NOTHING TO SAY

Ryan Gosling Has a Triangle Face

2012-02-03T07:27:00.001-08:00

2012-02-01T07:27:00.001-08:00

This girl is scared to drink coffee. This girl wants to drink coffee but this girlis scared. Let me say it a differentway. The girl is scared to drink thecoffee that she wants to drink because what if it happens again?

She knows it’s not the coffee’s fault but she feels thecoffee was the catalyst.

Fear is being out of control of your own body. Fear is your body taking you on a ride youdon’t want to go on. A ride you didn’tagree to go on. The ride is a scaryone. A ride where you don’t know, aren’tsure if, around the next bend, there will be enough track.

There are so many stick’ems for EKG’s all connected to a strangleof wires and they clickety-clack in the fist of a nurse who puts them on and then presses them alllike counting and suddenly you want to have your back against the ceiling soyou can look down at yourself and see how your chest looks with all of thosewires.

The room is cold.

When they pull them off it’s hot and there is no pain. A sticky hot. That is all.

I make mistakes sometimes.

I still want coffee.

If I Could Watch You. Please Let Me.

2012-01-29T10:39:00.000-08:00

Don’t you hate when you look at the toilet paper after youwipe your asshole and there is, like, tons of blood and shit all over thepaper? Like, enough to spackle a wall? Like, ‘did I shit myself just now’ thick? Andyou keep wiping and the tons of shit is going away but the blood is not? And all the blood on the tissue is soakingthrough to your fingers? And you think,What the fuck? And then you feel maybe you should call the hospital becausethere is no more shit and only blood and you are feeling sort of light headed? And the toilet bowl looks like a miscarriageis happening but you have a dick so that is impossible?

Man, I hate that.

Private parts are disconcerting sometimes. Dicks are like odd snowflakes. Vaginas, open wounds. All of them ugly people in a police line upof pinks, blacks and tans. An entirely separatespecies of flesh and folds we only look at when we choose to. Not like faces and elbows and eyes. Is mine pretty enough? Is the dark tinge on the edge of the pinklips normal? How tight is it inthere? Do my balls hang too low? What about this weird tonsil of skin underthe head of my dick? What are thestandards? The standards are there areno standards. We just create them in orderto feel insecure about ourselves. Oursheltered parts. Let’s keep the lightsoff.

Right now, my pussy smells like a garbage can. No, more like the pile of used adult diapersI keep in my “cat room.” No, my pussysmells like an old man being slowly cooked in a room with no ventilation duringa record breaking heat wave. No, more like that time I pulled the lid off thatancient tub of sour cream that one time. I mean, it’s an ambiguously disgusting smell. Like that one time my dad forgot to take thedead deer pieces off the grill of the truck. When my brothers and I would play that game where we’d sit and guesswhich pieces belonged to what parts of the deer. The game of who could get the closest to themess without covering their mouth and nose. That’s maybe what my pussy smells like.

Whoops! My pussy?No. I mean, my breath. I need to brush my teeth like a motherfucker. My pussy smells like angel hairpasta smothered in peaches and strawberry crepes after a 3 hour shower. I would eat my own pussy if I could. All bendy and shit.

I think if you know what a person looks like when they aresleeping, that is one of the most intimate things to know about someoneelse.

“I know what you look like when you are sleeping.”

I wish I could say this to more people.

There are some people in this world who I really want towatch sleep. I want to be able to saythat to them.

“I know what you look like when you are sleeping.”

I want to say this to others.

“I know what he looks like when he is sleeping.”

Or she.

I feel it’s a secret,privileged power thing. It can never betaken back once it’s given.

If you let me watch you sleep, I will know things about theheart of you.

I want to know so much about the hearts of you.

I keep being a part of moments I want to tell youabout. I repeat what the moments are andhow I will tell them to you. I repeatthem in my head thinking I will remember them, but I never do. I should take more notes.

