about Volkman is that so many of her poetry links are broken. I think a poet should have a lot of broken links, or links that just unravel out into the ether…and also so many people dislike her poetry. With just a bit of searching, you can find many writers that HATE her prose poetry. I think if a lot of people don’t like your work, and then they take time and effort to express how horrible you are, then you are probably doing something with your words. I think Volkman is doing something.

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I did mile repeats today. I am in off-season shape, but they felt good. The mile is mythical to a runner. More than that. Can I bend words now, to let you in, to let you embrace…We measure ourselves in miles. It is the air we breathe, the lung burn and flow. The mile is our mountain, our stethoscope, our sailing boat, our God, in a much more real way than most commune with gods. We are of our god. We let our very bodies become. We thank our god as we are within our god. We breath our god and attack our god and struggle with angels and respect our god and write our god in godly verses in the mileage logs, our hymnals. The mile is Time. Time is the mile. The mile is outside Time, so we are outside mortality when we enter the mile. Runner’s High is spiritual, no different than born again/meditation/rhythmic chant, so why do others doubt its name? We enter a state as we run, then we burn inside afterward, and we think about when it will engulf us again. We pray.

I went 6:00 mile    5:56 mile

5:52 mile        5:49 mile

Not too shabby. A start. Need to pick out a few spring races soon…

“Some people create with words, or with music, or with a brush and paints. I like to make something beautiful when I run. I like to make people stop and say, “I’ve never seen anyone run like that before.” It’s more then just a race, it’s a style. It’s doing something better then anyone else. It’s being creative.”   Pre

Mailbag:

Sean, I now you deer hunt, sew do I. Saturday is like Christmas to me, opning day. Do you have anything special you do before opening day? I lay my cloths out and sometimes dream.

Stan14

One, Mr. 14, I like your internet name, simple, which is key. As for your question: I drink a beer first. I sometimes down a Nyquil. Then maybe a Jager, Jager, shot of calcium-induced orange juice (this will help focus in the a.m.), Nyquil chaser (but never more than 5). Then I watch the movie Caddyshack. I walk off my back porch and empty a Buckmark .22 into the ground, a full magazine. I then put the pistol away, usually in a hall closet. Then I drink-and-Ebay. Ever drank and Ebayed? You would not believe the stuff that will arrive at your doorstep on Wednesday: a brass bottle opener from Peru in the shape of a llama, a framed photo of Audrey Hepburn and her pet deer at the grocery, the bible (often in Braille), a case of Dark Horizon beer from Sweden, a Sherlock Holmes action figure, a tiny pillow (meant for a dollhouse) with the words INGRID BERGMAN stitched across its hide. I do not own a dollhouse. All of this adds a certain wonderment to my life. So, yes, I indeed have rituals. If you have a video game system, I will also bowl a decent game (but only virtually). I then watch deer hunting videos with my uncle. We bond this way. We drink one more beer and swap stories about the 35 bream we caught in one hour, down at the bottom (we call it a holler), the day we were run off a train trestle by a big-ass sudden train, and had to leap into a swamp and shoot ourselves out of a water moccasin nightmare of tangle/taffy/doom. Later, like you, I might also dream of deer. Depends. Deer dreams are crazy. Don’t get me started.

pet

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Interview Daniel Bailey Drunk Sonnets

November 16, 2009 · 13 Comments

The Drunk Sonnets are here.

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(Aside: The cover appears to be a vat of movie popcorn. I don’t really get that one.)

I keep getting this image of a drunk sonnet, like a poem staggering around, its meter all whack. It starts hitting on a haiku, etc.

I interviewed Daniel Bailey. I knew I needed to get drunk first, but I rarely drink, as we know. So I went and bought a mojito at Chili’s (love Chili’s! Freedom!), drank it, vomited on my Subaru, walked home, brushed my teeth thrice, conducted this interview:

1.) You say that you wrote these sonnets drunk. How drunk? Was there a spectrum? Like from “that song sounds really cool” light buzz to thrown urinals and an ambulance?

Daniel: i was pretty drunk for some of them, a little drunk for others. it depends on how far into the night it was. i would drink maybe three beers and then start writing. i felt like i was at a good place to begin, at that point. i would write at least 12 poems per night, so it was a progression. i think i remember writing every one of the poems though, so it’s not like i was blackout, wake up the next day in the tub with my clothes on drunk. i still had to go to work the next day.

2.) If you could be any poet besides yourself, who would you be? Why?

i would be want to be a poet who’s still alive. i keep thinking of poets that i’d want to be and they’re all dead (frank o’hara, frank stanford [ok, i guess just those two]), so i don’t want to be them. maybe i would want to be them while they were still living. i think i’m going to go with jason bredle because his poems are funny and scary and have a force behind them that is intense enough that i don’t even have to microwave my burritos. all i have to do is hold my burritos up to my copy of pain fantasy and they heat themselves. plus jason’s old facebook photo was of him trying to put his foot in his mouth.

