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.

For those of you NYC stragglers who aren’t going to AWP, there will be a special AWP East party at Polestar guest-hosted by the talented Mr. Riippi:

Sunday April 11th
4 PM
CakeShop
152 Ludlow Street
NYC
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
7-9 PM
The Bar
w/ Dava Krause
5851 West Sunset
LOS ANGELES

Saturday, April 17, 2010
6-9 PM
Elbo Room
w/ Dava Krause + D.W. Lichtenberg + Del Ray Cross
647 Valencia Street
SAN FRANCISCO

2 Comments. Filed under California Fetish, Cult Fetish, Junkie Fetish, Polestar

Sometimes I feel jealous of Arda Collins.

Then I watch Micky-Mick struttin’ and remember: Arda can’t do this.

2 Comments. Filed under California Fetish, Hippie Shit, O.P.P.

Below is a select list of nouns that appear both in Mother and in L.J. Moore’s Play-Doh retro, Sgt. Pepper-clever, monster mash of poems: F-STEIN.

(more…)

2 Comments. Filed under California Fetish, O.P.P.

Actual poster owned in college

At 20 I went through a dark period involving copious Easy Cheese, psychedelic beads and a hot glue gun. During this time (we’ll call it the crafty binge-eating hippie era) I became deeply enmeshed in astrology.

While I no longer actively, uh, practice astrology, I still have “the gift.”

All this week, I’ll be providing an astrological love analysis for anyone who buys the book from Small Press Distribution. You’re single you say? Even better! I’ll tell you who to date and who to avoid.

Just shoot me an email on my contact page. And believe.

4 Comments. Filed under Hippie Shit

The riveting conclusion to our 2.5-part series.

In our first installment twittering poets wrote about the impact of social networking on their craft. One commenter wrote of the post: “It makes me feel like throwing up…I don’t even know what Twitter is, and I don’t want to know. Sounds like stupid shit. I came here to read about Richard Hugo.”

Self-loathing was imminent. And yet we soldiered on…

In installment 1.5 Brandon ‘Scott’ Gorrell expounded on the techniques of various twittering writers he admires and read the tea leaves of my Twitter style as well (‘confused,’ ‘tired’). He also addressed the proliferation of  ‘scare quotes’ and took what may be his first public step in becoming a more streamlined  ‘Brandon [no Scott] Gorrell.’

Now, for the eye-popping finale, we go the way of so many poets and move on to prose. Below, some of the liveliest twittering prose writers of our generation send this baby home!

(more…)

4 Comments. Filed under Information Age of Hysteria, O.P.P.

Last summer, I curated a reading at Polestar for Brandon Scott Gorrell and other members of the Muumuu House extended family. Brandon is the author of the poetry collection During My Nervous Breakdown I Want to Have a Biographer Present. On Twitter he is @LydiaDavis. I like these.

The reading was July 4^th weekend. Two people came. The Muumuus grew silent. They were young, vegan-thin, styled by Vice. I was turning 30, eating animal byproducts on the sneak, looking extra-Jewy. Sorry, I said.

Months later, I wondered what Brandon thought of me. Did he ever think of me at all? Was I at fault for the poor showing on The Lower East Side, or could we all shoulder the blame? One question in particular kept me chewing the Nicorette late into the night: Could I get to the bottom of those ‘scare quotes’?

I had an opportunity to email with Brandon for my last post: Richard Hugo Didn’t Twitter, in which I asked a number of poets how Twitter has affected their craft. Brandon’s response stood out from the fray. I saw my moment. Went Bill Moyers on him:

(more…)

8 Comments. Filed under Information Age of Hysteria, Neuroses, O.P.P.

Triggering Town or Trending Topic?

Tao Lin, who is more prolific than Lil Wayne, recently had this to say on Twitter:

someone fb msg’d me re ‘writing tips’ re ‘being focused,’ seems like all i was able to suggest was to ‘not have friends’

I find Lin’s suggestion curious. The energy I spend pre-meditating my tweets (yes) distracts me more from the process of writing poems than does any genuine interaction with other members of the species. On Twitter, I dumb down a notch and ham it up two. I don’t calculate syllabics; I calculate followers. I’m no longer writing for my ideal audience (Jewish girls with a junkie fetish) (me). I’m writing for everyone. I feel like Joan Rivers on HGH.

Below, I’ve conducted a little survey of other poets on Twitter to see what they have to say about if/how Twitter has affected their craft:

(more…)

14 Comments. Filed under Information Age of Hysteria, O.P.P.

As seen on Jezebel.

