IPOD
RADIO
Because she richly deserves to go pink - in the rawest, most electric shade imaginable:
Now go! See more! Comment! Shackin' Up
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and now for something completely different
Now go! See more! Comment! Shackin' Up
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and now for something completely different
So, I know BRS was waiting for it ... has probably forgotten all about it by now, but, here, as promised, are five things I love about myself.
1. I love the fact that I got a book published before I turned 30. And that some people even seem to like it, and what's more, respect it.
2. I love my body. I don't treat it so well, I know, but it seems to forgive. It's a resilient sort. But the fact that I can look at almost any part of my body and smile - the fact that I can watch a lover's eyes acquire that strange distance eyes always do as they infuse the subject of their gaze with a kind of beauty ... well, I can't be thankful enough for that. That's not to say that I don't have my moments of insecurity. I know that in the grand scheme of things, and by the standards of masculinity, I'm nothing but a fairly skinny, tall-ish, Irish sort, and that doesn't make me anything special. But I'm so happy that I'm not hung up on hating my body.
3. I love that I feel weird about writing this list. In our culture it seems like humility has fallen to the lowest rung of the good characteristics ladder, but I'm glad I'm humble. In a world of overinflated egos and living demi-deities, I think it's saying something.
4. I love that I give a crap about the English language, but that I'm not really a grammar Nazi. Yes, I yell at commercials and billboards (and facebook), when they use 'their' as a singular pronoun or use "thou" when they mean "thine" (those of you who ever wander by Emeryville may know what I mean), and am tempted to yell at people when they say things like "People that care." But I also think that languages are plastic, adaptable, and no one should denigrate others for using different forms of a language when it stems either from ignorance or knowledge. I like regional dialects - the fact that when I go to the South I meet people who I cannot, for the life of me, understand, is actually great. Languages, meaning and expression thrive on variety, and the sad fact is that languages, like species, are dying out. And yes, I know, English has something to do with that - and that that fact has something to do with our cultural imperialism. But, in a sense, you have to admire a language with the power to do that. I mean, what has Latin done for you lately? And I don't mean "nothing."
5. Finally, I love that I didn't graduate high school, go directly to college and then either straight to grad school or some "decent" job. I like that I grew up lower middle class and can fairly claim that I supported myself through college. That I dropped out when I got tired of it, moved to Mexico and slept on a beach for a month. That I hitchhiked with a coke dealer back up through Baja, keeping awake all night for fear that he'd do something horror-film to my then-girlfriend. That with the last of my money I bought Greyhound tickets for the both of us to Alabama, where I worked in a steel company (black fingernails, long hair and fishnets and all) till I had enough to get us to Florida. That I lived in a nudist resort for 2 years and that it wasn't filled with pretty people, and that I can therefore look at just about any human body and feel not the slightest strain of repulsion (well, the grotesquely fat are still a little difficult). That I finally did finish school and now do have a fairly decent job. That I've tried just about every sort of drug and still make a living, and get my creative work published, on the basis of my brain. That I've made love to men and women and don't feel the slightest shame about it.
It hasn't been a novel of a life (believe me, I've tried), but it also hasn't been cookie cutter. And I love that.
Oh ... and I know I'm cheating here, but I've got one more:
6. That I have, somehow, managed to earn the love, friendship, and even respect, of some truly admirable people. Like you.
1. I love the fact that I got a book published before I turned 30. And that some people even seem to like it, and what's more, respect it.
2. I love my body. I don't treat it so well, I know, but it seems to forgive. It's a resilient sort. But the fact that I can look at almost any part of my body and smile - the fact that I can watch a lover's eyes acquire that strange distance eyes always do as they infuse the subject of their gaze with a kind of beauty ... well, I can't be thankful enough for that. That's not to say that I don't have my moments of insecurity. I know that in the grand scheme of things, and by the standards of masculinity, I'm nothing but a fairly skinny, tall-ish, Irish sort, and that doesn't make me anything special. But I'm so happy that I'm not hung up on hating my body.
3. I love that I feel weird about writing this list. In our culture it seems like humility has fallen to the lowest rung of the good characteristics ladder, but I'm glad I'm humble. In a world of overinflated egos and living demi-deities, I think it's saying something.