3.) Several students at BSU (where you were recently a student, and I am now a prof) told me you worshiped Satan. It seems to be an English dept rumor among the undergrads. Is that true? If so, how does your Satanism affect your writing, if at all?

That’s about 80% true. i’m not totally into it. my heart’s not completely there. i’m not even a card-carrying member of the church of satan. i’m not a member (and never will be) because you have to pay $200 to join

http://www.churchofsatan.com/home.html

check out the “affiliation” section.

I think i initially wanted to join the church of satan because it seemed like a fun thing to do. it would be funny to get out my membership card at a party and maybe make people think i was edgy or something. mostly, i don’t care about religion or having specific beliefs.

i associate satan with things that are “metal,” which is, to me, synonymous with fun. i want to write things that are “metal.” i want to write things that are also “fun,” but also “true.” ok, i’m done with the tao lin quotes now.

4.) Do you think your writing glorifies the long-established idea/history of art and alcohol?

dylan

probably. it wasn’t my intention to do so. i kind of feel like the connection between art and alcohol is a bit overblown. i bet the percentage of alcholic artists vs. alcoholic any other profession is pretty close. the funny thing is that, outside of THE DRUNK SONNETS and the DRUNK blog, i do most of my writing sober.

5.) Who inspires you, and you cannot name a writer.

i’m having a really hard time answering this question. harmony korine inspires me and makes me want to make something, but he technically “writes” his movies.

for some reason, i can only think about a vacation when i was 12 or 13 when my parents took me to england and we were walking through london and a homeless woman put a curse or something on my dad in a foreign (maybe eastern european) language because my dad didn’t give her any money. i felt afraid for my dad’s life for a couple years, but he’s still doing alright.

that’s not an answer. i don’t feel inspired by that woman. but that’s where your question led me.

6.) In several venues, you have said you edited these pieces sober, not drunk. Why? Why not edit drunk, too?

i’m not sure. i guess it’s because i was sober whenever i opened up the word doc or when mike sent editorial suggestions. it does seem to not be in the spirit of the title, but whatever. i’d rather make the poems as good as i can rather than worry too much about my mental state at the time of writing or editing.

7.) Shaken or stirred?

candy_drunk

i was shaken as a baby.

8.) Many of these pieces started on a blog. I read them there. Can you discuss how a blog can help or hinder a writer?

for me, writing into the blogger post window makes my mind work in a different way from when i try to write into a word document. i’d call it a good thing. the font is different. you’re not just staring at white with a little blue to the side. it feels better. the words somehow make images more real to me, which makes it easier to stay interested and continue writing. i think the only way a blog can hinder a writer is when the writer has a lot of people that look at the blog and the writer then feels like they don’t have to write as well or something. a blog can give a writer a persona or something, which is detrimental to honesty in writing. a blog is really only good for getting your name out. it’s like a homebase. i sometimes get frustrated when i read something in an online journal and the bio doesn’t have a link to the writer’s blog. blogs are good, because maybe i wanted to read more of your writing. a blog is a good central location for that. so, i guess, blogs are good for writers and also good for readers.

9.) You live in Colorado now, right? How is the drinking scene?

it’s alright. i miss the heorot. i don’t think i’ll ever find a bar as good as the heorot. fort collins has o’dell’s brewery, which is great. we also have new belgium, which is a shitty excuse for a brewery. i know new belgium and fat tire have infiltrated muncie and the midwest/east coast recently. it seems like fat tire is the new hipster beer. fuck fat tire and fuck new belgium. they make shitty beers. they care more about the environment than they do about making good beer (which they suck at). i miss the muncie drinking scene. people in muncie know their shit because drinking is all there is to do in muncie. the only thing that bars in colorado have that bars in indiana don’t have is shuffleboard, which is fun to play every once in a while.

indiana doesn’t have mountains, though. if i want to look at a mountain, all i have to do is walk out into the parking lot behind my apartment building and turn left. there are the foothills of the rocky mountains. i’ll take geography over good bars any day.

10.) Why sonnets?

because of how short they are. i’ve mentioned before that the sonnet was my escape from long free verse poems (though, the drunk sonnets are technically free verse. the only constraint (for me) is the 14 line limit. i guess my love of the sonnet is like your love of flash faction. it allows for a huge thing to be compressed into a small area, which is why i had to write so many of them. it allows for prolificness. it requires conciseness. and somehow the last two lines always force you into a place where you’re not sure what’s going to happen, but the chance of goodness is favorable, usually. seeing the end of the poem raises the stakes. it causes drama within the heart. it raises the blood pressure. i’m pretty sure it causes fever. recklessness disappears. when you have the end in sight, you know what you have to do. you can’t waste time fucking around with language. all you have is what you have and that’s what will come out if you treat it right and that is a beautiful thing.

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He did a good job with that.

S

 

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Nacho Day Redux Barry Hannah.

