In case any of you were wondering about the process of guinea pig grief, let it be known: a piggie will not be so easily fooled into thinking that a $7 stuffed animal is her companion of half a decade.
Nonetheless, after a rocky few weeks, Peaches appears to be emerging triumphant on the other side of Elizabeth Kubler Ross’s five stages and is once again titillated by timothy hay, a ripe plum, a bag of organic spring mix.
We are stronger than we know.
What up yo? Oh me? Not much. Running out of Beyond the Valley of the Dolls film stills and lyrics to You’re So Vain for these little roundups. May have to move on to Psych-Out.
I wrote an essay for HuffPo about being neurotic and publishing a first book.
I’ve got some new poems up at PANK!
PANK did an interview to go with the poems, in which we talked textual contraints and patty melts. Rockstar poet J. Bradley (the rakish hobbit!) did the questioning.
I Jewed out and talked lit with Rachel Shukert and Naomi Firestone at The Big Jewcy.
The lovely Nicelle Davis interviewed me about fingerbang (one word, people).
Jewish Book World did a sweet review of Mother.
Thanks to Roxane Gay and Jason Diamond for some of these good things happening.
Me: Let’s start the conversation by telling people where we are. That’s how they do it in Vanity Fair.
Twitter Persona: Tell them we’re at The Mandarin Oriental. No wait. Tell them we’re at The Breslin at The Ace Hotel. I’m wearing a heather grey Alexander Wang tank dress, no makeup and my décolletage is showing. I’m picking at a scone. And I’m luminous.
Me: Ok. My first question is: Why do you rarely converse with other Twitterers? Isn’t Twitter supposed to be a conversation.
TP: I like to keep my home unfettered by @’s. Aesthetically it’s more fetching. I have mild OCD and when I’m surrounded by @’s I get uncomfortable.
Me: You do come across as very angsty and self-deprecating. Much more angsty than I am. Why?
TP: I think that’s a question you need to ask yourself.
I am not a Hindu (or even a Hindjew). But I do have a writing mantra that I’ve been using for years. Wanna know what it is? Ok.
Om aing saraswatye namaha.
It’s pronounced: Om eye-ng saraswatee-yay nah-mah-hah.
“Aing” or “aim” is the sound seed for the goddess Saraswati. For more about that funky bitch, have a looksee.
I like to sing it to the tune of Suffragette City or Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground.
Here’s a heady freak with an “om necklace” doing her version.
"The whole book pumps, and I swear some of what’s coming in and out are flashes of light that you can read it by."
–Mark Bibbins
"…a book of poems that is at once apocalyptic, full of sorrow, and packed with images crystalline in their beauty and truth… This book is full of magic."
–Dorothea Lasky
"To read Meat Heart is to consume, perish, murder, glitter, and prophesize. To say that Broder is fearless is not saying enough."
–Natalie Lyalin
Buy from SPD
Personalized by me
Or Amazon
“This debut from Broder is as funny and hip as it is disturbing… a bright and unusual debut.”
–Publishers Weekly
"…obsessive, energetic and pop-culture-infused poetry…"
–Time Out New York
"Broder’s insight and honesty will make your brain light up and your hair stand on end.”
–The San Francisco Examiner
"Broder’s verse is acrobatic and whip-smart… its own creature."
–Bomb