In Sharing is Creepy, Nick Carr asserts that “Twitter shame” arises from revealing the contents of our brains to total strangers (and assuming they care). Okay, yes.

For me, Twitter shame also pertains to the elusive (and oft unspoken) Twitter ratio: trying to cultivate more followers than people you’re following. The Twitter ratio has the ability to transform a perfectly normal person (who happens to be following twice as many people as she has followers) into Martha Dunnstock from Heathers.

This brings us to Twithers. Anyone who manipulates, contemplates, or is at all conscious of their Twitter ratio probably wants to be a Heather. But some of us are not Heathers. Some of us will never be Heathers. Some of us are Veronicas.

I’ve devised a little quiz.

If you identify with “A” in most of the following, you’re a Twitter Heather McNamara (the yellow one) or a Twitter Heather Duke (Shannen Doherty). You might be bulimic.

If you identify with “B” you’re a Twitter Veronica. Try not to accidentally kill anyone.

If you identify with “C” you’re a Twitter Heather Chandler (red scrunchie). Avoid drano at all costs.

A. You choose to “follow” someone. When the person doesn’t follow you back within two hours, you de-follow them.
B. You choose to “follow” someone. When the person doesn’t follow you back within two hours, you de-follow them. You feel shame.
C. You only follow Derek Blasberg. Everyone else follows you.

A. You send probing “replies” to people whom you don’t yet follow to try to get them to follow you first.
B. You send probing “replies” to people whom you don’t yet follow to try to get them to follow you first. You feel shame.
C. You only reply to Derek Blasberg. Everyone else replies to you.

A. You try to lure innocents, not yet on Twitter, into being on Twitter so you’ll have more followers.
B. You try to lure innocents, not yet on Twitter, into being on Twitter so you’ll have more followers. You feel shame.
C. What’s an innocent?

A. You de-follow your sister because she hasn’t tweeted in six months and is “dead weight” on your ratio.
B. You de-follow your sister because she hasn’t tweeted in six months and is “dead weight” on your ratio. You feel shame.
C. Your sister follows you and tweets often. You don’t follow her. Unless she’s Derek Blasberg.

A. You create a second Twitter account, an alter-ego to lure followers. When you get more followers on that one than you’re own, you “come out.”
B. You create a second Twitter account, an alter-ego to lure followers. When you get more followers on that one than you’re own, you “come out.” You feel shame.
C. You’re Derek Blasberg.

EPILOGUE

If you don’t know what Twitter is, you’re Veronica’s Dad.

If you’re on Twitter, and starting to get a sinking feeling you might be Martha Dunnstock, don’t panic. On prom night, you’ll get to “pop some popcorn” with Winona Ryder. I hope this post gives you shower-nozzle masturbation material for weeks.

If you’re not on Twitter, but are a “frequent status updater” on Facebook (“Just saw Mr. Big in Union Square!” “Fair trade coffee and a vegan maple-bacon donut!”) you are Peter Dawson at the “Westerberg Feeds the World” table.

And if you’re not on Twitter purely out of defiance, good for you. You’re J.D. Now go be sexy and get your middle finger shot off.

5 Comments. Filed under Information Age of Hysteria, Neuroses

A rabble rouser and a baby punk, from the next generation of revolutionaries, come down in the Hair Care aisle at Duane Reade. They bicker between nods, in prefab Che t-shirts, about the proper way to make dreadlocks...

The lovely and talented Frances Angevine did this bitchin’ illustration of Dear Aging Anarchist— a poem from MOTHER.

1 Comment. Filed under Collaboratin', Junkie Fetish

Feeling a bit like Chava in Fiddler on the Roof…right before Tevye disowns her.

I’m reading tomorrow night at The Gryphon in Wayne. The crowd will consist of:

a.  My parents
b. My parents’ friends

Really don’t want to say “gargantuan sudsy banana”  in front of my dad.

Definitely don’t want to say “rubbing against his mushrooming”  in front of my dad.

Would prefer not to say “nothing-tits” in front of my dad.

If at all possible, it’s preferable that I don’t say “what about my urethra?” in front of my dad.

Absolutely do not want to say “bang it in” in front of my dad.

Under no circumstances will I say “bumping the bum meth off his bum” in front of my dad.

Does anyone have some poems they can lend me?