November 11, 2009 · 6 Comments

Well, shiver me full-figure and tumble me a cheese dip, National Nacho Day was rather glow. I had nachos for lunch and dinner. For a light snack, I had nachos. And so did many readers of this blog!

highlights…

This pic from Louisiana:

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Beer, Beatles beer glass, knife, nachos, shitty magazine. Add some underwear dangling from a ceiling fan, and I’d call that a pretty perfect evening.

Check out The Idiom, bringing it all hot pepper/petrify true with his cat eating nachos! Word.

cat

He also mentions a certain trash talk, a certain Nacho Battle that has been brewing in the hipper dodecahedrons of the web.

He pretty much summarizes this thing up: “I’m tossing a benjamin on Lovelace. Dude is coming out with salsa lust, swinging nacho libre. He truly trumpets the cause of the nacho, and that’s points in the TKO of life. Yeah, mother fucker! Yeah!”

Blake would be all laid out, all splayed like a Christmas sweater. His mouth afire, volcanoes in his limbs, eyes all bioluminescent lamps.

(Anyway, I thought Blake was dead. Must have got a clutch of some real nachos [for once])

Wow, did Official Brown MFA Blog bring it crazy.

Dinner.

nacho 1

Breakfast…

nachos 2

This, my friends, is indeed the spirit.

To the many others who sent photos, I apologize but most I can not post. In one a person is buck-ass naked. In the others, the images seemed more about you, and not about the nachos. The nachos are the reason for the season, or said another way: “In Muncie I spent two years eating roasted nachos and drinking oil-thick beer on woven mats in cafes and smoking rolled up tortilla crumbs from hookah hoses and sometimes holing up in my second-story two-room nacho flat for two or three or four days at a stretch without putting on clothes, drinking wine and smoking and tripping on nachos and making love, friends sometimes dropping by to join in, the rises and sets of the sun as inconsequential and amusing and unreal as a TV show.”

So.

I think the best was this essay by Ali Plath. I post it all, verbatim because I find it beautiful like a motorcycle or a sizzling mist and why would I change such a thing?

Lo, for I have joined in the celebration of national nacho day this sixth of November. Unfortunately I do not have pictures, because I cannot get them off my phone. I will tell you about them instead.

Originally I had intended to make my own bbq tofu nachos. But making bbq tofu is a long and involved process with pressing and frying and broiling and I am on vacation. There is world of warcraft to play. So I started by making some black beans in the slow cooker. I used the recipe from Vegan Lunch Box by Jennifer McCann. The nachos did end up being vegan, although I did not originally plan it that way. Anyway, the beans were in the slow cooker with half an onion and some dried red pepper and some liquid smoke. They are good. I made a lot of them. I have a ton left over.

I had to go to the store to get chips. I don’t eat nachos much. I don’t run much either. If I ran more, I could eat more nachos. I will take this under consideration. I got some hippie organic multigrain chips, because I am a hippie.

I put the chips on a plate, and then put some of the beans on there. Then I added olives. Everything was going really well so far. Then I tried to melt some cheese. I had pepper jack and some of those babybel wedges. I thought the wedges would make the jack be liquidy enough to pour on the nachos. That did not work out. It was an unappetizing blob in a ramekin, instead of a sauce. So I threw it out. I took it as a message, as cheese is the hardest holdout for me in embracing veganity. So these nachos became vegan nachos.

Instead of the tofu, I chopped up and heated a chipotle grain roast sausage. Then I put on some salsa. It is Newman’s Own.

They are pretty good nachos.

Happy Nacho Day!

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bama

I read Ray by Barry Hannah.

People hype this book, so I was prepared for my head to turn into fragile pianist’s hands. Like carefully squeezed into music.

It was damn good. But I got fatigued, a hell of a thought for a novella.

I would like to talk to a woman who read this book. It seemed like women in these pages were pretty much orifices or maybe shrieking, fucking chuckles turning to coughs. It seemed like women just barely made it past prop, or automobile. Hysterical engines!

The point of view/tense/time leaps were simply stunning. I don’t know what to say that hasn’t been noted about this book’s structure. Finally, my head did indeed go phantom limb.

It seemed like women were airplanes.

Language can redeem. This is why Faulkner meant about the Grecian urn and your grandmother, folks. Language can overcome. The sentences in Ray are going to make you wear a long dark skirt of thinking. A hundred feet of silk, and I mean gliding. Hannah is putting these words together and cobbling them and building robots to construct the robots to clean the robots that will flash-weld these shiny, chrome, glaring sentences. Jesus, they are good.

I don’t like cheap shots at nurses, period, so fuck you, Ray. (When readers talk to your fictional characters out loud, you most likely have hit on something good.)

Well, I’d like to sit down and have coffee with a woman and discuss this here book.

But the language, it do redeem.

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Won’t You Join Me for November 6 Nacho Day?

