Tag Archives: Juked

Velveeta Damn it!!

I am writing only about Velveeta for the remainder of 2011. Example:

Velveeta, 3 Snapshots

1.

Clouds. 7 Leaves plastered upon

a yellow wheel

barrow

lower back tattoo

stretched by hunger.

 

2.

Where do we put the beer?

Crisper emptied of plums

flung into ceiling fan.

Red crock-pot on Bobby’s head.

Hair drips like eels

lifted from a glazed sea

of RO*TEL.

 

3.

Whirling micro waves

swarm the air.

The apparition of a spoon.

Who double-dipped

their tranquility?

On the beads of the bowl

TV glitters.

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Here is another at Juked.

I thank you glossily,

S

Jennifer Lopez Foot Lasagna Greg

I wrote a story about an old man who likes to kick things. I then swept out my tool shed and I ate lasagna and fed my leftover lasagna to the creek today. I tossed it into one of the deeper pools. The creek runs through my property, along the woods, runs and gurgles and brains the air. The creek goes shattered jar in the sun, a beautiful thing. I love the creek. Water makes me glow. I have a chair next to the creek and I like to sit in the chair and read and drink beer and listen to the creek guffawing at how it was here before me and will laugh eons on after I am dead.

But how did the creek respond to my lasagna?

* Crawdads went after the large noodles. One of my favorite crawdads, a large blue one I have named Diane, bullied many of the younger ones, often approaching and ripping a lasagna noodle from their claws. I have noticed small crawdads will pursue a larger one to (I guess?) try to get the food back, but once they get close they never really try. They are just like, “I’m going to get my food back! I’m not scared.” Then they approach the reality of the situation and freeze.

* The smallmouth bass preferred the cheese (a mix of ricotta, mozzarella, sprinkling of Parmesan). They darted in on silver shadows and plucked the cheese away, then whisked back into mossy under-hangs.

* The small sunfish mostly went after the tofu sausage.

* All animals ignored the fennel seeds.

* I saw one small yellow crawdad pick at a leaf of basil, but it then moved on to a large noodle.

* An unknown minnow picked at both the onion and slivers of garlic. It was having trouble holding itself in the current. A smallmouth bass then darted out and swallowed the minnow. Bam. Knife flash. So I basically baited a minnow into deeper water with my Italian seasonings. There it died.

* Only the river rocks took the parsley.

* Ditto the crushed tomatoes.

* The salt returned to the earth.

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This is how I drive a disc:

This is how Ander Monson drives a disc. He has a new book/site (he always has a new book/site!). Go read it and explode.

Damn. Pretty awesome follow-through, like he’s about to fly away. I would tell you more about my weekend playing disc golf in Wisconsin, but you would be bored liked corn and squash.

So.

This is how Mark Neely drives a disc!! You can find a new wicked Neely poem at Juked.

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If you know much about my writing, you know I have a “Drug Series.”

Example, Cocaine.

So. Here is Psilocybin over at Metazen.

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Rose Metal Press has an interview here, and they mention Eggs won a design award.

Holy shit. Very cool. If you want to buy Eggs, go click that link up top right and read some flash fiction or something, yo. Yo.

[I feel like a paper bag right now.]

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New Word Riot, motherfuckers!! I myself enjoyed:

1. Desire Cafe Sutra by John Kuligowski because it was Beat as hell, and John says he is a boring guy.

2. The Beige Futon by Greg Gerke.

This flash fiction fucking rocks. Check out this little smidgen:

Sitting in the subway, he laughed aloud and a man with a picture of a taco on his shirt didn’t seem too happy and he thought, Why can’t I laugh on the fucking subway? The one time I do a massive soft shell of guilt envelops me? So he closed his eyes and went back to the first moments, but the moments had changed. He was alone with their futon and it was dark and rainy.

That’s how you’re supposed to do it. Scene to action to physical now to trigger to thought to flashback. Pay attention all you psychos who say you want to write. Here’s a technique for you. Read it ten times or stop trying/whining.

her saying she’d still love him forever though she was leaving him for someone less neurotic.

Oh man, situation and characterization. I’ll be teaching this one to the kiddies in the fall, and that means I like/like/like it, and it’s also lame for me to say so, because I am so academia, no? No. I liked it first because it moved me. I liked it 8 more times for the same reason. I liked it the 9th and 10th time because this flash fiction is technical as a green Cadillac and I will drive it all over my students’ desks and times and haircuts and lollygags of structural play/room/lives.

3. Peter Schwartz interview.

This collection took me a few years to write. During that time I spent most of my time in my room. I had no real (meaning not just online or voice) relationships and sunk into the loneliness that comes from being that alone. There’s also the fact that I’m a bit haunted (see: ‘ABCs of loss’) but the truth is that my astronaut training program is simply not complete. You were right, sometimes I am beaten, but I think ultimately I will overcome this shit.

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I like to mow the yard. I like to see the grass fall in lines. To see a thing done. Sometime I feel black horses at my back, like alongside or gaining, but I have never heard their hooves while mowing the yard. So that’s something.