4. I love that I give a crap about the English language, but that I'm not really a grammar Nazi. Yes, I yell at commercials and billboards (and facebook), when they use 'their' as a singular pronoun or use "thou" when they mean "thine" (those of you who ever wander by Emeryville may know what I mean), and am tempted to yell at people when they say things like "People that care." But I also think that languages are plastic, adaptable, and no one should denigrate others for using different forms of a language when it stems either from ignorance or knowledge. I like regional dialects - the fact that when I go to the South I meet people who I cannot, for the life of me, understand, is actually great. Languages, meaning and expression thrive on variety, and the sad fact is that languages, like species, are dying out. And yes, I know, English has something to do with that - and that that fact has something to do with our cultural imperialism. But, in a sense, you have to admire a language with the power to do that. I mean, what has Latin done for you lately? And I don't mean "nothing."
5. Finally, I love that I didn't graduate high school, go directly to college and then either straight to grad school or some "decent" job. I like that I grew up lower middle class and can fairly claim that I supported myself through college. That I dropped out when I got tired of it, moved to Mexico and slept on a beach for a month. That I hitchhiked with a coke dealer back up through Baja, keeping awake all night for fear that he'd do something horror-film to my then-girlfriend. That with the last of my money I bought Greyhound tickets for the both of us to Alabama, where I worked in a steel company (black fingernails, long hair and fishnets and all) till I had enough to get us to Florida. That I lived in a nudist resort for 2 years and that it wasn't filled with pretty people, and that I can therefore look at just about any human body and feel not the slightest strain of repulsion (well, the grotesquely fat are still a little difficult). That I finally did finish school and now do have a fairly decent job. That I've tried just about every sort of drug and still make a living, and get my creative work published, on the basis of my brain. That I've made love to men and women and don't feel the slightest shame about it.
It hasn't been a novel of a life (believe me, I've tried), but it also hasn't been cookie cutter. And I love that.
Oh ... and I know I'm cheating here, but I've got one more:
6. That I have, somehow, managed to earn the love, friendship, and even respect, of some truly admirable people. Like you.
My chapbook is finally available from Trainwreck Press! Here's what Brent Cunningham, poet, critic, visual artist and operations director of Small Press Distribution, had to say about it:
Some, inevitably, will open this book seeking Wordsworth's "emotion recollected in tranquility." They'll find it as incomprehensible and off-putting as many still find Finnegan's Wake. But for those who take a breath, decipher a few of the more elliptical phrases, and read it with an open mind for new aesthetic possibilities, the "generativity" Moore-Williams mentions in his afterword will be plain as day. By now there's a long tradition in poetry of "pushing the aesthetic of 'the difficult poem' to the extreme," and this work is a valuable, brave and promising addition to it. A goldmine of Zukofskian density, puns, sound play, and homophonic structure, it's also an especially successful attempt to use speech and dialect as a route into meaning's deconstruction, modifying an already-aging aesthetic argument that equates anything speech-based with naive referentiality. But whatever larger claims may or may not be here, at the very least there's the pleasures found in any codebreaking and puzzle-solving (I personally decoded "'n ed'n o' 'n id 'e 'ad" as "an Eden or an Id he had"). More than that, what I find enduring in this work is the way the extremes of the project still don't, actually, wipe out all traces of the anxieties, narratives, and lyrical vulnerabilities of being an "I" in this "gore ward" of a world. Consider these poems your first glimpse of the Romanticism of the future.
The book is available here for a paltry five dollars.: http://www.ditchpoetry.com/trainwreckpress.htm
Trainwreck Press.
Alright. Time for one of those semi-proper blog things in which I actually speak of my life, etc. etc. yadda yadda.
The big news is: MY FIRST BOOK IS DUE OUT SOON!!!! I'm the author "Coming Soon" way down at the bottom of the page here.. Yes, that's my real (banal) name, and more importantly THAT'S MY FUCKING BOOK!
Granted, it's only a chapbook. A thin thirty-two pages, but it's a start; pretty much the only way poets get started in a world in which no one gives two craps about poetry in the first place, let alone so-called 'experimental', 'post-avant' poetry.
I realize few of you probably read much poetry. But I'd be extremely moved to think that one or two copies of it might find their way out into the world, and there's few I'd rather see read it more than fellow SGers.
And hey, who doesn't want to read a book about an android who only discovers the fact that he is an android whilst being incarcerated in a psychiatric facility he calls the 'gore ward'? Eh?
As I said, it's not out yet, but I'll definitely be posting the link again once it's available.
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As for the rest of my life, well....that's probably best left for another blog.
Coming soon: the deets on my last teaser of a post: "Sex on a stairwell...In the building where I work..."
Titillating.
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Anyway, here's the cover!
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and, on another note entirely, a bit of text I wrote a couple months ago. It's, um, unusual.