November 4, 2009 · 8 Comments

Nov 6 it premieres…

Night of the Nacho Pic2

“I have to praise Divegirl…it’s like watching Tom Hanks in Big.”   Kelly Clarkson

“I laughed and cried and cried and laughed and dropped something racial and sexist and cried. I was drunk. Loved the explosions of cheese!” Mel Gibson

“The ultimate chick-flick for chicks who dig nachos.” Jay Z

“Growing your mind.” Yves St Laurent.

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nacho controversy! Luckily that guy with the black leather jacket solved this one. They could have asked me…

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eureka-springs3

offering to the gods…

November 6 is National Nacho Day! (It is also Saxophone Day, but who cares?)

Please go shopping. Please prepare your ingredients.

Other acceptable terms:

“I Love Nachos Day!”

“Twenty Miles North of Nachos Day!”

“Big-Ass Nachos Day!”

“I First Met Nachos Day!”

“YUM YUM Triangle Day!”

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Send me a nacho pic on November 6!

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Khloe Kardashian Enjoys Pre-Wedding Nachos!

khlo 2

“Uh, I want more nachos. I am about to get married. I will probably drive a car into a garage door, like three times. Then He will say I never turn off the lights, especially that little one in the bathroom and that really bothers Him. He thinks it is disgusting to leave a light on when you could have turned the light off but instead you left it on didn’t you can I have some more nachos?”

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Story about Nachos as medicine.

D-uh.

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Chicago public schools serve nachos. Every single day.

Damn, I wish I had gone to school in Chicago.

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nachos break

If you must eat breakfast…

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Oromin Explorations Ltd has reported that the exploration rights for its Santa Rosa nacho and nacho toppings project in the Province of Mendoza, Argentina have now been formally authorized. The Government of Mendoza has issued Decree 1106/2009. This decree grants Oromins Argentina subsidiary the Permit to Explore and eventually a Concession to Exploit nachos in the CC y B-9 (Cuenca Cuyana & Bolsones 9) Santa Rosa Block.

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Start them early, all existential. Nacho merchandise here.

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Sushi1_2007_6[1]

Sushi nachos for all you fancy folks. People say they don’t like sushi but then one day they like sushi. It’s like meeting a guy from Texas and almost everyone hates people from Texas, as we know, but this guy ends up being legit and later he’s at your wedding, a true friend, and so then you actually decide to go ahead and like people from Texas. Like that nachos. Nachos. Nachos.

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Nacho poem by Ander Monson.

And men in Craftmatic adjustable nachos recline,
their hearts on momentary pause—my nachos
one of them; all our nachos one of them, those
nachos who made us turn the show on to light
up evenings otherwise irreducibly devoted
to the one long nacho, shoveling the nachos back
from the driveway six inches accumulation
each nacho, and the plows steady on the roads,
plowmen grinning, filled with Citgo “Nachos”
and old mail-order mints. Pine-smelling nachos
in from the woods and that nacho day of work
felling Christmas trees with manual nachos back
and forth and axe-arcs generated by shoulders,
let loose into nachos. That man in the great suit
and those twin conducting nachos long enough
for two trombones is dead. And liquor is still
being sold to minors trolling in on nachomobiles—
machines that serve as proof of nachos—and men
are losing limbs. The old high school is down;
all that architecture dusted, and the nacho is on
skis cross-countrying towards this house tonight.
That nacho has a thirty-ought strapped to its back,
bolt-action digging in below the scapula and xyphoid
nacho. Kids in school are still afraid to perform
mouth-to-mouth on that nasty nacho, in spite
of all the antiseptic sprays and what-if-it-was-your-
dying-sisters? Who among us will be the one to press
our nachos to it, to breathe that cord of wood
back to life, to take up the old and greased
garage sale nacho, lead the band, stun
a life right out of Branson and the Lennon
Sisters and listen to that Jo Ann Nachos play.

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Speaking of Mel Gibson, rudeness nacho shirt!

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na·cho / ˈnächō/ • n. (pl. -chos) a small crisp piece of a tortilla, typically topped with melted cheese and spices.

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New York nacho blog guy.

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tag

Those darn kids.

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party

Wish I’d been there…These people seem sort of fun. I guess.

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Volcano Nacho eating contest.

Volcano nacho review.

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Marshmallow nachos recipe.

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ass

Well now that depends.

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“I attended less than two years of Conservatory in Mexico City. I loved the nachos, not the music classes, so I left.” Placido Domingo

“Don’t double dip the chips.” George.

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Mall Cop was really, uh, good…  “Although Paul is the butt of standard-issue fat jokes, Leon is degraded for amusement, the grossest instance being a totally pointless nacho-eating contest between him and Paul.”

There is no such thing as pointless nachos, dude.

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Gossip Girl’s Blake Lively calls out “nachos and hot dogs” as her favorite indulgences.

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Nachos 2

Honey, it’s nacho casserole! I am on a major tranquilizer and I wanted to paint with my feet maybe in Spain for a living but no I am a housewife but at least we have nachos.

