Tag Archives: Cathy Day

FOG of postcards and sublime slivers of glass

Holy fuck this is glow! Watch it. Drink Canadian whiskey and eat 114 oysters raw and wack-off (or don’t wack-off, whatever) and watch it. What a human. A golden humpbacked whale. A walking lighthouse of thorn-bushes and vodka bras and poetry. I love the man.

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A bird just flew into my window, but enough about me. Wearing ballet slippers to a funeral? I enjoy the feel of a half pint bottle in the back pocket of jeans, that smooth pressing. Wrist-bone, phone, sky. A boy carrying either a human head or a head of lettuce under his arm. Overpasses. Revision is more creative than the actual first draft. Is that true? Hot swatches on sun on the grass. Water the lawn only occasionally, but for long, long periods. Work habits. Dug out a tree, but have not replaced the tree. Big, empty spaces. Fuck. No, fuck you. No, fuck me. The treadmill is repaired! I keep running through my days. What are you running from, sir? That seems an empty and obvious question. The past is growing! Oh shit, that means the future is shrinking. It’s all, unfortunately, math. Staggering on spindly legs. Something like that.

[follow my command!]

The Fog is rolling in…

Review here:

The comparison to Stein is perhaps the highest praise I can offer for Fog Gorgeous Stag. The more I spend time with this new genre of Fog, the better I like it.

Review here:

Fog Gorgeous Stag is brilliant collage, unsentimental divergence, uncorked spilling and a lack of containment.

Review here:

At first read, one might mistake Sean Lovelace’s hybrid-prose poem collection Fog Gorgeous Stag to be a magical manual, a book which reads back the conscious of whatever the reader is looking for, through glowing light pages.

Two comparisons to Gertrude Stein. I’ll take that, though it is a bit like comparing a golden crow to a chalky lump of bird splatter (myself as the bird shit, obviously). So, anyway. If you like Stein, maybe purchase my book. Eh, eh?

[boom!]

I’m sort of into the work of Laurel Nakadate (two pics above)

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Went to a reading. Met cool people. Words all Gem bottles of Gin. Night a blur. Wish I could have talked to more of them, longer. Words all black-marketed moons. I mean to say, went/bent/went to a reading all Vouched-like, all hot glass tire service center, all sweet walking odor of tire, all sun off the windows like Ljosvallagata, all electronic sun, all Jesus Angel Garcia (dude’s on a huge-ass reading tour) rocking the Mr. Microphone, all words like fat slaps of friction,

[me and Jesus]

all religious comment on religion and shit, all barbaric sexual yawp, all Roxane Gay (she read a major glow story about anorexia bulimic fucking, etc.), words all oil barrels of light, all flickering halos, all FREE BEER, all free fucking IPA (thanks, Flat 12, I will be down there for some growlers soon), all Barry Graham (Monica Lewinsky crush), all Dogzplot in the house, all French fries and shards of hope, all trash fires of the pelvis, all words in ravines, words flying in the air like typhoids of sunlight, all grinding sunlight, all Matt Mullins (wicked poem here), all shadows and saw-blades, all

[Matt Mullins dropping words]

corned beef lickings of words, all Steve Himmer (we discussed garden gnomes and also I bought his book--I can tell it’s going to kick serious ass), all serpents and hermits, all  Micah Ling (She is not Asian or a man. She is a runner!–see you at a race maybe?), all word filets of crunchy telescopes, all FREE Lit Pub T-shirt, all Laura Adamczyk (interview here), all Jim Walker (Cool guy. I met him at the last Vouched reading.), all John Clark, all Jessica Dyer (uterus as muse?)

Let me tell you about the rat I keep in my uterus. He stores cotton balls, faux feathers, and little pink beads in me to make the perfect nest. I use these in my crafts. My uterus is squishy, and he has a fun time in there bouncing around and sometimes I have to bang on my belly to make him stop. It tickles but is awkward in public. He is quickened by cinnamon, and plays tricks on all my sphincters. I call him my pocket protector. In the mornings there are little rat marks on my thighs; somehow he gets out, but I always let him come home to my beaded plush cave. I would let you pet him, but he has claws and a tail like a real baby, even little milk teeth!

all Kevin McKelvey (I got this in-touch-with-the-earth feel. I guess I’m saying I’d like to fish and/or canoe with the guy.), all words as parachutes of mud, as echoes of golden barbed wire, all Layne Ransom (hell yes CHICKLITZ!),

[Layne all literary]

all Bryan Furuness (Bryan read an amazing piece about tubes, life as, etc.), all that’s a shit-load of readers at one reading but it did glow. I then went to a bar and ate fried green beans.