Like, this morning, I wanted to tell you about this momentwhen I came into a quiet house. Thehouse is so very big and therefore, the space you walk into has this “extra-ness”to it that, when so very quiet, you feel this pressure to fill it withsomething, but withholding the “filling” has a certain power to it. So, I didn’t fill it. I walked into the extra-ness of the quiethouse and I let it give to ME. I wantedto tell you about this. About thegurgling in the sink that lasted for a long time. Like the thirstiest monster was downthere. It was not enough to fill theextra-ness. It was just a piece ofparsley on the edge of a plate that was waiting forthe main course. I wanted to tell you about the way I movedthrough the space. Through thequiet. How the light came through thewindows, softened through fog. How thedogs’ toenails sounded on the stone tiles. The wispy sounds their tails made through the quiet. The way nobody was seeing me. How, in that moment, in that movement, it wasall for me. Only for me. And I wanted towrite it all down as it was happening. Because, it felt…important. Worthsharing. But I did not. I lived it instead. But now I am writing it. Too late. I think it was more then. Butnow, it is now. Time fades and changesthings. I am a writer.

FRiGG

2012-01-26T13:30:00.000-08:00

FRiGG is a magazine that I love, that always brings it, and has one of the best designs out there, so when, after 3 years of submitting to it and getting rejected, I got AN ACCEPTANCE, I am completely stoked to finally be published in this Winter issue of FRiGG!!!

Special thanks to poetry editor, Sean Farragher, for making this happen.

Read the poems HERE.

Read the entire issue HERE.

And if you found me at FRiGG, liked my shit and have found your way here, please buy the fuck out of my books:

Normally Special

He is Talking to the Fat Lady

You won't regret it. Or maybe you will. Whatever. Live dangerously.

In the Dense of Things I Will Destroy You

2012-01-25T08:15:00.000-08:00

Guess what guys? My mom likes my writing!

Remember when I told you I gave her some of my writing overThanksgiving and she never said anything about it? Well, she randomly emailed me last weeksaying how she’d love to read more of my stories so I sent about four to herand she emailed me two days ago and said that my writing is “brilliant!” She used about four exclamation points and allcaps. It made my heart full. My mom liked my writing. My mom is proud of me I guess. It felt good. Not gonna lie.

One of the storieseven had jacking off in it!!! My mommust love jacking off stories.

I love my mom.

Also, I am now beginning to get awp anxiety. I think it’s because maybe a lot more people seemto be going and maybe because a lot more people know I will be there. Last year I never really said that I’doutright be there and maybe nobody was looking for me. Now I feel like people might be wanting tomeet me and I will just disappoint them. Maybe they have a certain image of me and maybe the real me will tarnishthat image and they’ll be all, “fuuuuccckk….” and, “loser” and, “gross.” I know these are irrational fears. I would’ve probably heard something last yearthat I was “fuuuuccckk….” “loser” and, “gross” but I didn’t (to my face at least). So, I think I’m okay but still, the fear….

Also, (I start lots of paragraphs with “also.” Annoying.) I have a really sucky memory. I “know” a lot of people on the internet viaan association of their Twitter handle/photo or Facebook photo/name. If you present yourself to me in person andyou don’t have a little square with your icon innit and your name printed nextto it, I might be confused as to your identity. I feel bad that I might look at people in aconfusing/befuddled/embarrassed way and make them feel bad. This happened a few times last year and I felthorrible. Therefore, if you want tointroduce yourself as your twittername or facebook name (if not your real name)go right ahead. Just please understand Iwill probably be drunk and confused and caught up in the awp whirlwind so, don’thate me.

Just kidding about all that awp stuff. I’m hiring that samegirl I hired last year. She had a greattime. If you have any problems with her,remember it’s not me, it’s her.