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NACHO

Whoa. Bring it.

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Jenny McCarthy Addicted To Nachos, Hates Exercise.

Hot people eat nachos, as we have seen.

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The lack of nachos, in a daily way, in this culinary system, is that which tears apart, shuts out the other person, raises barriers, sets people against each other.

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Eat nachos or kill zombies? Tough call.

“What really makes this a hard thing to do isn’t the fact that nachos are one of the Chosen Foods…”

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Whale Nachos

Ingredients:

1 (105 ton) Whale
1896 lbs Onions
7326 lbs Jalapeños
1908 gallons melted cheese
2276 lbs black beans
927 lbs pico
104 lbs cumin
76 lbs cayenne flakes
52 gallons hot sauce

Directions:

Place whale on tortillas. Broil at 300 degrees for 14 minutes. Add onions, jalapeños, cheese, cumin, beans, pico, and hot sauce. Flake with cayenne. Serves 347,161 people.

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S

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Stefanie Freele’s Motel. Iredell Soon. Ok, I see an Ugly Buck.

November 2, 2009 · 1 Comment

New clank at elimae. Enjoy.

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jump-copy1

New Chapbook Review is live and full of goodness like fire safety or degerminated love or OK I have a review.

jump-7

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Got my copy of Jamie Iredell’s book. Am excited, am 93 million teeth. I keep thinking flash is going to black hole the earth or some thing about sharks smelling one drop of blood, something. Here is another great prose poem/flash book, I feel. Go here to order.

jamie

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I need a good spring marathon. Anyone have a marathon in the spring they want to pitch?I am going to go run now. I am going to do a fartlek/temp thing. I am going to run so hard my knees collapse into my chrome forehead, something. I can already feel the scrim of pain.

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Yesterday I watched a buck feed below my stand. On its right side it had 4 perfectly formed antler tines. On its left side one single antler, like a gnarled bolt, stuck at a 90 degree angle off its head. A truly ugly and beautiful deer at the same time. I let it walk away, to whatever ugly bucks go. Then I continued reading a Nyorker article about Wes Anderson. Like most NYorker articles these days, this essay was underwhelming, underdeveloped, under-focused, under-reported, and soon stuffed under an overbite of beer cans in my Man Room garbage bin (a wicked tin bucket, the real thing). [I like to hear the clank of things.]

S

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I Live in Your Elbow Room.

October 29, 2009 · 5 Comments

hipster 1

“What?”

He goes, “I can see you for what you are!”

(Screaming. He throws a ceramic dachshund at the wall. Etc. Man, if the morning starts this way, what about the afternoon and evening?)

I say, “I can’t argue now. So kindly shut up and get a social life or something.”

“You are not a nice person! I don’t like you anymore than I hate me for liking you!”

“What? Did you steal that shit from a Bruce Smith poem? Leave me alone. Go grow or kill something. Anything.”

(Crash. Drywall wounds. There goes another one of my frosted souvenir Kentucky Derby glasses…He enters the room.)

“Listen, I love you, seriously. Let’ s calm down here. I just read this bright pink book. You know about books. Tell me, what is the deal with Tao Lin and the quotation marks?”

hipster 4

I say, “Well, you know, it started as a gimmick. Dude loves gimmicks. This is the guy who tied little Tao Lin flags to the back of all the city’s fireflies. He first used the quotation marks circa 2000, by accident, and he liked the look and already he was thinking Brand. He was going to call them “Lin Scarves” and had this whole campaign planned about “clothing” your words for the upcoming season. Anyway, Lin Scarves was already copyrighted by this dude in Kansas who sells toilet seats for a living, and anyway Tao was broke. He used to be broke a lot but now things are better. Tao loves money, as we know. This guy is like a dumptruck of P.T. Barnums. He would bottle and sell you his dreams–the actual fucking dreams he has at night about Gerbils and Hegel and cabbage-headed policeman and shit–if he had thought about it before reading the idea right here. I met Tao once, in a bar in New York named Guam. He tried to sell me stock in a diagram (more a rough drawing) of a tiny machine with suction cups that kids could stick under the table and spoon or fork food into when they didn’t want to eat the food themselves. Nice try, Tao. Nice try. The quote thing then became characterization at times; it evolved. And the Brand established itself. He would use the quotes when writing fiction, essays, or even checks. (I kid; Tao has no checking account, or banking account of any kind.) The quotation marks became an element of Tao’s characters, their flat affects and distrust of everything, their layering in the perceptions of individual reality. The quotes added yet another layer. The word/world does not Mean what it Means. “Get it?” Three years ago the quotes became so ubiquitous in Tao’s work that they disappeared. Like air, or beige paint. They just stood for nothing. They existed, but we could not even “see” them. This is when Tao started switching, one quotation mark, two, maybe three. The man was desperate. This was the Shoplifting, the Time of Running, when Tao took to marathons (or cities that held marathons–where he would shoplift) and attempted to enter the Olympics. He quickly dropped that dream, because, you know, pain sucks. Black Toenails! Raw nipples! He was lost, really. Lost. Drifting in an infinite void. He felt contradictory and complex, which is no fun. Where was The Attention? Attention–from all arenas, self, virtual self, narrator of printed page, voice—is the oxygen of life for Tao. Now, he felt suffocated. He turned to drink. Beer mostly, some red wine. A year ago the quotes matured, and finally reached semi-fruition, in a way. Tao left drink, became vegan and started driving a truck, a little 4 cylinder Toyota. His quotes began to lock themselves into a matrix of meaning. To me, the quotes started asking what truth can exist in the world, if Death exists alongside? Or to put it more plainly, Why are ketchup packages so small? Once again, as the quotes clearly showed The Reader, art is fundamentally untrue. It has to be, right? Because art is perceived with the senses, and we all know the senses (along with the artifact of the art) is fleeting and will disappear as if it never existed.  It is a shadow, really. Already half gone. One finitude exposes itself essentially in time, correct? OK. So now you understand the quotes. Let’s move on. Let’ s move on with our lives. I love you too. BTW. Nachos?”

