Have a nice weekend

We are already ghosts.

Okay, things

I’ve updated my post on A Conventional Weather, because it’s such an incredible book of poetry, and really deserved more. I am going to stick to saying more about the books, but the one a day thing I set for myself was kind of killing me. I’ll still try for that rate, even though I’m behind now, but my main goal will be to simply complete the books on my current roster by the end of the month.

Otherwise, there’s a new Wheelhouse, after a very long time, and I have two poems in it: Family Narrative and Many Stories. It’s an issue full to bursting of amazing poetry and prose; well worth checking out.

Natalie Perkins

No Tell Books: Cadaver Dogs, by Rebecca Loudon

This instruction is holy.
—Rebecca Loudon, from ROMANCE #1 IN G MINOR

Cadaver Dogs, by Rebecca Loudon

Cadaver Dogs is the rib  Adam never forgot.
Cadaver Dogs is your outside voice, inside. Having sex.
Cadaver Dogs will not self-medicate.
Cadaver Dogs is a chalk outline on asphalt. Children are nearby.
Cadaver Dogs is not a right, it’s a necessity.
Cadaver Dogs is the wheel that came off the trolley and landed in your soup. Small trolley, big soup.
Cadaver Dogs is female.
Cadaver Dogs is not blameless.
Cadaver Dogs tells secrets
is relentless
knows you like your skin
Cadaver Dogs is an anatomist’s waking dream.
Cadaver Dogs wants you.
Cadaver Dogs won’t tell anyone, will tell everyone, requires hydration, could compromise well-being.
Cadaver Dogs is sacred.
Cadaver Dogs cannot be ignored.

Like a string of diamonds

Mark Baumer is walking across America.

I have a piece in the new Requited.

I love New Wave Vomit, and want to send ana c. something  and say hi.

Reading The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath; I hope to have a respectable submission for the Fat Gold Watch Press anthology.

Drinking lemonade.

Beehive is sick of all your poetry bullshit

Beehive Magazine has sent out a new call for submissions, and it goes a little something like this:

We need stuff to publish on the website and we are sick of all your poetry bullshit.

Here are the new guidelines:

If you think your piece of writing is profound or beautiful or zen or ironically unimportant or whatever, we don’t want it.

What Beehive is seeking is the stupidest irrelevant bullshit you have ever written/drawn/taken a picture of (whatevs). This means your dumb drawings during class, the syntaxy drippings of your blacked-out mind, space aliens, blood splatter, stuff you obviously didn’t write, pictures of your children (or other people’s children), pornography, scanned objects, failed craigslist ads, essays with all your teacher’s corrections scribbled on top, a list of all your bathroom contents, blueprints, schematics, graphs, charts, crayon drawings.

Really just anything you don’t care about.

The deadline is right now.

Sounds good. I like a lot of the stuff they have already, by folks like Alexandra Lukens, Michelle Puckett, Alexandra Ran, Kyle Hemmings, and especially Theresa Stefeniak of which I further post a sample:

Disfortunate
Theresa Stefaniak

tell me about your osmosis

about getting gobbled up by weather

I want to breathe wet

a slight chance of rain showers

in the end, bacon won the prize

katana swords make men (into) dinner

he’s going to bring cool catness back

baby loves digable planets

what about the assemblage of gingerbread?

Shakespeare takes a brand new job

if nothing foes wrong against horse thieves

or the dignified quality of an opera box

the Adult Services of a California blonde

indulge & unwind- New York Style

This understated crunch

NOÖ Journal: Rad poetry

Red bull

Randoms.

I have a match-sized piece up at Matchbook, along with a “critical thought,” which isn’t either, really.

Rollerfink‘s amazingly amazing Orlando Innamorato (“Orlando in Love”) was nominated by for every year for the storySouth Million Writers Award, because it’s so fucking awesome, that’s why.  At least, that’s the only reason I can think of.

Lincoln Michel has a new poem at elimae. I’ve liked Lincoln Michel since I published some of his work as poetry editor at Night Train awhiles back. I’ve followed him around since, as he’s launched Gigantic and been busy other ways. I was happy to see poetry from him again.

lil bitches

Chelsea Martin and Elizabeth Ellen offer their insights into major minor writers players in the internet literary scene. I learned some things.

Valentine/subtitle/promise/retort

Angela Simione

Received this resonant thing in the mail today from Angela Simione, so I thought I’d do one of my link collages in honor. Enjoy (hopefully).

It is easy to say, but believe me it is horrifying to see 20 people die in front of you.

It takes some serious nerve to have a person die in front of you, and ask people how good your lighting is.

I believe that seeing someone you love die in front of you or watching your own body collapse makes it more difficult to act in bad faith.

Suppose you have a (possibly biased) die in front of you.

I remember covering the famine in Sudan and seeing people die in front of you.

It would be exquisite to die in front of you, I thought.

when he turns 10000000000000000000000000000000000000000000 years old so he wont die in front of you fatass!!

Otherwise I’ll die in front of you.

It’s not the greatest feeling I tell ya but to watch mates etc die in front of you in time of war?????

Like, I could write about the Triple Crown, but it’s hard to wrap your arms around a sport where the star athletes have a tendency to, you know, die in front of you.

Dying mice may come out from their hiding places and die in front of you.

Shall we die in front of you just because all our silver is gone?

Bed crumbs of all ages spiled

My Bed is Covered Yellow
Peter Orlovsky

        My bed is covered yellow – Oh Sun, I sit on you
Oh golden field I lay on you
Oh money I dream of you
More, More, cried the bed – talk to me more –
Oh bed that taked the weight of the world –
        all the lost dreams laid on you
Oh bed that grows no hair, that cannot be fucked
        or can be fucked
Oh bed crumbs of all ages spiled on you
Oh yellow bed march to the sun whear yr journey will be done
Oh 50 lbs. of bed that takes 400 more lbs-
        how strong you are
Oh bed, only for man & not for animals
        yellow bed when will the animals have equal rights?
Oh 4 legged bed off the floor forever built
Oh yellow bed all the news of the world
        lay on you at one time or another

1957, Paris