No Colony/Preacher Porn. CW Job. Jennifer L. Knox is Chicken Bucket. Velveeta. More Authors Sleeping Around.

Bought me some No Colony the other day (although that nun pic still freaks me out) because I think once a week (or 52 times a year) people should quit talking shit about art and start shelling out some $$$$$$.

Also bought me 9 stacks of tortillas and a big-ass yellow onion, but is that relevant here?

The whole nun arm-wrapping the naked photo on the NO CO (Blake, you can use “NO CO”–I have yet to copyright the low wattage glow of my brilliance) site is just too reality. How could that happen, nuns comforting the naked, religion and the flesh? It would be like some very popular preacher faking cancer for TWO YEARS and asking (and getting) a lot of money for that cancer treatment from his huge and faithful congregation and then admitting (not him, of course, using his dad) it was not cancer, it was, uh, uh sorry, bear with me a moment, uh…a SIXTEEN YEAR PORN ADDICTION!!

Well, I suppose that will emaciate a person…

So, looking forward to the No Colony issue arriving like a Dark Horizon. (I swear to you this beer will kick your ass. Seriously. If you are going to drink this beer, have a spotter [I am more than happy to observe]).

***

Here at BSU English we are going to hire a new prof, one with a screen-writing and poetical sense. Anyone want to apply? I’m being serious, folks. If you have experience teaching, writing, etc. I’ll link to the ad later, but keep it in mind for your screenwriter/poet buddies

***

I am beginning to reconsider the Cider Press poet wronged (?) issue. I think this is what I like about blogging, the way it makes u consider what u think (something rarely asked in other aspects of life, where u can mostly avoid). Darby Larson has a different take, and it’s a bit loose and I don’t agree with all his statements (some include obvious logical fallacies), but I thank him for making me think. He may be right, or wrong, or on Robitussin. The fact is I read the poet’s POV and was immediately sympathetic. Probably because I am always empathetic of poets (they live moist, mystery lives of doom and brittle glass and deflated kidneys and soggy Cheerios) and it was the easy read (don’t believe me? Look at the comments, all in the poet’s favor).

Enough humans think the same way, arterial red flag. Beware time. This story has TWO sides. For now, I am going to read and wait and read and wait. Then post what I feel.

***

Speaking of poets…

Last semester I sent a CW class over to a martini bar above a coffee shop to see Jennifer L Knox and somebody else (I forget) read their poems.

A few days after, a student said, “I really enjoyed that reading, but the poets kept drinking and laughing and drinking. I mean they just kept drinking. Is that normal for a poet to do while reading?”

I said, “Indeed.”

You should buy or steal this:

Then eat this:

Then this for dessert:

Then drink this (but not all of it, fool!):

Then start Drinking and Blogging! Just irresponsibly, without that censor that ruins your life. Post comments you’ll regret but just spread the word about Jennifer Knox!

Ok, if that won’t do then read this poem and shut up.

Chicken Bucket (by Jennifer L. Knox)

