Last night I did a poetry reading in an alternate dimension and it sucked. The reading was alphabetical so I was supposed to read first. My wife, Faith Fairhead, was reading fifth. Faith was a buttercream blonde. I was like Look at my hot bitch. I felt entitled to act like a dirty dog, because I was a girl and it seemed cute. It wasn’t cute.

As a result of my attitude, the universe swapped my hot wife for a husband, Gerald Ford, who made me very late for the reading. He had to run a lot of errands. I was like Gerald! No Whole Foods! Not now!

I couldn’t figure out what outfit to wear. My mother appeared in a sheep’s head to tell me that leather leggings were very last year. I wore them anyway. What did being a year late have to do with poetry? Maybe nothing.

The reading was at Slimey’s, a deli that specialized in hot pastrami and doubled as an ampitheater. Immediately I knew the leather leggings were a mistake. Everybody was wearing jeans with alt sneakers or velvet boho capes or they were nude.

Everybody was talking about Purple Pinko’s forthcoming trilogy of military flash fiction, FMP. I didn’t know what FMP stood for but I knew it was something cool, like Stephen Dorff’s SFW. I felt about Purple Pinko the way I felt about Stephen Dorff in the 90s. I longed.

Longing is wonderful, because you don’t have to be present for your life—in any dimension. I knew I shouldn’t indulge these feelings. I knew I should be present. I was like How am I supposed to stop thinking about Purple Pinko if his work is everywhere? It seemed like a conspiracy.

I wasn’t allowed to bring paper into the new dimension so I had to memorize everything. I’d memorized nothing. I made up the poems as I went along. One of the poems was called “Colorado.” It was in first person present and it went like this:

Colorado

I want to be a zombie but the cult won’t click.
I’m in it for a brain belt though I’m bad with unity.
We shoot up with pine needles, only vanilla.
This leaves a hole I cover in postage stamps.
I can’t find the horses and I can’t find the horses.
We go see the world record velvet Elvis.
They do a slideshow of his sandwiches.
Everybody liked him better alive.

It didn’t matter that the poem sucked, because the microphones were broken. This lent itself to simultaneous feelings of Sisyphusian something and liberation.

Following my reading was a reading by a naked girl. She read microfiction while a Haitian man vomited and vomited into a bowl next to her. Vomit is always great. The crowd went wild. I wish I invented that performance art.

A journalist from The Star Daily Star asked if he could take my picture. All the velvet boho capes were watching me and they mouthed C-O-R-P-O-R-A-T-E. Not one to turn down interstellar publicity, I posed.

The journalist was like You won a big prize this year. How does that feel?

I was like No. No prize.

He was like Then where have I heard of you from?

I was like You’ve heard of me from nothing. You’ve heard of me from the air.

1 Comment. Filed under Hippie Shit, Neuroses, Vomit Fetish

I fed DFW an ipecac clementine & he vomited & vomited until he re-died. Oh how he vomited! That ghost died vomiting. For the sake of me and my mom he must go on vomiting eternally.

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Coupla things re: me.

I have a new poem involving a lonesome cowgirl up at H_NGM_N.

I have a new poem up at Lamination Colony involving menses and/or jello. It is run with a photo. I appear orange in the photo. I globbed on Sephora Perfekt in “rich” when I should have used “radiant.” Editor Blake requested that we send a photo from the shoulders up, no shirt, if we felt comfortable. Sending the photo was optional. I thought “Oh yes, I will send a photo. It will be a pretty photo.” I wish I was the kind of writer who is uncomfortable sending a photo. Instead, I am the kind of writer who is uncomfortable one month later. I had a lovely time this morning feeling guilty that the lip gloss invalidates my work. Though in many ways, that is what the poem is about.

I have a new piece up at HuffPo involving grand theft poetics.

I’ll be in Rome (and thereabouts in Italy) until November 7, at which point Polestar w/ Aaron Fagan, Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz and Garrett Kalleberg will commence. Did you know that the vomitoriums are largely a myth? I didn’t. So very disappointed.

3 Comments. Filed under Neuroses, Yo Momma

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.

(more…)

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What up yo? Oh me, not much, just trying to stay somewhat spiritually fit as I navigate the waters of ego.

My default settings are More! and What’s next? But if I get quiet, a little voice says: Slow down, trust me and know that you don’t have to make anything happen.

Also there’s this beautiful review of Mother in decomP. Thank you, Spencer Dew, for being the first reviewer to use the word “methadone.”

No Comments. Filed under Hippie Shit, Neuroses