April 1st, 2008, was the date of a momentous and thoroughly unique occasion in human history. Though various bureaucrats in the halls of Hell would later come to regret the choice of date, due to many confusions regarding the veracity of their interoffice memo (for to their mind, the whole world constituted their place of work), the coincidence has, in retrospect, only added to the drama of the occasion.
The missive was unique for many reasons, not least of which was the fact that it marked the first day on which every human being on the planet received at least one piece of mail, whether physical or electronic (excepting, of course, spam emails, another innovation of Hell). Every human being, of every age, received the cream colored envelope, from the tiniest bouncing baby boy to the most grizzled of street-living crack fiends (another innovation, as each address-less person still happened upon a letter addressed to him- or herself, either at the bottom of a rubbish bin or atop a miraculously unopened and abandoned forty of Old E) - every individual noted with an excess of surprise the carefully hand-lettered script inscribed in a rusty ink (in a spidery hand that somehow transformed even the utter banality of a P.O. Box number into a numerological key to unfathomable cosmic truths) and the thick, waxy seal embossed on the back (the curious contours of which evoked thoughts of hellfire and fleshless craniums in some and the heartbreakingly innocent visage of a boy of thirteen in others) - and we must note here that even those receiving emails, most of whom were office workers unlikely to be home at the appointed hour, had this same visceral experience - every individual noted the curiously dry, almost leathery, texture of the paper - and many, no doubt, felt that strange transport often inspired by the receipt of personal mail, that feeling that somewhere out there, someone gave a damn - and not one individual happened to toss said missive immediately into the nearest ashcan or recycling bin, for though it had all the hallmarks of those unpleasant bits of business one receives from persons unknown yet obviously sinister that usually inspires in human beings the utmost disregard, each felt it imponderably vital that this communiqué be opened and perused immediately.
The message, whether conveyed in English, Aramaic, Cantonese, Braille, Esperanto, Swahili, Quebecois, etc., read exactly as follows (excepting unavoidable affects of semiotics):
<i>Dear Human (presently being),
We write this day to regretfully announce that, effective this date, April 1st, 2008 C.E., Hell is no longer able to accept further admissions of human souls.
We apologize for any inconvenience.
Sincerely,
Lucifer Asmodeus Ba'al Zebub Aloiscius Samael Deis Trismegastus
P.S. Look, it's not as if we want to. Simply put, the dimensions of Hell, once thought to be as constantly expanding as you human beings have only just noticed your universe to be, have been pushed to the breaking point by your incessant, bunny-like breeding. Not to mention your patent refusal - and bravo, my pets, bravo - to kneel to that ridiculous autodidact up in the sky. The fact is that many of the most deserving of my citizens are having to do without their proper dose of punishment, and that reality truly pains me. I myself have had to forgo the pleasures of a pitchfork in the rectum for more than a couple of days, enduring instead the tedium of a Tahitian vacation (and believe me, it's the second most boring thing in existence, right after the Hosanna choir up in Empyrean).
I realize that this must be disappointing in the extreme, and I am truly sorry to the huge numbers of individuals whose apparent lifelong dream it was to meet one or another of my luminaries - Hitler, Stalin, Torquemada, the Divine Marquis, etc. (I was about to add Mao but I've just remembered he never showed). It's a pisser, I know.
One unforeseen consequence of our (hopefully) temporary closure has been the Big Guy's (or Gal's - It has never been to clear on that score) response. He has been quite obdurate in his refusal to open his doors to any of what he deems 'undeserving' souls (infinite mercy my infernal rectum). The unfortunate, but obviously inescapable (given the recent foreclosure of Purgatory), result of this is that many of you will, to be blunt, not be dying any time soon.
I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause, and can only offer my warmest congratulations on the fortunate extension of your opportunity to revel in whatever pleasures your life on earth may afford you.
Ta!
Signed again,
Lucifer Asmodeus Ba'al Zebub Aloiscius Samael Deis Trismegastus<i>
The big news is: MY FIRST BOOK IS DUE OUT SOON!!!! I'm the author "Coming Soon" way down at the bottom of the page here.. Yes, that's my real (banal) name, and more importantly THAT'S MY FUCKING BOOK!
Granted, it's only a chapbook. A thin thirty-two pages, but it's a start; pretty much the only way poets get started in a world in which no one gives two craps about poetry in the first place, let alone so-called 'experimental', 'post-avant' poetry.
I realize few of you probably read much poetry. But I'd be extremely moved to think that one or two copies of it might find their way out into the world, and there's few I'd rather see read it more than fellow SGers.