No Comments. Filed under Jew-time, Neuroses, Yo Momma

For a signed/personalized copy of the book, go through the ugly paypal button below. Please include the inscription you want + your mailing address.

3 Comments. Filed under Grassroots Bay-bee

My book launch party* is 4 pm this Sunday, February 7th at Polestar–a poetry series I curate at the lovely CakeShop. (Yeah, it’s a little weird that I’m reading at my own series. Whatev.)

In honor of Polestar (now in its 18th installment–rock!) I’ve put together a few tips for those of you looking to run a reading series of your own. Here we go.

1. Be sure to choose a venue with an ice machine that sounds like a DeWalt hammer drill. Ice machine should have no off-switch. For optimum effect, ice machine will go into high gear when your most prominent, and/or well-connected poet is reading.

2. Your venue should have a microphone that flickers on and off throughout the reading at random. For added flair, you may want to work with a microphone that gives out entirely.

2b. Never completely figure out the microphone or speaker system.

3. Give your reading series a name that could also connote a strip club.

4. When requesting a poet to give a reading, always copy and paste the email you sent to the prior poet verbatim. This way, you can address Henri Cole as “Dear Ms. Marvin” and Marie Howe as “Please forward to Arda Collins.”

4b. If you happen to address a certain beloved and lauded octogenarian poet by the wrong name in your query email, you’re encouraged to add: P.S. Would you consider blurbing my book?

4c. When you don’t hear back from the beloved and lauded octogenarian poet (we’ll call her The BLOP), ask the most hypersensitive poets in the community if she is still “with us.”

4d. Rest assured that you will soon see The BLOP’s newest collection at St. Marks Books. Consider Tupac Shakur and his many post-humous releases. Then consider that The BLOP is alive and well. She’s just avoiding you because she thinks you are lame.

5. Yes, absolutely include a bloody glove in your initial website design.

6. In preparing the poets’ bios, there’s no need to learn how to correctly pronounce Pleiades or “Nurkse.”

7. Make sure to host the hippest poets on July 4th weekend. This way, when no one shows up, you get to experience their judgemental silence in its pure, undiluted form.

8. Spend time making friends with your shame.

9. Come to terms with the fact that everyone dreads a poetry reading.

9b. Come to terms with the fact that you especially dread a poetry reading.

10. Keep the thing damn thing afloat anyway. After all, that hot dish from your MFA program shows up every time.

10b. If you are following instructions correctly, the dish should move to Berlin very soon.

* Again, can we call it a party if people have to buy their own drinks? Questionable.

3 Comments. Filed under O.P.P., Polestar

I swore I wouldn’t be the kind of writer who uses her children for material, but today I am rejecting my own value-system to announce the marriage of my two daughters: Peaches and Angie. Yes, they’re sisters but they’re also…lovers. Want to make something of it?

A little more about the bride and groom:

Name: Peaches
Confirmation name: Peaches Marie
Nicknames: Peepee, Peepalah
Likes: Running in circles, headbanging, cultivating green chlorophyll bib
Dislikes: Any type of human contact, including–but not limited to: petting, touching, squeezing, kissing, or footsteps within ten foot radius
Strengths: Massive ego
Weaknesses: Massive ego
Trademarks: Athletic prowess, pink ear, “the smart one”

Name: Angie
Nicknames: Angelina Ratlie, Fatticus Ratticus
Strengths: Asserts dominance once a month when she’s “on her cycle” (or some cycle) and takes Peaches by storm
Weaknesses: Respiratory infections, Bumblefoot, possibly blind
Likes: Hiding in the pigloo, leafy greens, hay
Dislikes: Costumes, vaccuum cleaner
Trademark: Her voluptuous curves

Bride and groom are both wearing Cuddly Cavies couture. Bride’s jewels by Harry Winston.

Wedding photographer: Brandon Finney. Holiday photographer: Rick Robertson.

8 Comments. Filed under Guinea Pigs, Yo Momma

I recently had the privilege of seeing the great Jayne Cortez perform at City College. I’m no expert when it comes to performance poetry, but Jayne is the O.G.

During the portion of the evening where students get to ask her our asinine questions*, someone asked who her influences are. She responded: “I’m not influenced by ANYONE.” ‘Nuff said.

I’m totally obsessed with this poet. Yet I gleefully engage on a daily basis in behavior that she would likely deem toxic, anti-feminist, corporate, and/or plain old poopoo.

I know I’m not alone in letting down the artists I admire. Take legions of Morrissey fans in the 80s and Where’s the Beef?