2012-01-22T08:26:00.000-08:00

Fried chicken and chocolate cake. They taste like donuts. In space. If you want to have fun, come with us. Tell the waitress it’s Vagina Day and watchher tattoos melt off her body. It’s a way you can see. It takes a village. A village populated byvillagers. Villagers hungry. Helmet-haired wives. New sinks. Yesterday I pulled every hangnailoff my body using my teeth. A new systemfor drawing blood. High heeled shoesthat continue not going anywhere. Aleather couch that doesn’t want me anymore. Ryan Gosling should have a thing for me. Life is unfair when it should be topsy-turvy. I am one day away from desperatemeasures. Do you know how I know I amsafe? I see you are at a tattered farawayplace. I breathe a little easier. I stop looking over my shoulder. I like to know what to expect. The thin of my skin. A wayward son. How the laundry loads will be lighternow. How you always pay me no attentionuntil you do. Do me a favor. Tell me how good I am every day. A yellow wall behind me, no lightbulbs. My feet wrapped in cotton. Dog blood. A semi-circle of cops is a place I want to walk into. Skim of my teeth. Wherewithal to have the wherewithal to havethe wherewithal. I am a balancingact. You should see me dance. It’s the saddest thing you will eversee. When you hold me I will takeeverything out of you. You are alibrary. Fried chicken and chocolatecake is a shame in my living room. Mybody is wrong getting wronger. A runawaytrain. I liked a black ladyyesterday. She reminded me of my mom andmy mom’s friends. My mom got drunk. I wish things didn’t happen sometimes. Replace got with izza. No. I want things to change and I want things tonot be real. Sleeping is sometimesbetter than awaking. Lonely is the nightis a song by billy squire. Half the goodrock stars are dead. My dad isfootball. Planes take people awaysometimes. Half sentences are fine rightnow. Random words. I am ugly. Do not expect more. Pay less. I will boil eggs today. I will feel scared. I like to count on things. Squirrels and birds. My diaphragm. What the fuck with this noise against the walls. Nature is revolting. They are coming through the walls. If I try and stop them maybe I can bebrave. I would never throw away 60,000words like some people can. Everyone isbetter than me. Do not think I amanything because I am not. I am nothing. A smear. I made the coffee tooweak this morning. See?

2012-01-17T15:52:00.000-08:00

Having sex with Zach Galifianakis is weird and slow…if mydream last night is to be believed. Helikes to play with nipples and he has lots of “stuff” stuck to his penis thathe has to pull off with his fingers. Ihad to wait a bit before we got to “the action.” He was beardy and roly-poly, and had a wayabout him that was slothfully awkward and apologetic. Blue, cotton boxers, stretched loose.

I’m not entirely sure we consummated fully, but I can tellyou that I am pretty sure it was going to be as disgusting and degrading as Iwas hoping for.

Dennis Cooper is not disgusting or degrading. He is a niceface. He "talks about" Frank’s book and my book on aday where, coincidentally, our books are being re-released.

Last time my chapbook, “He is Talking to theFat Lady” went on sale, it sold out in less than two days. Now it is back, reprinted, with two addedstories and blurry naked photos of myself just kidding about the photos andthere are BUNDLES! BUNDLES! BUNDLES!

Orders will ship January 31^st.

Be awesome and spread the word. I want to be a sell out again!

2012-01-16T09:12:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I do this thing with my mouth that makes a smallsound like, “BEE BO, BEE BO.” I do itbecause of the mouth shapes it makes. Maybe I am also trying to be a little like a robot. BEE BO BEE BO BEE BO. Pretty sure I look like an idiot when I dothis. Glad nobody sees me or knows I do this sometimes.

People with drinking problems sometimes try to grab yourboobs in a dark bathroom. They wont remember it in the morning but I will stillremember it.

Yesterday I found a bottle of “gourmet” margarita mix from2010 in my liquor “cabinet” which is actually just the floor of my pantry. So, really, it’s my liquor floor. I was like, hmmm…I need to dump thisshit. If it was 2011 I could’ve takenthe chance, but 2010 is kind of pushing it. So I threw it out.

This morning while a pot was trying to boil I thought I’dlook in my pantry to see if I had any other ancient shit waiting to killme. Oh man. I found a cylinder of Quaker Oats thatexpired in 2010 AND THEN I FOUND ANOTHER CYLINDER OF THE SAME QUAKER OATS—WITH SLIGHTLYDIFFERENT PACKAGING---THAT EXPIRED IN 2009!! Omg, I suck at life. Then I foundan old opened box of Tapioca pudding and a half empty bag of soy flour fromprobably 2009. It’s been a while since Iwas on that organic soy flour kick. Wow. What an eye opener. I am going to go back into that pantry with afine toothed comb and I am going to comb the shit out of expiration datedthings.

What a loser. How amI even an adult?

