March 29, 2015

Catching Up

A flurry of things:

Dennis Cooper spotlighted me.  Sidebar: Man, I love Dennis.  I fell in love with his writing and when I met him, I fell in love with him.  Such a nice person.  His voice. His gentle demeanor.  He’s one of the best people, you guys.  He keeps unfolding and I follow.

I was interviewed for NERVE and for THE SPARK an Alternating Current Press Blog. Two separate interviews.  I am a ‘goddess’ and I am ‘mysterious’ and “irreverent”.  I know I am at least one of those things.

I “wrote” a thing about Porn videos over at Dark Fucking Wizard.

My new book, “Today I Am A Book” got a nice review at theSmall Press Book Review.  Thank you sweet Mel and Taylor.

I'm also part of a "feministh anthology" called "Choose Wisely: 35 Women Up to No Good" and it has Joyce Carol Oates, Aimee Bender, Amelia Gray, Linsdey Hunter and a bunch of other awesomes.





Life has been uninteresting as much as it has been interesting.  I am in a space between mirrors, but BEHIND them.  It’s a corridor.  There’s filth.  On the other side everyone is going about their lives, looking at themselves in the mirrors.  I can’t see through the mirrors.  But I know they are mirrors and I know people are looking into them.  I’m just in a weird corridor.  In a place where nobody can see me.  It smells old and musty and secret.  It goes on forever.  No. It doesn’t.  But it seems like it.  It’s really warm here, too.  I’m walking and sweating.  Anyway.  I’m just living my life in this weird hallway thing.  You guys keep on doing whatever you do in the mirrors.

AWP is coming up and I’m too fat for it. Oh well. I’m also not looking forward to social anxiety.  I’m doing a couple of readings I won’t advertise on my blog.  I don’t want anyone to go to them.  You know how I am.

My novel is in suspended animation.  Hopefully it will be unsuspended shortly.

I haven’t talked to my dad in a few months.  I think he might be in Lake Havesu. However you spell it.  Well, not IN the lake, but at the lake. I don’t know. Hey dad, WHERE ARE YOU?! 

My mom is future me.  She’s going to be crippled soon, fyi. She will need an operation and a wheelchair.  She’s convinced and she tells me all about it.  I try not to wince and cry.  She is down at the bottom of the mountain I have begun rolling down.

I have been into stairs lately.  A couple of different sets of ‘intense’ stairs.  I like walking up and down them while I listen to a “workout” playlist and sweat.  It feels pure. 

My ass is gigantic.  How can one ass be so gigantic?

If I meet you at AWP please pretend im not horrifying. Pretend I look normal and of normal body proportions.  Try not to recoil.  Buy me a drink so I feel better about our interaction.  Try to kiss me. Or tell me about the fantasies you had about me before you met me right now and are suddenly sick to your stomach and flaccid.  Lie to me about how much you liked my books.  Or just hug me and whisper, There, there. It will all be okay.  Your ass is average-sized, really.  Shhh….



March 02, 2015

Today I Am A Book

Hello Everyone!



Today is the official release date of my book, "Today I Am A Book" which is a collection of pieces that will do many different things to you.  

If you buy it, I will like you. 

If you buy it and I already like you, I will like you MORE.

To be liked, go over here and clickety-click to purchase!

:-)


February 15, 2015

A Collection of Needy Things


I was asked to submit a weird story for this collection and so I did. It's all about a gunt:

Thumbnail 6


I have a lot of shit things in my purse detailed here:

The Baginas


I wrote a poem. It felt really good to write this poem.

Dark Fucking Wizard



I was interviewed:

Nerve Magazine


January 14, 2015

Dear Mom,

Hi. How are you question mark.  I know that $75 check wasn’t enough. My plan is to write you 5 more checks for $100 each every other week.  With this method I will pay you back.  How are your hips?  Have you electrocuted yourself again?  You know, the more I think about it, I think it’s bullshit.  You’re Life Alert shouldn’t have malfunctioned and stopped your heart.  I know you were going to talk to your doctor about it so I guess just let me know what he/she says.  I mean, I’m pretty sure your heart had that problem because of when your only sibling died last year but if you REALLY think your Life Alert electrocuted you, well, you go ahead and stick with that story.  I love you.  Check’s in the mail.

The Artist Is Present.

I want to go to a circular bar that rotates and has a view while it circulates.

Sheldon Lee Compton asked me some questions for Enclave. They are Chaos Questions. It’s all over HERE.

I am not eating sugar. I am eating vodka and vegetables.  And meats that start with the letter C. JK.

The word, “bush”.

We are in the smallest circle.  I swallow into your black t-shirts and freckles.  How there is a tightening.  A bringing together of US. (capital letters).  Where is the right side up?  I can’t smell you in my sleep.  The backs of black Ubers and the royalty of two feet apart.  Can you see the three feet before my dreams?  You would like it.


I don’t know how to right click save as with a MacBook Air.





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December 29, 2014

2014 Three Ways

This year was a ride-along.  A sidecar.  It was also mine. Alone.

It was both.