hipster 2

*

All pics from LATFH.

*

I had nachos for lunch and then for dinner. The dinner one had less black beans than I wanted. I hate that, when the weight is off, the topping ratio all group therapy, but it happens, man. I almost ran to the store. But did not. God made pickled jalapenos, though I am not yet sure which god.

*

Dogzplot wants you to send them magical stuff!

I’m going to send them something, I think. I’ll look in my “files” or write something. Something magical like Finland, or elevator shoes.

*

Yeh, I still have a literary crush on Kim Chinquee, so what? She writes flash fiction and is a distance runner, what did you expect.? I just wanted to say that she is editing/judging two new flash fiction venues:

Collagist Contest.

Mississippi Review.

I think I will enter maybe three, four flash contest this next year, that seems about right. Why enter contests? Hmmm. That’s a good question, and one you will have to answer yourself.

hipster 3

S

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Mean Campaign for Something Reading Lights.

October 27, 2009 · 3 Comments

mean

Mean Week at HTML Giant.

It’s kind of addictive. It’s a sociological experiment, I was thinking this morning. It’s sort of fun, but then I feel bad, even during Mean Week. Sometimes my head does an Existing Picture vs basketball dunk, you know? Like I seriously don’t like mean people. Why be mean? But then sometimes I get really sick of everyone being nice.

I had a friend (still is my friend) at Alabama MFA who said one day, “Why is everyone so fucking nice here? It’s annoying.”

I thought that was a really true and unique thing to say at the time.

Big trees on that campus and a lot of civil war and civil rights. The people who were into the civil war never realized the civil rights history, I remember thinking.  The library always sagged. Then one day a girl was walking to class and the wind blew a branch onto her head. Also I remember the students would smell of bourbon. That’s about it, I think, except for the BMWs and the chicken houses. I forgot the cannon, too. Sorry, OK?

Anyway, if you want to say something mean go to HTML and say it. I am SO HAPPY they mentioned Glimmer Train. Glimmer Train be weak like a dented chime.

*

I like when superficial comments leak out authentic blur. Example. At the grocery yesterday a man with a head like a Pringle says the social lubricant thing, “How are you doing?” to cashier. Cashier gives automated response we’ve all heard, “I can’t complain.”

Then a beat.

Then he says lower, “No one would listen to me anyway if I did. No one listens to me…” trailing off.

*

heh

The Campaign for the American Reader wanted to know what I was reading.

There you go.

And on Writer’s Read.

*

I was at a reading last night and four things annoyed me:

1.) People clapped between EVERY poem. This is over-clapping and not necessary.

2.) Woman next to me loudly texted all reading. Click, clack. I had an urge to snatch up her phone and throw it at her Sevens and Eights and Sixes.

3.) No wine.

4.) The room was over lit. The lights crackled like 1960s folk music. My eyes went all rental A/C. They rattled.

Peter Davis was one of the poets. His stuff pretty much rocked, I felt. I didn’t realize he was so funny. Great material and he had this awkward way of shuffling through the papers/poems that worked well with the poems themselves. It was like the time I fell off a ___________ into a ______________.

I felt good. I thought, “I feel good. Too bad there’s no wine to make me feel better then a bit worse.”

S

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Big Other Brother Other Big Something Maybe Scorch Atlas

October 26, 2009 · 2 Comments

I posted the below today at Big Other. If you enjoy, go check out the site!

WHO THE FUCK IS WE JAMES A. MICHENER?

“Unless you think you can do better than Tolstoy, we don’t need you”

James A. Michener.

Yes, that’s true, and also:

If you can’t be white milk, please don’t be milk at all.

No, wait.

If you can’t be mayonnaise, uh, be a saltine…Wait, if you can’t be sexually OK and also maybe wear a proper vest/socks arrangement and speak quietly with utmost appropriateness of shoe color and sensible automobile and please remove your shoes before I think OK maybe meet you at the lawn care symposium? Something.