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Meg Pokrass with glow interview of Dan Choan.

How do you stay creative? What are your tricks to get “unstuck?”

Here’s one trick:  get really drunk or stoned and fall asleep weeping on your keyboard.  When you wake up,  magical elves will have come in the night and turned your bitter tears into words and paragraphs,  just like they made shoes for that shoemaker.

Actually, that doesn’t work most of the time, but I keep trying it.

Another trick,  this one somewhat less self-destructive,  was suggested to me by a teacher,  and has worked on occasion:  Make a list of 40-50 things that could potentially happen next in your story.  Don’t worry if they are boring,  or improbable,  or stupid.  Just make a list as quickly as possible.  Then take 5-10 of them,  and write one or two paragraphs for each one.   Somewhere in this process,  you are going to get unstuck.

Otherwise, I need to put the piece aside and start something new. I’ve never been at a loss for new material,  for whatever reason.  It’s never a problem to start something — finishing is always an issue.

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Speaking of Meg Pokrass, her flash fiction continues to blend my bones silver. To make me actually glow. This, from elimae, the opening of “Albino.”

I deserved an ample scolding. I watched the sunset with an albino. We went to a thrift store, and joked about trying on hats and getting lice. “Miami Lice,” he said. Was he safe? I hoped not. Was it scummy and frivolous to hang out? My birthstone was emerald, I told him, and his chlorinated eyes said, “Well, that makes you not-simpleminded.” We both laughed. An albino laugh. Watery veins stood out and his forehead looked like a stolen woodpile.

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Cathy Day blogs about Midnight in Paris. I am not going to read her post entirely because I am going to see the movie this week. Then I will read her post. Also I will tell you what I think. My thoughts now? Woody Allen used to make amazing, thoughtful, layered films. Then for a long, long time he made mediocre films. They depressed me with their earnest mediocrity. It made me sad. It made me feel like I was watching an aging Muhammad Ali get his ass kicked at the end of his career. I can’t watch that type of film, not from a genius like Allen. So. I am hoping. Hoping this film glows.

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I am thinking about running the Big Sur (a haven for writers) marathon. California. Ander Monson already signed up! I must join him! Shit. Well. OK. Thanks, Ander.

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Amie Barrodale story at The Paris Review. It has sex AND drugs. I mean what do you want?

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Joyelle McSweeney on Herzog and the Sublime. Wow. I think McSweeney is one of our most perceptive, intelligent writers. I pretty much will read anything she writes, as should you. I’d also like to add that Montevidayo is one ugly-ass blog site. I mean the design is clunky as hell. They might also want to hire a copy-editor. I’ve never seen such consistent misspelling errors. But I like the site. Trying to be constructive. Anyway, all that is their own business. The content is consistently good.

But this solipsistic notion—that man is the measure of man- is itself a loop, a folding, a self-saturation that begins to gesture at the hyperbolic over-saturation and collapse of humanist project or portrait in Herzog’s films, yielding something so irrational, beautiful, terrible, and certainly out of control that it is less like a portrait of a man and more like an inundation with the Sublime.

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I went to New York City and took many,many subway stops and walked, walked, walked, and found some nachos. These are grilled zuchinni and black bean and three cheeses. A solid 7.23 on THE LOVELACE SCALE OF GLOW NACHOS.They came from El Camion. Nacho review here.

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Peter Tieryas Liu brings it over at decomP. What I like here is the language, how he knows us flash writers must–must!!–understand the way of the poet, the Word.

I experience four cyclical deaths every day; lavatory, office politics, televised Internet, and dreamless sleep.

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[I swear to gods my book is cheesy. Order it here. ]

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A letter from Mary Hamilton.

Dear Wigleaf,

I noticed today that one leg is longer than the other. That’s a lie. It’s more like I am unevenly distributed. One knee is placed higher than the other. One calf is slightly bigger. One shoulder is lower. One boob is larger. My right ear is smaller and set farther back than my left ear. One eyebrow is shorter and thicker. My left eye is basically sitting on my temple. My belly button is not centrally placed. Don’t even get me started on my elbows.

The walls of my apartment are crooked, making measurements for an aspired-to new couch difficult.

I think you should know that I’ve grown three inches since high school and all of it is in my left forearm making pancake flipping a difficult balance.

Stay cool,
Mary

J oak maple cedar pine Achilles Lo

You’re right. Yes. I know. OK. OK. Jesus.