There are three things I will remember most about this year.  One of them is how it feels to be hooked to a comet.  How it feels to ride alongside an ascension.  Here, let me tell you:  the ride ecstatic, full of thrill and pride.  Full of I Knew This All Along and Here It Is.  It is the most special with a light shined upon it and relishing how it stuns, this accolade avalanche you had anticipated like an apocalypse.  But nothing can prepare you for being backstage, the applause on the wider side of the curtain.  Behind the red you see its seams, its patches.  There are men sweated with rigging, a wire-split palm silk-soaked in blood against it, the boiling chaos of too many duties, needs.  All of it wearing on the performer.  It’s that yin-yang symbol, an embrace fit of both.  The ride is joy and it is helplessness, but you are glad to take it as you could never be anywhere else.

Another thing I will remember about this year is how blind faith works.  How all along I didn’t know I had been training for a race I was always meant to run and when I realized I was running it, not knowing if there would ever be an end.  Not knowing when and if I ever found that end there would be accolades or a cliff’s edge red-carpeting an abyss for me to fall into.  Yet, I ran.  Four years.  I ran on faith and the beating drum of good friends.  It was so hard, you guys.  It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.   Running on pure faith, believing in a finish line, in a participation medal—not even a prize, just an end to the punishing test of a journey.  I broke down crying the day I snapped that tape. I collapsed in a closet with the weight of it; my hands and knees on the bliss of the pavement.  I braced myself for the abyss, but the crowd has gathered around me and all I can hear is applause.  I am worn, but I am relieved.

The last thing I will remember about this year is how I found a place that lived inside of me that I never knew existed.  It was there all along, covered with a simple cloth.  An idiot’s hiding spot.  How that place became exposed, challenged.  How it continues to be tested.  A place plucked from my soul with two hands strong around its neck, lifting it Simba-style until it sat framed in front of the sun.  Its not-yet skin tender and scared, but excited in its existence.  There is a rebirth in tasting air for the first time, in having that star’s heat sear your layers for the first time.  I learned how it feels to be brought back to life, how to look at hard things, how to learn to walk again.  This year I have been set upon yet another path and while frightening, I have learned to cling to blind faith in the hope that wherever it takes me will be the way I am meant to go, regardless of what waits at the finish line.







November 22, 2014

No, I Will NOT Take a Shit-Selfie For You

You are not a viper but you play one

in my heart

                                        sick


ive not known many men. In theory ive known hundreds, thousands, all grossed, rotten and boored. All vile. All of my choosing, so vulgar.  How I become what I believe myself to be

with them

the thrill of their ugly: how they grasp.  So desperate.  Like my skin can grant them peace, my tits and cunt able to quiet the echo of their father’s endless insults.  Such intensity. That’s how they come at me.  That’s how I love. 

There’s a change but

there is not. 

It’s a wavering.  Handholds appear and I climb.  So much promise up top.  A shouting down. “You can do it!”  The crevasse is black and the voice encouraging.  A glimpse of warm sunlight so I climb. 

If your feet fill with jiggers, I will be there to scrape them.  Pull over on the highway when the screams get too loud.  Send me a beacon and I will come with my scalpel.  If you give permission I will drag you from the car and lay you down on wet grass.  I will call the villagers to watch.  They must learn how to save you themselves should this scourge come again.

Your first foot in my lap and I scrape.  The thick skin falls away in small, crusted flaps.  I am an old man on a porch eating an apple with a knife, but these peels I do not put into my mouth.  They fall to the grass, mounding, yellow-brown.

I scrape the jiggers while you moan.  It gets my dick hard.  I adjust your foot so you can feel it but you are too lost in your suffering.  There is a whisper-barrier between pleasure and pain and the sounds that come from both are twins. 

I cut the covers from the jiggers dens where they have buried themselves in your skin—their new home.  They come out white or black or green and I wipe them away. Your foot becomes cratered and when it is emptied of jiggers, I take the other, begin more work.  The villagers stand circle above us; a sunflower. 

This is gross but this is love.

Your moans clench my heart. 

Many years later, six old whores I fooled into loving me circle my deathbed waiting to see who will get what. I sink into death’s warm calling gazing up at the circle, now villagers, your foot in my lap, your moans soothing my transition. 


I take the sound of you to my grave. 




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November 13, 2014

Grub Hub

Do you know the heat off me?  I want a rubbing.  There is a clandestine.  It shimmers inside me.  I can fill a vase with it. A cabinet.

This week, a warp.  I don’t know where it went. How it got swallowed.  All I know is that it happened and it was real.  Tangible in the meat of my thighs.  The cripple of my walk.  The new waitings.  A giant bottle of wine losing its full. 

This is how you come down.

This is how you shade things away.  A hand covering eyes.

I am not sure where I am, where I want to be. Nor do you.  It’s a guessing game.  Who put me in the circle?  I am in the circle. Where and why the circle?

Momma, be proud of me? You proud of me momma?  Yer daughter. Here she is.  There she’s going.  Love me momma.  Prouda me momma.


Cordial your daughter in your wings.  She misses you.  Misses unfeeling.  Let her float, momma. Let her free.

Let her know how, the end.

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