I wrote about Baudelaire, fucking and murdering at Pen America.

Also, I am riding horses again. I ride every Saturday at dusk in Brooklyn. As a young girl I just wanted to write poetry and ride horses. I am becoming myself.

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Tell the story of how I decimate the worms in my brain and tell it using pedestrian language.

Ok I am either the luckiest girl in the world or totally fucked.

Starting July 14th this is the year of learning to love the questions.

That is how the worms are slaughtered.

Was Rilke a gay man?

When the gays give me advice about extermination they don’t just let me flail like I am the roach.

The gays have always led me to Jerusalem.

Watch me watch a skinny boy in a Misfits t-shirt eat cheese fries for the rest of my life.

Watch me graffiti a fake rock.

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Tomorrow I will be less internet-y.

I’m going to interact with a fleshy hole named TANGIBLE WORLD.

My illness sits on the edge of my bed while I sleep.

In the morning it says I’ve figured some things out. Let me share them with you.

I meditate with a rope around my head.

I ask god to pull the rope lower, lower, lower…

When I hear the word spirituality, I still think painlessness.

When I sit on a patch of grass there become three of me.

This feels like disintegrating.

I should try to speak to all three.

I shut them all up with gum.

Once there were fire ceremonies.

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 Never                                 think           too         hard                             about                         your                   intentions            before
bed                             or            you               will           have                  to             lick        them
and                    say                thanks                   for          all         my          bravery         and           weakness.

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Want to get hard like a dog no I want to melt.

God can be a he tonight.

Was told not to use god anymore, that it is a crutch, please forgive me if you agree.

Evidence shows you should go to the desert for serotonin reuptake exhibition.

I AM GOING TO THE OCEAN.

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Tonight I am supposed to do a reading.

I have laryngitis.

I am going to cough up a shimmer.

I am going to cough up a need in the field of emotional curfew.

Who built this field?

Certain Christians cannot tolerate weakness.

I am so longing for my personal Jebus.

He is growing crystals on another field.

Only true masters can eat there.

Everyone is a true master.

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My poem, Mercy, is poem of the week at The Missouri Review.

Feel legit.

Feel like a boss.

Two new poems in NAP involving god & vomit, as per usual. Rob MacDonald has neat poems in the issue as well.

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I want to surrender to god’s will 4evs.

It doesn’t seem fair that you can’t get hypnotized and that’s it.

It’s so uncool to have to surrender again every minute.

Why would I define god?

What kind of mystery is that?

Even when I don’t feel it there’s the experience of having felt it.

“Proving” god seems stupid.

Keep cleaning keep cleaning keep cleaning.

God feels me.

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read the awesomest three books this year and we’re only three weeks into 2012–

Coeur de Lion by Ariana Reines

A Sport and a Pastime by James Salter

The Book of Frank by CA Conrad

feel like a lucky girl to be alive and have all this at my fingertips.

they are in my bones now.

the Salter is the perfect book for me at 32, a fantasist, a little afraid of the reaches of my fantasy-life, a lot afraid, fearing aging, thinking of boys and trying to hitch back onto adolescence. this is the book of the buggering in the bum. it is aesthetic bliss. a tiny realist in me was like “doesn’t Ann Marie Costellot ever have a dirty bum?” but the realist was eclipsed by the love and breath and mystery in Salter’s craftsmanship. what a pleasure this book. the most beautiful.

all i can say about Reines is that she is in me now like a hot virus and i am smitten. my friend Kristen Iskandrian says i have the fever and she knows it well. i just ordered The Cow. excited.

the Conrad book is full of exciting language that knocks and kicks — really sad and melty and strange and funny in exactly the way that life is, you know?

the Reines and the Conrad make me excited about what a book-length collection can be.

a poem shaped like a book.

a book shaped like a poem.

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DEAD FLOWERS DEAD FLOWERS DEAD FLOWERS DEAD FLOWERS DEAD FLOWERS DEAD FLOWERS DEAD FLOWERS DEAD FLOWERS DEAD FLOWERS DEAD FLOWERS DEAD FLOWERS DEAD FLOWERS DEAD FLEURS DEAD FLEURS DEAD FLEURS DEAD FLEURS DEAD FLEURS DEAD FLEURS DU MAL LES FLEURS DU MAL LES FLEURS DU MAL LES FLEURS DU MAL LES FLEURS DU MAL LES FLEURS DU MAL LES FLEURS DU MAL LES FLEURS DU MAL LES FLEURS DU MAL LES FLEURS DU MAL LES FLEURS DU MAL LES FLEURS DU MAL

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There is a song by The Who called The Seeker, which in the late 90s phase of my spiritual seeking I used to listen to on ephedrine on the treadmill on repeat, about 30 years too late, and once that phase of my seeking ended I never listened to the song again.

In the December 2011 phase of my spiritual seeking I think about The Seeker and I don’t know if I’ve ever sought anything. It seems like the seeking has always just sought or seeked or sucked me.

Ha ha that’s a lie. I seek like crazy yo.

I have a poem in Noo.

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THE NEW LA PETITE ZINE IS UP & IT IS A REALLY RAD ISH. I LOVE THAT LA PETITE ZINE. LOVE DOIN IT.

Laura van den Berg, who is rad, interviewed me at Ploughshares about satisfaction, vomit as holy, you know.

I keep asking $5 psychics on fiverr.com big questions about my life. Feels like regressing.

I find it annoying that the answers are within.

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True Romance

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Snow Bling

The best thing I got for Chanukah was a bling sleep mask. Thanks Rose!