S

casserole

Washtenaw County Women’s Poetry Collective and Casserole Society sent me a book of poetry and it blew me away. I review it over at HTML.

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Here’s a new flash fiction at Literary Buffalo. It includes disc golf. Hollar!

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I wrote about the World Cup at Juked.

I will miss the World Cup. especial on HD TV. I think HD was made for soccer. Glow green glow. I will not miss the whiny players who roll around in fake grimaces/grabs at knees/silly scowls and I will not miss the Vuvuzela (OK, maybe  a little), but I learned a lot watching the game this year, a bit more about spacing and flow and off-sides and also I enjoy the clock not stopping, no commercials, game rolling on like diet 7-UPs of nitrogen flowers/rain. I like to watch Brazil play. Also the U.S. You watch and think, “American soccer a little clunky, herky-jerky. Brazilian soccer flow.” Oh, and the Brazilian players are better, even I can see that.

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Mud Luscious 12 is here. I’m in there will something about rain.

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A reporter writes an article about a man yelling about nachos.

The Distracted Housewife suggests nachos.

Microwave nacho recipe.

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Ace 814 Decent 5k Pancake Short Stories Creative Nonfiction Man Bitch Story

Holy Shit Creative Nonfiction is arguing that blog is indeed a genre of CNF. I agree.

Holy shit they are trying to find the glow/glow blog. It’s  a big ol’ contest.

And the finalists are…

American Stories NOW

Angie Muresan

Charlie’s Chatter

First Person

From SoHo to Silo

Here and Far
Incidents and Accidents
Life in a Northern Town
Life Under A Rock
NGM Blog Central
Perceptive Travel
ResidentAlien
Sean Blog
She Sells Seashells
Somnambulist Zine
Terribleminds
The Silhouette
The Ugly Truth

ZYZZYVASPEAKS

That’s right, this very blog is a finalist. The others have cooler names, I feel, and now I have a lot of blog reading to do. Haven’t heard of some of these…but I will.

Hey, you, reader:

Do something lucky. Paint your door with an egg. Embrace gruffness. Scratch the top of your car ceiling. Try to avoid salt, I dare you, I mean avoid its very essence. Carve a tiny door into an egg. Tie a rubber band around your ears. Siphon off all your ability and place it into a capsule and feed a tiny bird the capsule. Throw a full bottle of Lorrie Moore at a gymnasium. Cross your fingers and kiss your wife and boyfriend at midnight. (You don’t have a boyfriend or a wife?–my email is right up there.) Eat ham hocks, collard greens, patches of hair, whipped hair, donuts, oversized comic book covers, Merton Lee, and nachos.  Remove the roof of your house. Fill your bathtub half full of water and drop a silver coin into it. Position the tub so that the light from the moon shines into the water. Gently sweep your hands just above the surface, symbolically gathering the Moon’s silver. Shoot an arrow into the house of your mailman. Hit a car with your dog. Blubber dryly–try to. Bake your cellphone into the center of a cake. When the phone rings, go fishing. Snort a crushed dream. Snort algae. Snort me. Kill a rabbit and chew off its foot and attach the bloody foot to your key chain. Slide your naked body over freshly cut grass. Take a photo of your photo self. Set all of your work on the east coast. Hold your breath when you pass Cracker Barrel. Take a green candle; dip it into some orange juice then light it.  Jump over the candle saying:

Blog, blog, dippety snog,
Now I feel like beery fog…

(Drink 14 beers)

Whatever.

What do I do for luck?

Holy shit I tie my hair off the side like that girl in Napoleon Dynamite

she be weird/cute

cute/weird

and I put on some underwear and a nice shirt and make my 814th ace and set my basket on fire, on fire, my lovelies, oh my, oh my, I feel like a flower blooming atop a gutter, you know, when you have not cleaned out the gutters and the plants trickle up, a little contrast, house and flora, man and nature…I dedicate this ace to vegetarian burgers and the Coast Guard.

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Are you a Hollerado fan? You should be, I suppose. Why? They throw nacho parties!

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Holy skull-rattle. Have you read “Man Bitch” by Craig Snyder over at Juked?

Man Bitch meets the girl with large shoulders outside Krispy Kreme donuts, in sunshine.  They talk and wait for the bus together standing 16 inches apart, with variations up to 24 inches.  Man Bitch notices the large shoulders and likes them.  Feelings of fullness, 33% manliness, and the idea he may be completely fucked, are generated in the Man Bitch brain.  Man Bitch starts to feel like he is on heroin or something and is going to die, but he doesn’t.  He has the sensation of becoming a large vibrating egg.  He smokes nervously and wishes he were taller.

You just read that opening and I know you want more. Go ahead, click the link and read more.

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Ran a 5k last Saturday. It was held to raise $$ for cancer and both my parents have dealt with the big C and so I usually jump into races like that and I drove down there now, there now to New Castle (I like towns named after beers and beers named after towns) and I sat in the car all waiting for the race, all waiting, and what do I do when waiting, like dentist office, oil change, sitting in car??