Standards

2012-01-13T08:31:00.000-08:00

You are all crazy. Thereis nothing wrong with old people fucking. I am happy when senior citizens get together and bone. I am not at all disgusted at the thought oftheir papery, wrinkled, sagging skin—like the thin skim of fat over a room temperatureconsommé—smearing against each other in a rhythmic fashion. Heck, I want to BE that old person stillconcerned with orgasms, with the sharing of pleasures. I high five every 60-80 year old who stillloves mouths on their private parts. WhenI am (more) old, I want to be able to hold my grandchildren with hands thathave just helped get off their grandfather because I was too dry and hadforgotten to pick up a new bottle of KY at the market. I want my grown sons to walk in on me andtheir father and be scarred for life but secretly proud and hopeful that whenthey reach our age, they will be getting laid too. However, I will still not watch grannyporn. That’s unbecoming and not lovelyor beautiful at all.

Francis Skeeta

2012-01-11T13:26:00.000-08:00

I just got winded from helping our “disabled” postman carrysome boxes to his truck. “You look ableto me!” was maybe something that should’ve been an inside thought.

My chest heaved mightily. I felt muscles burn.

There is a thing with my neck area with a word that scaresme. I cannot say the word because itfeels like lead on the tongue. An anvilof a word that does not burn, it’s just very, very cold.

Yesterday, a lot of blood and hair. There is a smell that comes from a lot ofblood that has flowed and dried that stays with you for hours after you havewashed your hands multiple times. Ithink it harbors in the nose. I think itsinks into your brain. I think it wassoaked into my clothes. I am tired oflow injuries while simultaneously wanting things to die.

I feel so much shame at these thoughts. A comfortable shirt.

Eleven days into the year and my judgment is benign.

Spork Story

2012-01-09T10:33:00.000-08:00

I wrote this story. Here it is. In Spork.

2012-01-06T07:52:00.000-08:00

I saw a blurry photo of Shakira’s ass this morning and itspoke to me. It woke up what I did notknow was asleep. It knocked on mymorning wood. I rolled over. I put my pillow to where I could grind it. I rode the pony.

I said, “Hello, Shakira’s ass. You look so nice and soft and round. I like how the brown color fades to a lightwhite as the coverage from your bikini bottoms lessens due to yourbending/lounging position. I want to putmy face there it and try to die.”

No response.

In the quiet grunting of the pony ride, there was a moment inside of me that wanted to lay my handson Shakira’s naked ass even though she might start screaming for help orfighting me off like she doesn’t like it. The moment was called, “I Understand Rapists.” But it was just a moment. A moment that wanted to grope and grope whilewhispering, “Just hold still and this will all be over before you know it.”

The Ways

2012-01-04T07:42:00.000-08:00

The ways I had a chapbook released a long time ago. The waysit sold out in less than two days the ways frank’s followed suit. The ways things come back. The ways of second chances. The ways you can win a contest. The ways you can buy my chapbook again on January3st. The ways it has new things insideof it. The ways it is a newer, prettiergirl that wants to sit in your lap. Theways I love you for listening.

The ways you can hear me here reading something from thischapbook. The ways I say “shit” and “cocks.” The ways you can find fault in me: they aremany, but they are mine.

Let It Be is not just a song by the Beatles.

2012-01-01T19:31:00.000-08:00

Let’s take a minute to reflect upon who we are. Sit. Breathe in all of the things you needto. Never mind there are couches. Nevermind the reflecting letters, how the walls sulfur and blow. Pay no mind to the way your little sistercried under the slaps of your father’s belt circa 1987 while you hid in thebathtub, head between your knees, rocking like a retard. Just breathe and let it all fill in thechinks where the light comes in, disrupting everything you were meant tobe. Breathe and wait. When nothing happens, when no answers comeand you don’t feel a bit of difference, you are done. Tell the polar bear to leave. Kick his flabby ass on his way out thedoor. Say, “That’s right you fuck,” anddon’t even bother slamming anything, polar bears can’t hear worth a shit. Instead, think about fingering the girl atwork you hate so very much. Think aboutfeeding her her own cunt slime while you half choke her out MMA style, yourerection burning a hole in your fist. Then, once you come down from that high, call me. On my cell, not my house phone, I don’tanswer that shit. I’ll lie on my backand listen to everything you have to say. I promise. If you need me to talkback, I will, just don’t ask me to come over, there’s not one part of me thatever wants to see your face.

