Wells by Nina Feng at wigleaf.
I have noticed a lot of writers now have glow-wicked names. Nina Feng sounds pretty cool. Like a weapon or something. Like maybe a blue weapon you would store under the neon cash register.
“Commander, bring me the Nina Feng.”
Or maybe some orchid?
Or maybe the minute before midnight. Like we have names for times. People will say, “It’s noon.” So why not: “When do we meet for the drop?”
“Set your watches. We meet at exactly Nina Feng.”
I’m not sure. Possibly I am foolish, all radio, static-eater, etc.
Who is Nina Feng. I don’t know. wigleaf says, “Nina Feng is a candidate in the MFA program at the University of Iowa. She has work forthcoming in the Alaska Quarterly Review and upstreet.”
What does it mean to be a candidate?
Doesn’t matter. What matters are her words:
I worked behind the meat counter at the grocery store. Soft curlicues of ground chuck swung together, depressed a breath and squeezed; steaks lounged in casual sheets, lipping one another’s firm bodies. The light was watery and stinging and spit pools into the meat.
She put me there. I am there. Now she can take, her words can take me, whatever her whim. Strong.
Be sure to read the entire piece. The sentences are re-dunkulous glow. Lutz-like.
Looking forward to more Nina words down the line…
12 poems from Peter Davis. These are from his new book, Poetry! Poetry! Poetry!
I’ve seen him read these before and it kills. The delivery, the subject, the meta. I don’t find that many poems truly funny, as in layered funny. Davis does that. Get the fucking book is what I’m saying. It is and is not poetry. That’s the thing to me. It is wonderful. It is odd.
So I get take0out nachos but they come in aluminum tray/pan and you know, you know the dog slips her leash and is running, running across the lawn, into street, up street, out into highway, possibly to Kansas the land of grasshoppers and eternal highways (Are we there yet?) corn/corn/corn/splat! (grasshopper)/corn and I’m out dog-stumbling, dog-stumbling with a 2.5 beer buzz and the whole time I’m clambering the highway shoulder I am thinking of my nachos back home. They are in the oven. I put them in the oven to retain their heat. I found my dog, alive. My dog had a look like, “Brain cell, one.” My nachos were mashed. That’s the point. My nachos looked like a soup. What to do? Here’s what you do:
Get fresh tortilla chips. Layer until they look like your forehead.
Pour “nacho soup” on top, circular, concentric pooling.
Now you have created a double layer of nachos. You have refreshed your nachos, I say. You should be happy like inflatable coffee.
What in the hell is an odometric wheel? I don’t know. But that’s why we read poems. Thanks David Sharp!
I’m going to use that word. I’m going to use it soon.
I begin teaching summer class next Monday. Introduction to Creative Writing.
“Class, my name is professor Lovelace. We are going to study odometrics this semester. We are going to get odometric. What do I expect from you, odometrically speaking? Well, that’s a manner of odometrics. Let us begin.”
“If you break your neck, if you have nothing to eat, if your house is on fire, then you got a problem. Everything else is odometrics.”
“The odometric is not that there are odometricss. The odometric is expecting otherwise and thinking that having odometrics is an odometric.”
Spring has sprung. I put a 1970s filter on this photo. Not sure why.
But My Boy is catching fish like songs.