The other Tuesday I was driving home and grooving to this song on the radio, have no idea who but whatever, and it’s juicing me, flowing my skin/nerves/belly, and I’m doing the arm fist-bump-to-fist bump dance from the ‘50s with one hand and doing the hand-caterpillar from the ‘80s with the other (guiding by baby-baby Subaru with my knees) and I’m just grooving life, caught in a moment, just living it zone free floating serotonin shivers…just flowing, just flowing, one of those thangs.

And it wasn’t Mozart or The Beatles, Mr. A. Michener. It was just a good pop song.

Word.

LeoTolstoy

How would you children like me to take you for lunch at the Cracker Barrel? Huh?

*

I am reading Scorch Atlas now by Blake Butler. Blake sent me a fucked-up destroyed kind of copy because I asked him too and he’s nice that way. He was going to film himself eating every page of the book, but maybe he stopped doing that? I thought that was pretty flaky, so if he stopped, good.

As for the book, I just started but let me say three things:

1.) Immersion is the word I’d use. I am immersed in the words. Under the water of them. Pretty incredible. I’m not going to go Whole Hog review since I just started the book and others have reviewed this thing hard. But I want to throw in the word Immersion. Also horrifying. Like a horrifying to wake you up (or maybe keep you up at night) and to jar you, shake you, rattle your synapses and clank/clutch your bones. I will finish soon and say more, but I can already tell my students will be seeing this book soon. (For me, that’s high compliment, BTW.)

2.) Great book for the deer stand. It’s shaped a little longer, narrower than most, so fits well into my Mossy Oak fanny pack with my grunt tubes, doe in estrous scent, bleat can, rattling antlers, knives, yardage markers, bow hanger, clippers, release, forest woods scent, can of beer (shhh), gloves, head net, rolled up arm guard, glow tacks, lift string, flashlight, batteries for, and so on.

3.) An artifact this thing. When I ripped open the envelope I was driving so leaned down and grabbed the book, looked, them dropped the book and looked at my fingers, for soot or ink. I am serious. I thought the actual book has been burned before I realized it was Scorch Atlas and just designed like a fucking Armageddon. How awesome is that? This book in itself argues for the physical book! (whole other post–but it’s coming. We better all start rolling out our book-as-artifact posts soon, right?)

DSC01511

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Sean Lovelace Reviews AM/PM by Amelia Gray.

October 22, 2009 · 2 Comments

The Clock tocks and ticks. Nervous tapping. A colony of motion/emotion. Gray.

I call it The Clock. Been reading, you know, gnawing on its gears…

{posing with a clock? I’ll let that go, Gray. An older you wouldn’t say no; would say HELL NO.}

(First third I read on my roof. Been dragging out this ladder-I-Never-Desired and reading the book on the roof. Not sure why. Life become so ordinary. Then you feel it all ebbing away, so, one day, you start getting on your roof. Or maybe you think you are going to teach English in Japan, move to Alaska, some shit. Keep trying to escape the self, but the self moves, folks, wakes up in your throat every morning. But it happens, man. Just for the feel of the thing. I have no regrets, today. So I read the first third on the roof. The first third felt pretty perfect for roof-reading, I’m just going to say that.

[All photos below from Exactitudes. Thank you, HTML, for showing me these photos.]

THE FIRST THIRD (or the first 45)

The innards of a clock move, move on, shift and change. Back and forth, keeping it real, Time. A night out in new love a blue blur. A night out (rare) after ten years and it feels like the walls are gummed and melting (glance at dude’s eyes, cleavage, at iPod, what did you say, dear?)

{Ever seen the couple who eat for an hour over mozzarella sticks and Sprite and say nothing. The whole time? That, my friends, is hell.}

[45 PM] Love makes kissing feet real. But, once love withers away, “…Carla told her new boyfriends that she’d always thought the foot thing was creepy.”

The last line of a flash might turn the previous 23 lines around, the way the last drink might take you from loudly semi-pleasant to suddenly wrestling a toilet from its moorings for a good old fashioned toilet-toss. I think endings matter more in flash than in most other genres. It’s like being funny in person. Can’t fake it. Can’t fake a flash ending. Have to work that thing out. It seems, at most times, Gray has a keen mind for these delightful conundrums. She gets in the gummy web, then gets out (many writers only get in, then fill the “rough” file with documents…).

her 1

SHE

[Train just passed, over there behind the forest. I can see the forest from the roof, but can only hear the train Dopplering by. It sounds pretty romantic/country song, the train, I'll  admit, and I detest most country music. I find it so simplistic as to be cynical, insulting.]

Clocks shine. I prefer mahogany or brushed aluminum. Old ass outlive-you-plenty wood, or new age fuck-you-when-you-die-this-world-will-roll-on-laughing-like-an-iPod. You are on the side of nature or the side of The Machine. You are heaven or you are hell.

