Cami Park

Posts Tagged ‘Fashion’

Awesome Machine Press: Say, Poem by Adam Robinson

In Poetry, Prose, Religion on September 15, 2010 at 8:46 pm

How can poetry compete with error, in this economy of attention?
Adam Robinson, from SAY, POEM

Say, Poem by Adam Robinson

Say, Poem is divided into two sections– the first, Say, Poem, is a larger, sort of stream of consciousness patter-type poem constructed around a series of other poems/prose pieces. The second section, Say, Joke, is a series of smaller poems in the form of ironic, off-center jokes.

The patter-type poem in Say, Poem takes the form of a poet’s monologue at a poetry reading– both interior and exterior, it seems, as in Say, Thank you–/Thank you–/Then say,/I’m not reading a single line/until I know how much/this is going to get me.

It’s an interesting concept, and got me thinking about context regarding poetry– how differently we see it depending on presentation, as at poetry readings, or what we may have heard beforehand about the poem or the poet. For instance, our appreciation of this particular poem can’t not be affected when it’s presented to us this way: Read the rest of this entry »

Like a string of diamonds

In Poetry, Prose, Travel on June 19, 2010 at 2:25 pm

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.


In Confessional, How to, Music on March 13, 2010 at 9:40 pm

Chinchilla is one of the most costly and fragile of furs, and is best suited to a brunette with a good complexion.

It’s upsetting.

Get out of the bullet

In Philosophy, Photography, Prose on February 24, 2010 at 8:46 am

The Dove
Djuna Barnes

THE DOVE: There are enough people preventing things, aren’t there?
VERA: Yes — that’s why you frighten me.
THE DOVE: Because I let everything go on, as far as it can go?
VERA: Yes, because you disturb nothing.
THE DOVE: I see.
VERA: You never meddle —
THE DOVE: No, I never meddle.
VERA: You don’t even observe as other people do, you don’t watch. Why, if I were to come up to you, wringing my hands saying, “Amelia has shot herself,” I don’t believe you would stand up.
THE DOVE: No, I don’t suppose I would, but I would do something for all that.
VERA: What?
THE DOVE: I should want to be very sure you wrung your hands as much as possible, and that Amelia had gotten all there was to get out of the bullet before she died.

“Any one for shoes”

In Art, Household, Photography on February 19, 2010 at 11:53 pm

Andy Warhol

Patches on my pants

In Confessional, Music, Prose on February 14, 2010 at 12:46 am

I wrote Niccolò Machiavelli Answers Questions Online Literary Magazines Ask Other Authors for for every year.

I hope to finish 3 very short stories by 5PM (EST) on the 17th for this Harvard Book Store thing.

I want to write something to submit to Titular. I like their concept, but I’m kind of intimidated by Krammer Abrahams.

I really love the blues.

Doll Fight

In Film, Hobby, Photography on January 30, 2010 at 8:31 pm

Vodpod videos no longer available.Some dolls.


In Drama, Poetry, Sex on January 23, 2010 at 6:46 pm

Submit to you —
could that be what you are saying?
the way ripples on the water
submit to an idling wing?

–Ono no Kamachi


In Celebrity, Film, Poetry on January 15, 2010 at 6:04 pm

Vodpod videos no longer available.

Margaret Watches The Misfits
Rebecca Loudon

It’s the way Marilyn’s mouth moves;
upper lip swabbing her teeth,
a constant undulation.
Her long breasts slope,
loose against the white blouse,
its little darts tucked
for women without breasts.

Margaret unravels the fringe
on her bedspread one braid at a time,
fanning the frizzed yarn.
In a year she has made it nearly half
way around. She sips port from a child’s
plastic cup, hair a brown scrub.
All that Nevada dust presses
into her clothes, pushing, insisting.

Clark Gable’s paunch sloops
under his cowboy shirt, new jeans
pulled up to his chest. Eli Wallach
pumps his fat, clumsy legs against
Marilyn’s ass. Margaret pours
another cup of port as they suck
at the blonde’s mouth, lift her
off the porch, their white arms
soft as bread.

The mustangs kick and jerk
at Margaret’s ribs. Hooves,
sharp blades, pummel her heart.
She curls fists against stomach,
dry hair wisping as she leans
toward the floor to smooth
the bedspread with her hands.

Shrunken heads

In Art, Film, Hobby on January 12, 2010 at 12:11 am

Vodpod videos no longer available.Trust the movie.