I haven’t slogged in a while. But there are reasons.

1. work.

I keep filling out forms. They slot me more forms. I fill it out, and there’s another form. Forms. Forms. Forms. Teeth of forms. Armpits of forms. Musty barn jackets of forms. You put the jacket on and someone slots you a musty barn jacket and says put it on. You put another jacket on, sort of bulky now, and someone slots you a musty barn jacket and says put it on and you put the jacket on, sort of hot and bulky and hot now, and someone slots you….Ah, balderdash. This is all I would like to say at this time about forms.

[speckled Canada goose]

2. injury

I am injured. My left Achilles heel is fucked. It is a brick, on fire. Here, hold this flaming brick. Now I can’t run the Purge of Knees. How long have I been training for it, looking forward to, imagining the possibility of flying up Mount Lemmon?

A long fucking time. Now I can’t. I can’t realize my goals and my left Achilles is a flaming brick. It’s like someone is treating my life like a little rock. Or they gave me this prize, this cool roses-of-gold prize, then took it away and said, “Psyche! Your life is just a little, bitty rock.”

[i could have been a weird itch of a man, but now…]

Do you know what a runner does when they can’t run? they don’t blog, folks. They spiral into depression is what they do. They don’t blog. You have to have some sense of human spark to blog. You can’t be down on that bottom grocery shelf with the dusty candles and the Kosher dills and that crumpled box of baking soda and the fucking dead cricket. You can’t be an embroidered lamb mitten found behind the refrigerator once you finally move your refrigerator (you had it 27 years and now, now it breaks! right before the party?!) and behind the refrigerator dust-balls big as your forehead and a steak knife and a book of matches and some pink pill (hey now!) and an embroidered lamb mitten from some kid, who knows what kid, some happy, distracted kid probably a sad adult now, probably sang like a fish under this very roof before you lived in the house, most likely.

[collaborate with myself]

ICE. IBUPROFEN. BEER. ACE BANDAGE. NEW SHOES? BEER. REST. FUCK ME.

Did you say, rest? A few minutes ago I ran a 5:42 mile to Lady Gaga.

Brick. FLAME.

3. internet

Thought my modem was blar but it was my router. Two weeks of being too busy to deal. Forms. Can’t use the internet at home. Now what? Shoot my bow I guess or sweep the floor or go fishing with Boy or bet on sports or wax my bow or wax myself (uh, no) or watch some TV show about the Titanic…

Did you know the Titanic came within 4 feet of hitting a huge ship on the very first seconds of its maiden voyage? I didn’t. I do now.

2,227 people on board.

Lifeboats for only 1,178 people.

OK.

Why in the hell would you want to recreate the Titanic voyage and then go and park above the sunk ship and stare down into the water, you sick douche bag tourists.

Comcast customer service woman # 1: Way too smart, professional, witty to be working her job. I kept wondering what she looked like. I mean I was attracted to a customer service professional over the phone. Weird. Anyway, we got disconnected and she was no actual help.

Comcast customer service woman # 2: OK, I was sort of a little gin parabola and I shouted at this woman. I don’t feel good about that. I want to be a better person. I apologize. She was no actual help.

Comcast customer service man # 1: This dude went on some insane rant about how all the kids today are being bullied at schools and that everyone needs to be armed all the time. He said kids need guns and to go outside more often. He was no actual help.

Air Station router dude: We talked so long that I got ear sweat. He seemed cool. Finally he said, “Well, we tried everything, so I think you’re screwed. Go buy a new router.”

He helped. I bought a new router. I have internet now.

4. someone in my family, not sure who, maybe my wife or maybe my kid, my dog, not sure, i need to pay attention more, but sometimes I don’t listen and start thinking about Boy George or something, and anyway, somebody had this in their fortune cookie:

FOR TRUE LOVE? SEND REAL ROSES PRESERVED IN 24kt GOLD!

WTF?

So that threw me off for two days, thinking on that fortune.

5. the new HTML GIANT.

Looks pretty rad, no?

6. all the cool shit…what cool shit?

Ok, I went to a musical, in a big-ass classroom. That was odd. It was The Circus in Winter, and based on Cathy Day’s book, The Circus in Winter.

I get to work with Cathy Day and that makes me glow.

Also I really dig this book. I am reading it right now and learning a lot. I like to learn while I read.

I glowed the musical, too.

Best part of the musical-in-a-giant-classroom was this young lady would blow a trumpet in your face every time they mentioned the elephant. Scared me once. Then twice. Then I got used to a trumpet in closed quarters.