In honor of diversity, and because it’s feckin’ fun, I’ve comprised a list below of things I love that Jayne Cortez would probably hate:

1. Chuck Bass

2. Chuck Bass & Blair Waldorf : the special moment

3. Chuck Bass man-on-man action

4. OPI Axxium color gel manicure (stays on forev)

5. Norbit 

6. Nike iD (love me my Pegasus+ 25 iD sneaks in all-black with silver swoosh)

7. Who? What? Wear?

8. Marie Robinson at Sally Hershberger

9. Nicorette (2 mg please)

10. Bergdorf’s 5F

11. “Chrome Plated Woman” 

12. Spanking The Monkey (rivals Harold and Maude, and I don’t say that lightly)

14. Perfekt

15. “Wouldn’t Get Far” (floatin’ away on the hood of a Camry)

16. Harold and Kumar: Escape from Guantanamo

*This is reminiscent of when I saw Fiona Apple at The New Yorker festival and Sasha Frere-Jones asked her all of these random questions, like: what do you eat for breakfast? (not that I don’t want to know) (and fyi: she doesn’t eat eggs) when there’s really only one question for Fiona Apple: Is it worth it to be so crazy to be so talented?

3 Comments. Filed under Bergdorf's, Hippie Shit, O.P.P.

I’m guest-blogging all week at the Jewish Book Council blog.  Topics include:

* Jewish vs. Goyish? The year in review (All apologies to Lenny Bruce)

* Famous Jews you went to Hebrew School with

* Dear Esther Schwebel, Where are you?

* A nice letter to my pen pal: god

2 Comments. Filed under Jew-time

Today my mother and I spent the afternoon davening at her spiritual home, Bergdorf Goodman. She let me know that she is still planning to abstain from reading the book and had this to say:

How about we try and make the next book semi-normal? Enough with these people with hangups.  Enough with the face tattoos already.

I responded using the words artist and self-expression, two locutions I never use self-referentially unless I’m getting a lecture about my junkie fetish in the Roger Vivier section of the shoe salon.

I have the perfect photo of my mother taken during a similar pilgrimage this summer. It was raining and we didn’t have an umbrella, so she’s standing in front of the Big B with a plastic bag over her head.

While I’m dying to post the photo here, I just can’t sell her out like that. She’s mad cool in her Brunello Cucinelli separates and D’Agostino hat, just trying to understand her daughter. And I’m not that kind of artist yo.

3 Comments. Filed under Bergdorf's, Junkie Fetish, Yo Momma

I don’t know.

I feel like I’m supposed to be tweeting the Twit now that the book is 15 days from publication. But I just don’t see myself going peacefully into the dull night of the “Really, Massachusetts? Really?” or “OMFG hahahahaha LMAO BRB LOL!!!!!!!” or “Seriously, dry cleaners? Seriously?” crowd anytime soon.

So for now, I’m running a semi-structured alphabetic poetics experiment from aboard my ‘tweet deck.’ [UPDATE: This didn’t last. Though I did make it all the way backwards to the letter “A.” Once.] Yeah. I figure banal posts about other people people’s poetry (O.P.P.?) can at least be classified as benevolent.

Sounds enticing, eh?

I must admit, though, that it’s tempting to twit the Twat every time I, say, have a thought. Here are some of the tweets I’ve restrained in the past two days, since ‘going public’ on Twitter:

Meditated this morning next to an open toilet.

Apparently my guinea pigs are now too upmarket for baby carrots.

Nicorette in yoga class makes for spicy Savasana.

Yoga Journal hates you.

I hate water.

Guinea pigs now too upmarket for baby carrots AND apple.

Don’t be afraid to brush curls and transform into Stevie Nicks.

Lady on A Train has bottle of Purell carabinered to her purse.

I still love you junkies.

Guinea pigs resemble Puffy and Biggie. The nasty one will surely outlive the sweet one.

Why shouldn’t she be nasty? Consider the collective unconscious of the guinea pig.

Book proof just arrived UPS!!!

Does book resemble a pamphlet?

Crying to publisher (via text)

Spin teacher really believes we are on the open road.

Publisher going to upgrade paper stock!

Why is that Misshape always at Souen?

Why am I always at Souen?

Mother and Mother-in-law are running viral grandchild marketing campaign.

Blackberry has now officially merged with hand. Hanberry. Bland?

1 Comment. Filed under Guinea Pigs, Information Age of Hysteria, Neuroses, O.P.P.