Here We Go Again...

2011-12-29T07:33:00.000-08:00

I have a hard time doing these end of year recap thingsbecause I have the worst memory but I kind of feel compelled to do them becausemaybe it’s nice to have a point in life in which you stop and take a look backat what has happened for you over a certain period of time. Reflect andwhatnot.

Like I said, I have a terrible memory and I’m not about togo back through the months of my blog to figure out what I did and didn’t do. Ithink in 2012 I will keep a list somewhere. A list of milestone things or the books I read, new music I fell in lovewith or discovered, etc. I kind of likereading everyone’s lists and it sucks that I can’t remember past last Tuesday. Ugh, and I KNOW I will forget something afterI hit publish. Argh.

Anyway, here goes.

---I made a pretty monumental trip this year to AWP and metinternet people and did a reading and got drunk and danced and met internetpeople and felt awkward and met internet people. It was the most surreal experience I’ve everhad. People were treating me like…Idon’t know…like I was a special person. Important. I’m not used tofeeling that way.

I finally met my internet bro and good buddy, MelBosworth. That was a heart fulfillingthing. He was exactly what I expectedand awesomer than I expected. It was thegreatest.

I also met my longtime internet friend, Robb Todd, in asurprise moment I will remember forever. Drunken hand holding never felt so good. A tremendous human being.

But the best thing about that trip was finally meetingRoxane and sharing a hotel room and every day with her. Sometimes you make ‘best friends’ online andwonder if IRL it will be the same way it is through this little box. What if the vibe is not there? What if yourbest connection you will ever have with that person is only fortified throughdistance and separation? Reasonablefears. Luckily, there was none of thatfor Roxane and me. We hit it off likepeas and carrots. And then we hit it offmore. Like strippers and poles orsomething. Words cannot express the feelingsI have of our time spent together at AWP. All I will say is I ripped off a piece of her frayed jeans, something ofsomething she had worn a lot that I felt was a part of her, and kept it in mypurse just so I could have something that came from something that was close toher. It’s still in my purse. Right nowit’s in my purse. I take it out and feelit with my fingers every so often. It’slike a touchstone. I can say so muchmore but I think that might say it all.

---Early this year I ran a really long race. I am not a runner. I am a walker. It was hard. I spent months training and when the daycame, I ran that race. I ran that wholerace without stopping or walking. It was the furthest I had ever run in mylife. Eight miles. When I began training, I couldn’t run for even oneminute. It was a huge thing for me. It made me change the script I had alwayswritten about myself. It made me believethat things you thought were impossible for yourself can be made possiblethrough lots of hard work and determination. I will always be proud of myself for this and use the knowledge of thiswhen I run into the next thing I feel is impossible which is

---Writing a book. This year I haven’t been writing as many short stories because I spent alarge amount of my time trudging through what, hopefully, will become anovel. Not a collection of stories, butONE story. It’s fucking hard as hell. I’ve been drawing from my race experience andapplying it to writing this novel. Onefoot in front of the other type of shit. Don’t give up type of shit. Look,you’re doing it, you’re really doing it type of shit. I am on a break from it now, but I will pickit up after the new year. It would be soeasy to give up on it. So damneasy. Like how it would’ve been easy tojust stop training for that race. Butthen I never would’ve run that race or finished it like I did. I know I can do the same thing with thisbook. I know it will be long and painfuland shin splints and rain and cold and sweat but I also know there will be joyand elation and pride and happiness and that, in the end, I will have a fuckingribbon and medal and giant cardboard check made out for $333,333,333 dollars inmy real name because, folks, this book is not for xTx, it’s for the girl thathides behind her.

---There was a pretty huge thing that happened in my privatelife this year. A life changer. That’s all I will say about that.

---An incredible human being in my real life died earlierthis year. It was unexpected. He was ajoy to many people and I will miss him. His death reminded me…reminds me…that life is short and you only haveRIGHT NOW so don’t waste it.