BRRRUUUUUUUMMMMPPPPP.

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I went to a reading. Four readers.

1. Some student I have never heard of. I can’t remember what he read. I’m not even sure I was there.

2. Shanna Compton.

Shanna had the sniffles. I thought maybe she was on cocaine but she claimed a cold.

Here’s a glow article Shanna wrote about poet-bloggers.

Here is a Shanna poem.

3. Jennifer L. Knox

You know Chicken Bucket, right?

Chicken Bucket

Today I turn thirteen and quit the 4-H club for good.
I smoke way too much pot for that shit.
Besides, Mama lost the rabbit and both legs
from the hip down in Vegas.
What am I supposed to do? Pretend to have a rabbit?
Bring an empty cage to the fair and say,
His name’s REO Speedwagon and he weighs eight pounds ?
My teacher, Mr. Ortiz says, I’ll miss you, Cassie,
then he gives me a dime of free crank and we have sex.
I do up the crank with Mama and her boyfriend, Rick.
She throws me the keys to her wheelchair and says,
Baby, go get us a chicken bucket.
So I go and get us a chicken bucket.
On the way back to the trailer, I stop at Hardy’s liquor store.
I don’t want to look like a dork
carrying a chicken bucket into the store—
and even though Mama always says
Never leave chicken where someone could steal it—
I wrap my jacket around it and hide it
under the wheelchair in the parking lot.
I’ve got a fake ID says my name’s Sherry and I’m 22,
so I pick up a gallon of Montezuma Tequila,
a box of Whip-Its and four pornos.
Mama says, That Jerry Butler’s got a real wide dick.
But the whole time I’m in line, I’m thinking,
Please God let the chicken bucket be OK.
Please God let the chicken bucket be OK.
Please God let the chicken bucket be OK.
The guy behind me’s wearing a T-shirt
that says, Mustache Rides 10¢.
So I say, All I got’s a nickel.
He says, You’re cute,
so we go out to his van and have sex.
His dick’s OK, but I’ve seen wider.
We drink most of the tequila and I ask him,
Want a Whip-It?
He says, Fuck no—that shit rots your brain.
And when he says that, I feel kind of stupid
doing another one. But then I remember
what mama always told me:
Baby be your own person.
Well fuck yes.
So I do another Whip-It,
all by myself and it is great.
Suddenly it hits me—
Oh shit! the chicken bucket!
Sure enough, it’s gone.
Mama’s going to kill me.
Those motherfuckers even took my jacket.
I can’t buy a new chicken bucket
because I spent all the money at Hardy’s.
So I go back to the trailer, crouch outside
behind a bush, do all the Whip-Its,
puke on myself, roll in the dirt,
and throw open the screen door like a big empty wind.
Mama! Some Mexicans jumped me!
They got the chicken bucket,
plus the rest of the money!


I look around the trailer.
Someone’s taken all my old stuffed animals
and Barbies and torn them to pieces.
Fluff and arms and heads are all over the place.
I say someone did it,
but the only person around is Rick.
Mama is nowhere to be seen.
He cracks open another beer and says,
What chicken bucket?

Well, that was a long a time ago.
Rick and I got married
and we live in a trailer in Boron.
We don’t live in a trailer park though—
in fact there’s not another house around
for miles. But the baby keeps me
company. Rick says I’m becoming
quite a woman, and he’s going to let Mama know that
if we ever see her again.


4. Peter Davis.

I’ve seen Peter Davis many times now, and I keep glowing his Poetry Poetry Poetry poems.

Here.

Here.

Read them. Read the damn poems! You will feel like that moment, that moment right after statehood.

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Oh go disc golf on your flaming brick of a heel.

Here’s a blog I wrote about my recent Michigan D golf trip, but, really, who cares?

Much more interesting is this gentleman’s write-up of one of the courses, Cass Benton:

People, people, people. The term Casshole only scratches the surface. Deuchebag circus kind of covers it. From over-privileged kiddie punks to obnoxious adults to vagabond rapist-looking weirdos who seem to wander from time to time, there’ s a little of everything. Because this is where I started playing, I thought every course was like this, thank goodness that’s not the case. Plus, there’s always big groups of 10+ who sometimes lack common courtesy to let you play through. Luckily the course layout can allow you to skip around them with enough hustle.


I sort of love the term Douche Bag Circus…

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Katie Hartsock has:

1. a badass name.

2. a glow poem at Diagram, with whiskey cake recipe.

3. Another poem here.

Thank you for the words, Katie. Your words pull knees to chest and dunk like animals. Glow.