I am not in love with anyone, only god. God of the caves and god of the boys. God of the dumpsters and god of the ash.
And I don’t want to be taught anything anymore.
When I read ______’s essays I feel completely wrong, like everything I have done is wrong, cos this is who I am most of the time–the kind of person who feels wrong. A person who does not trust herself.
No I don’t want to be taught anything anymore.
Sometimes there is trust. When I am alone on my _______ I am aware that things would be easier if I got a better one, and that I would be safer with a ______, and maybe even safer if I had more knowledge, but this is the one I have, and this is the knowledge I have, and so the only one.
Trust that this is the only way and feel free.
I felt a freedom like this in walking down the street alone in ________, writing on my ______, oblivious to everything around me including time. I could have been anywhere though I was very much in ________.
I was scared that when I moved to ___________ I would lose those pockets of freedom, like that freedom was contingent on place, like the need for it wasn’t inside me and it wasn’t something I would make happen anywhere.
But lo and behold I have found the pockets here too–or I am making them–the same amount of pockets, maybe even more, where I actually like myself cos I have disappeared.
Fell out of a red MG on my way to San Francisco in 1969 and got 16 stitches and a 70s bush. Landed at a blurry discotheque with Leda Leda Leda and her fat swan. Grabbed at her titties while she shook her black hair. Suddenly there were no titties because her hair was blonde. Obvi I am a soft heart in a jar of gefilte fish. Do you ever get the feeling that Jesus had six eyes? Stevie Nicks reclines under a black statue of Jesus and plots to win him back. I am rooting for her!
Mama Cass climbs a red rope liquorice into the arms of St Teresa who dreamt it all on a bus to Des Moines.
I am trapped under a god-size hair dryer with every woman ever wondering how to love each other.
I ate a candy necklace dipped in brill cream off the neck of an emo buddhist and he blessed me.
I talked about making out with readers in the L magazine.
I am playing spin the bottle with 3 failed memes and a feminine archetype.
The perfect storm of synapses is invite-only.
I talked to JA Tyler about abyssness, moreness and not-enoughness.
I will follow friday into a forest of twizzlers.
MEAT HEART IS AVAIL FOR PREORDER
TODAY IS SEVEN YEARS
(some of you know
what that means)
THE EGO IS A DESERT
IT DRIES AND DRIES
SOME THINGS NEVER DRY
_ _ _’S LOVE
I AM SO GRATEFUL
What up yo?
Oh, me. Not much. Just blogging when I’m supposed to be writing poetry. Like, all the feckin’ time. When I die, my literary estate is going to consist of blog posts.
Here’s are some recent greatest hits from the succubus:
How (not) to run a reading series. *poached from this blog…now with more content!
I consider it a luxury to work in an office with a door that closes. A brief look into the history of my employment may reveal why.
My first job out of college was as a canvasser for CALPIRG. I was the one with the the clipboard and the “rap” about old growth forest. You shut the door on me. Nader’s little sweatshop kept me fed for four months; if people asked what I did, I told them I was an Activist.
None of my early 20′s jobs–pizza delivery girl, Peachy Puff, waitress at “horror” theme restaurant Jekyll and Hyde (they still owe me $200 from a shift serving Mummy Burgers to 50 Down Syndrome children on Christmas)–could ever compare to my second job after college.
When I was 22, I spent a year working as a Secretary for a Tantric sexuality non-profit (yes) in Marin County, California (where else?) called Celebrations of Love. Please. See for yourself. This woman was my boss.
On a recent trip to SF, I did a scavenger hunt to see how many of the people/places/things I could find from my poem (in Mother) Falling Off the Richter Scale. Below are the poem and the results of the hunt.
What up yo?
I’m being a joiner and blogging for a blog. Another blog. A group blog called We Who Are About To Die.
These are my posts thus far:
Talked about a few of my favorite things: poetry, Belle and Sebastian and Gossip Girl on TV.
Okay. After much hemming and hawing I’ve decided to go to AWP. Z-Man (love of my life) in his ascot from Beyond the Valley of the Dolls won’t be there, nor will Strawberry Alarm Clock be a featured presenter, but that’s okay.
Sunday April 11th
152 Ludlow Street
Readings by Joanna Fuhrman, Michael Leong, Laura Hinton, Adam Gallari and Joel Allegretti
After AWP, it’s off to California for me. Cali freaks–come say hi at these two events:
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
w/ Dava Krause
5851 West Sunset
Sometimes I feel jealous of Arda Collins.
Then I watch Micky-Mick struttin’ and remember: Arda can’t do this.
"Broder manages to conjure a psychic realm best described as one part twisted funhouse and two parts Catholic school, heavy on libido and with a dash of magick. This gritty, cherry soda–black book...is bizarrely sexy in its monstrousness."
"I don’t know what a book is if not a latch to elsewhere, and Scarecrone has pressed its skull against the hidden door. It is neither drunk nor ecstatic to be here—it is a state unto itself."
"Lushly dark and infused with references to black magic, Broder's work often feels less like a book and more like a mystical text."
"Out to 'crucify boredom,' her poems show us how any relationship with the divine is no less at risk of engendering grotesque lust...What makes Broder such a pleasure on the page is her insistence that these dramas play out on a workaday stage infused with surreal Pop and imaginative muscle..."
"With a title recalling Yeats...Broder risks the divine in her second book...shrewd, funny, twisted, sad poems..."
–The Chicago Tribune
"Meat Heart...is unbelievable and overwhelming for its imaginative power alone, but if you listen past the weird you can hear all sorts of things: sadness, seriousness, life, death, and a whole lot of laughter....Broder is a tremendous talent"
"...Meat Heart embodies that strain of sustenance, that sort of psychosomatic excitement most valiant art more or less tries to pull off…Her poems don’t bore or bear down. They beam oracle energy. They pump a music of visions for the life-lusty death dance."
“This debut from Broder is as funny and hip as it is disturbing… a bright and unusual debut.”
"…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."