Miss you, man…

---Back to the writing, I probably published half of what Ipublished the year before. That’s okay. I didn’t submit as much. I got solicited a lot and the places Isubmitted to and AM submitting to now are the bigger journals which are more ofa challenge. Lots of fucking rejection. But if you don’t push yourself to aimhigher, reach further, where is the challenge? I can’t keep submitting to the places that have already published methat already ‘like’ me. I think that’slike a kid showing her artwork to her parents and grandparents all the time andgetting the same praise over and over again. Some people probably find comfort in that. But, for me, it’s too easy. Take that fingerpainting out on the street,get some real opinions. Ouch—yes. Butthere could be praise waiting as well. Might make you work a bit harder on those paintings though… Might end up with a fucking masterpiece.

I want to make masterpieces.

Segue.

I guess the biggest thing for me this year is I had my firstbook published. I’ve received primarilypositive reviews and feedback on the book. It currently has a Goodreads rating of 4.48 if that means anything. I’vesold a fair amount of them and none to any friends or family members becausenone of them know the book exists. (sadface) This means hundreds of people I don’t even know are buying my book.HUNDREDS. I think those are all greatthings. I am proud of this book and itwas a great experience…having a book. It’s a nice little book. If Icould write a letter to my book, I would write the following letter:

Dear Normally Special,

Thank you for being my first book. I know one day I may look back at you andthink different or new things about you, but right now, I am proud of you andwhat you’ve accomplished. You are notthe best book that is out in the world, but you are a good book and you can holdyour own with your little head held high. Feel good about this. I know Ido.

I’m sorry I maybe put some ugly things inside you, but Norm,we all have ugly things inside of us. The ones I put inside of you are just there for everyone to see. So, I hope you aren’t upset over that. I think maybe it’s the ugly things that helpsendear you to readers. Watch theireyes. I bet they do not look away and ifthey do, it’s only for a moment to catch their breath.

It’s been a great first year and in the years to come I hopethat more people find you and find things inside of you that find things insideof them. That’s really all I’ve everwanted for you. For us.

I love you.

Regards,

Mom

Lastly, but never least, thank you to all the awesome peoplewho read and liked my writing this year and any year. Thanks to all the people who read myblog. Thanks to everyone who linked myshit, pimped my shit and commented on my shit and tweeted my shit. It all matters to me. It all means a lot. You mean a lot. Special thanks to my new friend,Casey Hannan, who was the nicest surprise for me this year, Team 369–GFYMB, MelBosworth, Frank Hinton and Roxane Gay who I couldn’t have made it through thisyear without.

Have a great holiday. Have a great new year. Let’s allmake things that count next year. Let’sall be better than we have ever been and help each other in that endeavor. Let’s all try to rival the stars.

xoxox

OMG's

2011-12-28T11:18:00.000-08:00

OMG Dennis Cooper, said he liked my story at EverydayGenius.

OMG a nice book review of Normally Special!!!

Book Review

2011-12-26T20:21:00.000-08:00

A handsome bum, street scum scrubbed off in a claw foot tub,the head of his huge erection submarining above the suds. We share a glass of wine while he soaks. I have a terrycloth robe rolling around inthe dryer readying itself for him. Ishave the bum in between his talking. Hewent to college. He loves his mom. He is funny in a Steve Martin meets MelBrooks way. He hates dogs, loves cats,etc. When I talk he really listens,stroking himself in an absentminded fashion. I like watching him as he does it.

bob

Later, after the bath, after he kisses his thanks for therobe all over my cheeks, we sit on the couch and I get a fire going. He tells me of the three men he’smurdered. I’m scared, but only becauseof what happened with the second man, but I’m only scared a little, morefascinated. I hold his hands. Reallylook at them. He asks me to tell himabout all the dark things I’ve done but then says, “Wait…let me eat your pussyfirst.” It’s the best head I’ve ever gotten. It’s not hard to confess after that.

When the house catches on fire, we don't even leave.

This sort of sums up how I feel about reading New YorkTyrant Volume 3, Number 3.

If you haven’t gotten it yet you are missing the fuckout.

First, Let's All Agree That xTx Is a Stupid "Name"

2011-12-23T09:10:00.000-08:00

i dont think you've noticed, but I've sort of fallen into a 'thing' for chubby girls.

lately, all i can do is click through tumblrs of sexy curvy chicks with my eyes full of their skin.

i like them in black lingerie the best.