Today I turn thirteen and quit the 4-H club for good.
I smoke way too much pot for that shit.
Besides, Mama lost the rabbit and both legs
from the hip down in Vegas.
What am I supposed to do? Pretend to have a rabbit?
Bring an empty cage to the fair and say,
His name’s REO Speedwagon and he weighs eight pounds ?
My teacher, Mr. Ortiz says, I’ll miss you, Cassie,
then he gives me a dime of free crank and we have sex.
I do up the crank with Mama and her boyfriend, Rick.
She throws me the keys to her wheelchair and says,
Baby, go get us a chicken bucket.
So I go and get us a chicken bucket.
On the way back to the trailer, I stop at Hardy’s liquor store.
I don’t want to look like a dork
carrying a chicken bucket into the store—
and even though Mama always says
Never leave chicken where someone could steal it—
I wrap my jacket around it and hide it
under the wheelchair in the parking lot.
I’ve got a fake ID says my name’s Sherry and I’m 22,
so I pick up a gallon of Montezuma Tequila,
a box of Whip-Its and four pornos.
Mama says, That Jerry Butler’s got a real wide dick.
But the whole time I’m in line, I’m thinking,
Please God let the chicken bucket be OK.
Please God let the chicken bucket be OK.
Please God let the chicken bucket be OK.
The guy behind me’s wearing a T-shirt
that says, Mustache Rides 10¢.
So I say, All I got’s a nickel.
He says, You’re cute,
so we go out to his van and have sex.
His dick’s OK, but I’ve seen wider.
We drink most of the tequila and I ask him,
Want a Whip-It?
He says, Fuck no—that shit rots your brain.
And when he says that, I feel kind of stupid
doing another one. But then I remember
what mama always told me:
Baby be your own person.
Well fuck yes.
So I do another Whip-It,
all by myself and it is great.
Suddenly it hits me—
Oh shit! the chicken bucket!
Sure enough, it’s gone.
Mama’s going to kill me.
Those motherfuckers even took my jacket.
I can’t buy a new chicken bucket
because I spent all the money at Hardy’s.
So I go back to the trailer, crouch outside
behind a bush, do all the Whip-Its,
puke on myself, roll in the dirt,
and throw open the screen door like a big empty wind.
Mama! Some Mexicans jumped me!
They got the chicken bucket,
plus the rest of the money!
I look around the trailer.
Someone’s taken all my old stuffed animals
and Barbies and torn them to pieces.
Fluff and arms and heads are all over the place.
I say someone did it,
but the only person around is Rick.
Mama is nowhere to be seen.
He cracks open another beer and says,
What chicken bucket?
Well, that was a long a time ago.
Rick and I got married
and we live in a trailer in Boron.
We don’t live in a trailer park though—
in fact there’s not another house around
for miles. But the baby keeps me
company. Rick says I’m becoming
quite a woman, and he’s going to let Mama know that
if we ever see her again.

**

Quick Fiction rejected my 5th Flash. I certainly understand. I mean not only do I have to read my work, I had to freaking write it, too. It’s a highway dog out there, folks. A highway dog of a world.

**

In the news…

1.) Yet another writer decides to write about…writing!

2.) Writer making a lot of money says it’s tough for writers to make a lot of money.

3.) Writer says she secretly had sex with mystery politician.

4.) Writer who told us of “100 Things to Do Before You Die” is, uh, dead.

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8 responses to “No Colony/Preacher Porn. CW Job. Jennifer L. Knox is Chicken Bucket. Velveeta. More Authors Sleeping Around.

  1. i like NO CO, as long as i can void my mind of SO CO

    thank you for da buy

    you should watch the film the nun/nude image is from THE HOLY MOUNTAIN, then you will know that is no nun, but a massive loon

  2. Obvious logical fallacies? Awww.

    Yeah, okay, sure.

    Thanks for linking.

  3. you are so fair-minded, blogsloth. that is a trait that requires training, i believe.

    cant wait to fondle NO CO and lick its words with my eyes. that Holy Mountain photo is very creepy. it has that grainy feeling of terror that seems unique to horror movies and strange films in the 60’s and 70’s. Omega Man, for example. some scary, clandestine shit going on there.

    i haven’t submitted to any lit mags in a while because i’m just not ready to wait for 9 to 18 months for yet another form rejection or get no respose at all. plus, i’m lazy.

  4. re: QF:

    ever opportunistic: so…. does that mean…? About ‘U.S.A. Today’….?

  5. i like jennifer’s poetry a lot

  6. i like jennifer knox now.

  7. I heard Chicken Bucket on the radio late last night. It was the kind of thing that renewed my faith in living. Then I Googled it to read the text again and found you. I thank the Chicken Bucket for bringing me here because I LOLed like mad over the drinking poets and want to make puffy doe pancakes.

    You rock!

  8. Pingback: Frank Stanford — The Singing Knives « The Great American Pinup

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