[31 PM] “The ladybug is not dead. Goodbye, golden friend.”  [Note: This flash basically brilliant. Not all are in this book; don't be stupid. This one is.]

[There is some weird shit in my rain gutters. I need to clean that out, but won't. My brakes are making this ghost-grating sound. I keep feeling a lump. The washer leaks, I think. Life.]

[AM 26] “When the workers cut it, it didn’t fall.”

him 1

HE

Image of flight. Image of gold, warmth. I so want things to be unlike they are now in the world. Or I mean better. But how?

I read a lot of flash and flash is often well-wrought. But then it might be cold, mechanical. What about the warm flash sloppily done? It’s a spectrum, fuck-nod. Ok, ok, Jesus calm your spirit. I’m saying I re-read this book because it was WARM and WELL OILED PRECISION. Like the coil of water below a fall, coppery–almost author as little god.

[AM 32] “Packing glassware in secret sounds more stressful than it is.”

Few words but the right words. Right words. I read The Clock and I keep thinking how it freezes/grabs relationships, how it frames it all out, how it covers this in a glass scrim of the absurd, how it breaks the glass and tiptoes over the shards. How it bleeds these words.

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SHE

THE SECOND THIRD (or 45-90)

[I read the second third while reclining in this huge-ass jacuzzi tub my mom has in Memphis. For some reason, I keep thinking the contractors left something--a tin medal or a toy or a chicken feather--in the hollow beneath the tub, though I'm not sure why. It's just a recurring thought. I used to work with bricklayers and they would always wall up beer cans and potato chip bags and so on into the walls. One guy peed in the cavity, then walled it up. Humans.]

Often I don’t know how shit works. Especially beautiful things, intricate or complex. Like prayers to a river, or the internet. Like my baby-baby Subaru. Oh, I could bullshit. Uh, you put in the key and electricity goes to the, uh, the pistons (?) then they pump and explode and turn an axle so then the car…Um, OK. Then how about reverse? Your air conditioner. That thing that heats your ass during the winter. Well, it’s magic really, isn’t it? Something stupendous–turn this little key, drive sixty miles per hour now–happens and you cant’ know how, can’t replicate, break apart, understand, you just sit in ass-heated awe. It’s magic.

Some things you should just drive.

him 2

HE

living together existential annoying

“People called, mostly men, asking about the girl in the photograph.” [53 PM]

communication impossible

“Betty shut the phone book and walked into the bedroom.” [55 PM]

we are alone, people, period.

“She fantasizes wildly about the ways in which it might plunge into the ones she loves.” [AM 76]

we all have a rough time

“…most of all, be patient.” [AM 88]

love wonks and then wonks and you’re stuck there

“Pressing on in the winter makes more sense.” [AM 84]

cat. the only reality is to hide.

“Carla woke up, still drunk…” [67 PM]

run from home into a lover’s _______

“Missy had legs, and she knew how to use them.” [AM 58]

coffee, wine, the pity is, we are free

“May their hair clog the sewers in the street…” [49 PM]

nothing is ours, not really. Check!

THE THIRD THIRD (or 90-133)

Q:You read it all?

A: Yes. Not in one sitting. I started it on a deer stand, while hunting. I have seen three cats this week while hunting and have no idea why. Then I picked it up during a funeral, just peeked at a few, which I guess is bad karma now. You ever seen those people who think it’s funny to grab the motorized cart at the grocery and go zooming off? It’s usually the hipster kids. Then they laugh with their friends and get off and go to the PBR and irony aisle. Well, those kids are going to end up in a wheelchair. I finished the book in a giant bathtub. I prefer baths to showers.

Q: Any stinkers in the book?

A: Oh sure. 35 PM was weak, and also AM 44. Maybe one other. The amazing thing is how many glow. The writer seems to really lock into Tess. To like her company, so all those rock. Tears in the writer, tears in the reader, etc. And you can see the process gleaming through, like when she shifts into structural risks, gets away from the repetition–she’s writing these things along and they accumulate and one day she says, “Some of these are too similar. I need to switch up a bit here.”

Q: Any wisdom?

A: Wisdom? What are you, religious? I already told you read 31 PM. And 99 PM is a little D. H. Lawrence. Like I think if you were at a party with Gray and you started bad-mouthing Lawrence with a bunch of intellectual bullshit, Gray would punch you in the mouth. That I consider wise.

Q: Do you recommend the book?

A: A third of my life I sleep. A third I work. A third I do whatever. I decided to fill the whatever reading and reporting on AM/PM. I’m not getting a single second back. What do you think?

Q: Paper or Plastic?

A: I prefer flesh. Never buy more groceries than you can carry out in your  bare arms.

her 3

SHE

THE Fourth THIRD (infinity)

The fourth third is the bomblettes of hope-shrapnel you get embedded in your lungs after inhaling a true flash.

133 times I thank thee, Gray. 

him 3

HE

S

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