Things

2011-12-20T07:37:00.000-08:00

There is a review of my chapbook, “He Is Talking to the FatLady” over at Rumble. It is reviewed byJA Tyler. JA Tyler says some nicethings.

Remember when this chapbook sold out in less than two daysand you couldn’t snag a copy? Well, thatproblem might be able to be solved for you shortly. (that is a hint of thingsto come!)

Today, I am finally published in Everyday Genius. I love Everyday Genius. But until this final attempt, it seemedEveryday Genius didn’t love me. Now theylove me. Or at least this little story. It’s called, “Things You Find on a Train” and you should read it here.

Lastly, Ani Smith has been posting some beautiful thingsabout Very Beautiful Women over at We Who Are About To Die. Ani Smith was one of those beautiful womenand this is what EYE have to say about her piece in Very Beautiful Women:

"Thereis so much here. So much. A bouquet of images.

I am here. Havebeen here. Have been there inside of these words, busting them out. Myself. A yearning to communicate by touch minus skin. Many times Icould’ve fallen, cracked my head on the pavement and out would’ve spilled thispoem. But instead, I lick it off the shoes of this American girl inLondon. Tell her I like it. Look up at her like, believe me. A plead in my eye. She looks back, holding my eyes with hers, communicatingnothing. Holding me there.

The same way she doeswith this.

Read those wordsagain. How she knows what she wants. Can tell it to us. Drawsit for us on our screens, on our souls. Makes us live it. This iswhat these types of words are supposed to do and she does.

I let her crumple meup in her fist.”

That is all i have to say about that

It's All Me

2011-12-18T08:14:00.000-08:00

My face is peeling away. Someone asked me what I left all over my chin. I said, it’s just me.

I have to go to the grocery store today but I want to wear aski mask. But that would be weird,right? If I were dressed all regular buthad on a ski mask? People might think Iwas there to rob them. I would probablytry to smile at them reassuringly through the ski mask and that would probablyfreak them out more. Ski masks areunsettling in non-ski situations.

Seriously though. Iwant to wear one to the grocery store. Ifeel very elephant man. You know,because my face peeling away and all. Iknow if I wore a ski mask I would bring more attention to myself than if I didn’twear one. Sigh. I will just have to keep everyone at a fivefoot distance from my face. I guess thechecker who will ring up my groceries and possibly the bagger will be the onlytwo people to be disgusted with my face today. I wonder who they are. Luckythem.

Favorite Time Saving Meals

2011-12-14T21:05:00.000-08:00

Okay, maybe I wrote some pervy poems, but UP is the one whopublished them so don’t blame ME.

Stop looking at me that way.

Tonight I could’ve got murdered in a blackdark stretch ofwalking. I saw the black. I walked intothe black and I said, very quietly, I could get murdered here. Then I just walked and held my keys like comeget me.

Rusted lockers.

My dinner was a fried egg eaten while standing up in thekitchen. I ate that egg all hot andouchy in my mouth because super hungry people cannot be bothered to wait forthings to cool off. Why I didn’t eat itstraight out of the skillet gives me hope for my humanity.

Yolk totally dripped onto my shirt. My thought was, “chicken come.” Which makes no sense, I know.

I hear the dryer going in the other room. Intermittentclanging on top of the hum. I washed abunch of dishes. I am wearing socks. Later, I will take out my contacts andwash my face. I have a “face regimen”now. Some sort of burning lotion I applyto my skin where I don’t want to be old anymore. The lotion doesn’t actually burn because Iwas lied to. I wanted it to burn.Expected it. Figured that would mean itwas really working. Now I just have toput it on, feel nothing, and hope it’s taking the old away

Sal Pane recommends me to his students. This makes me feel like I am maybe important, or at least my writing is. In all my life, I never thought I would everfeel that way. I want to cry.

2011-12-12T19:53:00.000-08:00

Do you know the whirlwind feeling after the hospital? After the nurse stands you up and recitescare information that you cannot write down? You look into their blonde American face and their blue eyes triple insize over their smiling mouth while they say things with their voice like it’snothing special.

I stood there nodding, like I understood. Like I was takingit all in. They forget how this happensevery day for them and only just now, for me. I walked away with a handful of paper full of instructions, some pillbottles and fear; my head spinning.