And hey, who doesn't want to read a book about an android who only discovers the fact that he is an android whilst being incarcerated in a psychiatric facility he calls the 'gore ward'? Eh?
As I said, it's not out yet, but I'll definitely be posting the link again once it's available.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
As for the rest of my life, well....that's probably best left for another blog.
Coming soon: the deets on my last teaser of a post: "Sex on a stairwell...In the building where I work..."
Titillating.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Anyway, here's the cover!
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
and, on another note entirely, a bit of text I wrote a couple months ago. It's, um, unusual.
April 1st, 2008, was the date of a momentous and thoroughly unique occasion in human history. Though various bureaucrats in the halls of Hell would later come to regret the choice of date, due to many confusions regarding the veracity of their interoffice memo (for to their mind, the whole world constituted their place of work), the coincidence has, in retrospect, only added to the drama of the occasion.
The missive was unique for many reasons, not least of which was the fact that it marked the first day on which every human being on the planet received at least one piece of mail, whether physical or electronic (excepting, of course, spam emails, another innovation of Hell). Every human being, of every age, received the cream colored envelope, from the tiniest bouncing baby boy to the most grizzled of street-living crack fiends (another innovation, as each address-less person still happened upon a letter addressed to him- or herself, either at the bottom of a rubbish bin or atop a miraculously unopened and abandoned forty of Old E) - every individual noted with an excess of surprise the carefully hand-lettered script inscribed in a rusty ink (in a spidery hand that somehow transformed even the utter banality of a P.O. Box number into a numerological key to unfathomable cosmic truths) and the thick, waxy seal embossed on the back (the curious contours of which evoked thoughts of hellfire and fleshless craniums in some and the heartbreakingly innocent visage of a boy of thirteen in others) - and we must note here that even those receiving emails, most of whom were office workers unlikely to be home at the appointed hour, had this same visceral experience - every individual noted the curiously dry, almost leathery, texture of the paper - and many, no doubt, felt that strange transport often inspired by the receipt of personal mail, that feeling that somewhere out there, someone gave a damn - and not one individual happened to toss said missive immediately into the nearest ashcan or recycling bin, for though it had all the hallmarks of those unpleasant bits of business one receives from persons unknown yet obviously sinister that usually inspires in human beings the utmost disregard, each felt it imponderably vital that this communiqué be opened and perused immediately.
The message, whether conveyed in English, Aramaic, Cantonese, Braille, Esperanto, Swahili, Quebecois, etc., read exactly as follows (excepting unavoidable affects of semiotics):
<i>Dear Human (presently being),
We write this day to regretfully announce that, effective this date, April 1st, 2008 C.E., Hell is no longer able to accept further admissions of human souls.
We apologize for any inconvenience.
Sincerely,
Lucifer Asmodeus Ba'al Zebub Aloiscius Samael Deis Trismegastus
P.S. Look, it's not as if we want to. Simply put, the dimensions of Hell, once thought to be as constantly expanding as you human beings have only just noticed your universe to be, have been pushed to the breaking point by your incessant, bunny-like breeding. Not to mention your patent refusal - and bravo, my pets, bravo - to kneel to that ridiculous autodidact up in the sky. The fact is that many of the most deserving of my citizens are having to do without their proper dose of punishment, and that reality truly pains me. I myself have had to forgo the pleasures of a pitchfork in the rectum for more than a couple of days, enduring instead the tedium of a Tahitian vacation (and believe me, it's the second most boring thing in existence, right after the Hosanna choir up in Empyrean).
I realize that this must be disappointing in the extreme, and I am truly sorry to the huge numbers of individuals whose apparent lifelong dream it was to meet one or another of my luminaries - Hitler, Stalin, Torquemada, the Divine Marquis, etc. (I was about to add Mao but I've just remembered he never showed). It's a pisser, I know.
One unforeseen consequence of our (hopefully) temporary closure has been the Big Guy's (or Gal's - It has never been to clear on that score) response. He has been quite obdurate in his refusal to open his doors to any of what he deems 'undeserving' souls (infinite mercy my infernal rectum). The unfortunate, but obviously inescapable (given the recent foreclosure of Purgatory), result of this is that many of you will, to be blunt, not be dying any time soon.
I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause, and can only offer my warmest congratulations on the fortunate extension of your opportunity to revel in whatever pleasures your life on earth may afford you.
Ta!
Signed again,
Lucifer Asmodeus Ba'al Zebub Aloiscius Samael Deis Trismegastus<i>
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