Mother made the SPD poetry bestseller list again for December and Ampersand is going back for a reprint. Holla.

Here’s me coolin’ out on the AM NY xmas list.

I talked with Ryan Call, one of my fave internet friends, about lit blogs over at Electric Literature.

I reviewed Nate Pritts’ Big Bright Sun for The Rumpus and forgot to tell you.

I’m doing lots of readings in 2011 and would luv if you would come to one.

That’s the story, mornin glory.

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Potato

I just called god you old stuffed potato in a poem, and it worked great.

Another thing–not in the poem– that I want to say to god is:

Please you to keep giving my heart another chance
One day your hum might just fall from my mouth

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Amma Doesn’t Blog

Just got back from seeing Amma. Now I am in bed, coming down, with my face pressed against the white cotton shirt I wore today. It smells of roses.

Some say that Amma is a living saint. For many years I tried to make sense of the mystical experiences I have in her presence. I googled the words: kundalini, shakti, ecstasy. I compared my experience to that of others. But I’ve stopped trying to understand.

I would not say that Amma is my sole teacher, or guru. I have had many great teachers. Yet Amma is a touchstone I return to year after year. She might be my most powerful teacher. This was my sixth year with Amma at the Manhattan Center and every visit is different. I always learn lessons.

My first experience in Amma’s presence brought on such intense feelings of bliss, peace and transcendence that I was frightened I’d been dosed. This encounter taught me that visceral shifts in consciousness are possible without drugs. It crystalized my faith in a higher power.

My third year, I ignored an impulse to volunteer to wash dishes. Instead I sat by Amma like a god-junkie for eight hours straight until I got vertigo and had to go home in a taxi. I think Amma was teaching me that spirituality is not about feeling good all the time, but about service.

On another visit, I brought someone very close to me to meet Amma–a person who claims he has “no spiritual wiring.” I thought I could convince him otherwise and “give him” a peak experience. While this person now respects Amma as a humanitarian (he calls her a spiritual genius), on a sensory level he was unphased. He just sat in the balcony ho-hum, reading Harper’s and eating a doughnut. The lesson here? I am not in control of other people’s perceptions. I forget this lesson a lot.

So much of learning seems to be about remembering. Today I got a  message that I hear in my heart every time I am with her, and then repeatedly forget.

In my heart I said to Amma: It is so easy when I am with you to feel peace. But what about when I am not with you?

And Amma said to my heart: I give you permission. I light the spark. But peace is in you, child.

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Last Sext

LAST SEXT

So Sad Today

SO SAD TODAY

"What separates Broder from her confessional cohort...is that she doesn’t seem to be out to shock, but to survive."
–Elle

"Broder presents a dizzying array of intimate dispatches and confessions…She has a near-supernatural ability to not only lay bare her darkest secrets, but to festoon those secrets with jokes, subterfuge, deep shame, bravado, and poetic turns of phrase."
–New York Magazine

"A triumph of unsettlingly relatable prose."
–Vanity Fair

"Her writing is deeply personal, sophisticated in its wit, and at the same time, devastating. SO SAD TODAY is a portrait of modern day existence told with provocative, irreverent honesty."
–Nylon

"At once devastating and delightful, this deeply personal collection of essays…is as raw as it is funny."
–Cosmopolitan

"Broder writes about the hot-pink toxins inhaled every day by girls and women...and the seemingly impossible struggle to exhale something pure, maybe even eternal...there's a bleak beauty in the way she articulates her lowest moments."
–Bookforum

"Broder may be talking about things like sexts, Botox, and crushes, but these things are considered alongside contemplations about mortality, identity, and the difficulty of finding substance in a world where sometimes it’s so much easier to exist behind a screen."
–The Fader

"…So Sad Today is uplifting and dispiriting in seemingly equal measure. It’s a book that’s incredibly human in the way it allows for deep self-reflection alongside Broder, which speaks not only to her powerful writing but also the internet’s magical ability to foster connections."
–A.V. Club

"...delightful...Broder embarks on an earnest, sophisticated inquiry into the roots and expressions of her own sadness...deeply confessional writing brings disarming humor and self-scrutiny...Broder's central insight is clear: it is ok to be sad, and our problems can't be reduced to a single diagnosis. "
–Publishers Weekly

"Broder is probably the Internet’s most powerful merchant of feelings…"
–GQ

"Vividly rendered and outspokenly delivered essays…Sordid, compulsively readable entries that lay bare a troubled soul painstakingly on the mend."
–Kirkus Reviews

"If Melissa Broder weren’t so fucking funny I would have wept through this entire book. Love, sex, addiction, mental illness and childhood trauma all join hands and dance in a circle, to the tune of Melissa’s unmatched wit and dementedly perfect take on this terrifying orb we call home."
–Lena Dunham

"So Sad Today is a desperately honest collection of essays, the kind that make you cringe as you eagerly, shamelessly consume them. Melissa Broder lays herself bare but she does so with strength, savvy, and style. Above all, these essays are sad and uncomfortable and their own kind of gorgeous. They reveal so much about what it is to live in this world, right now."
–Roxane Gay

Scarecrone

S C A R E C R O N E

"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."
–Publishers Weekly

"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."
–VICE

"Lushly dark and infused with references to black magic, Broder's work often feels less like a book and more like a mystical text."
–PAPERMAG

Meat Heart

MEAT HEART

"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..."
–Publishers Weekly

"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"
–Flavorwire

"...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."
–BOMB

Melissa Broder's Book Cover

MOTHER

“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