I stood in my kitchen for a while knowing I needed wine.

Then I got the wine.

I sat on the floor for six minutes with an ice pack a whitetowel, some blankets. I felt like I wasdoing something good. I sort of sunkinto the moment of not doing anything but what I was supposed to be doing and Ifelt like one of those good mothers. HowI think that they are.

I thought, this is what it is supposed to feel like. And then I kind of understood the mothers whomake their children sick just so they can make them well again. There’s something to being needed, togiving.

I can feel like a mother once in a while. If I want to. Just once in a while. Becausenobody wants to feel like that. It’s ahard, hard way to feel.

2011-12-11T14:50:00.001-08:00

I was just watching a show and saw a woman with theskinniest legs ever. Her thigh wascalf-sized. I was all, “How do thosethings hold her up?” Now, my thighs,they are calf-sized. But like, cow calfsized. Like, my thighs cause smallvillages to quake when I walk by. I haveto always tip toe past small villages or I’m just saying sorry a lot to thevillagers and feeling bad about their houses. Like, if you cut off all my thigh meat, you could make areasonably-sized pair of new thighs. Ifthere is some sort of thigh transplant place, someone please hook a brother upwith that info. I would like to savesome thighs with my thighs. If you everneed to get between my legs, you’d better bring along some ropes and pulleys.Hoisting devices. It’s a bit of work,but once you get the path cleared the rest seems to go pretty easily.

I don’t know, you know, about like, you know, like peoplewho wear blinking Xmas ornament necklaces to Christmas parties. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I look at the blinking Xmas ornament necklaceand the person wearing the necklace and I wait to see if I start hatingthem. I did this last night. Nothing really happened. The jury was out. Maybe this means I am ambivalent. What I know I don’t like is people who wearChristmas sweaters to Christmas parties un-ironically. People who wear them on the serious. People who wear them on the serious who areNOT over 60. Like, my mom is over 60 butif she wore a Christmas sweater on Christmas I would probably have to push herdown some stairs and shit. BASEMENTstairs cuz you know there’s no soft landing down a set of basement stairs. My poor dead murdered mom. Matricide, right? Dead in a fucking Christmas sweater. Who does that? I mean, seriously? I would stand there, in her very own kitchen,eating her fucking sausage stuffed mushrooms while the paramedics try andfigure out how to get the gurney down the basement stairs. Hopefully there would be a hot paramedic who wasn’treally that committed to his job and I could offer him some xmas egg nog and wecould party maybe. I’d be all like, “Yeah,it’s sad, but did you see that fucking sweater?”

Did you guys know it’s December? For like 9 days it’s been December.

2011-12-09T13:43:00.001-08:00

I have a little thing in The Fiddleback but don’t bother toread it, go straight to this piece by Robb Todd that had my heart in a way forabout an hour after I read it.

Tick tock Ocean Vuong won’t stop.

Casey Hannan is the boss of my book, Normally Special, overat The Lit Pub.

what else? nothing. go away.

2011-12-08T10:01:00.001-08:00

I GOT YELLED AT. I WANT THAI FOOD. I THINK SPICY GIRLS ARE DREAMY. BEING YELLED AT IS NO FUN. ANYTHING IN A THAI RESTAURANT HAS POTENTIALFOR GREATNESS. IT IS AN EXPERIMENT IN DECORATIVE MOUTH SPLATTER. THE YELLING DIDN’T FEEL LIKE ANYTHING ATFIRST. SPICY GIRLS HAVE SKIN LIKE FETUSFEET. THE YELLING FEELS LIKE A LOTNOW. YOU KNOW HOW WHEN YOU FALL DOWN ANDYOU SAY THAT’S GONNA LEAVE A MARK? THEYELLING HAS LEFT A MARK ON ME. LIKE PADTHAI AND THE TUREENS AND THE CHOPPED UP NUTS AND LITTLE STICKS OFVEGETABLES. HOW ONE BITE CAN HAVE TWELVEDIFFERENT FLAVORS? THE DOLL-LIKE WAITRESSES. PURPLE WALLS. TATTOOS IN THEPERFECT SPOTS. I COULD NEVER BETHAT. WHERE CAN I WASH THIS OFF?