1. Play my brother in iPhone chess. He has pretty much beat my ass and it makes me madly. I used to kick dino-ass in chess. My only excuse is I prefer an actual board, not a flat screen, but that is possibly a lame excuse. The fact is I have been losing in chess.

2. Drink coffee. (5k tip for you freak-os: many studies have shown that caffeine will improve your race performance.)

3. Read.

What’s that perched atop my 5k gear?

It is Trilobites & Other Stories by Breece d’j Pancake.

What do I think/know?

1. Cool name. The name was a typo by The Atlantic and Breece decided to clutch. This shows you a bit about his personality. He’s keen enough to not take himself that seriously, and when he sees serendipity, he snags it…I mean it is a glow name. You’re going to drink a beer with a guy named Breece d’j Pancake.

2. He can write, let’s make that clear. I mean on the sentence level. You can feel him whittling the sentence out of basswood or pine.

A gray ooze of light began to crest the eastern hills above the hollow and sift a blue haze through the black bowels of linking oak branches.

3. These stories are his only ones. He didn’t write many. Why? Because he carefully worked/chiseled/crafted his fiction. And he killed himself at age 26.

4. With just a bit of research, I immediately found that we (readers, critics, etc.) are to believe Pancake’s stories are holy, are whispered of, are the real deal, a flame too soon extinguished, a real man of American letters. His work is revered, usually by those who write realism themselves and most likely because he is very skilled (also the suicide).

5. I found the stories uneven. Almost all are good, OK, no doubt, but “Trilobites” and “First Day of Winter” (the first and last in the collection) are superior–perfect realism grounded in place, the voices spot on, the pacing, the atmosphere of fatalistic sadness, the individual caught in the reality of a larger, lower world. Two stories (“Hollow” and “The Salvation of Me”) came across a bit sloppy, a bit forced, both in situation and characterization.

[“Hollow” does do an excellent job of using the jargon/terminology of coal mining to poetic effect: seam, glitter, clam crawl,  light-flash, bloom pile, “bucket tin buckled” ]

One of my favorites was actually a creepy, semi-mystery story: “Time and Again.” It’s the sort of trick story my students always try to pull off–the Ah-ha! Well, Pancake unfolds it expertly, and it shows his understanding of structure and craft. Edgar Allen Poe would have glowed this story.

6. If you’re going write fiction, you should read this book. You should know it, I mean. A fiction writer doesn’t need to glow all the previous authors, but she does need to KNOW them: Chekhov, O’ Connor, etc. Have them in your quiver. Pancake’s is a certain genre of fiction–soaked in place, shrouded in coal dust and hollers and runover snakes and 10 cent coffee and the screams of truck gears grinding. It has the loner protagonist in it (a genre all itself).

7. Two Pancake techniques I most enjoyed:

* Pancake often liked to open with a natural setting, usually juxtaposed to his character, their mind and situation:

Alena stepped under the awning of the Tastee Freeze and looked out at rain draining into the dust, splattering craters with little clouds. When it stopped, cars hissed along the highway in whorls of mist.

The roads curve tight, but around them is a sort of scar of clay, and the leaves have a purplish blight.

Now he could see the first blue blur of morning growing behind bare tree branches, and beyond them the shadows of the farm.

* Second, he does this cool thing where the writing eye jumps to an animal. The lens leaves our human characters and wonder/wanders off into the forest, the glen, the roadside shrubbery. I found this fascinating, the way Breece nods his head to nature, to its role, to its presence and destruction (most of these stories set in coal country). So many writers leave our fellow animals out. Breece knew them well and reminded me of Faulkner and his horses (Go read all of Faulkner and count the horses).

The opossum lay quietly by the roadside. She had found no dead farm animals in which to build her winter den; not even a fine empty hole.

Two miles beyond, an owl watched a meadow from the branches of a dead hickory tree. Hidden in the underbrush, the fox watched the owl and the meadow.

So, read Breece d’j Pancake. I did. Then I went and ran my 5k in 17: 57, for fifth overall, and to win my age division…

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I just did 142 pushups. Time to broil some corn tortillas.

S

Broken Plate Collagist Juked Run 2 Far Now.

The Broken Plate class I am teaching is working hard, and the submissions are rolling in. That’s how we like it. Check our new ad at HTML Giant. The ad looks like this:

Ad

Please do submit!

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The new Collagist is out. I think i was born for this magazine because I keep writing collage pieces. I juxtapose like a goat wearing a fucking tire.

I have a short piece about nursing in an ER. As some may know, I am a registered nurse, with expired licenses in Arizona, Tennessee, Alabama, Colorado. They are expired because I am not actively working as a nurse right now. If I paid X number of dollars I would be an active registered nurse again, but I have another job as a professor of English now, so I don’t think I will pay X number of dollars. Life’s weird that way.

In this issue I most enjoyed the Adderall Diaries excerpt by Stephen Elliot. I’m going to dig his book, I can tell. This particular piece has a collage reference within the actual piece in The Collagist, so kinda clever that way.

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I have a new piece in Juked. I love Juked and enjoy nothing more than drinking a few ales and surfing Juked for hours, just taking in all the sweet vibes. So many exciting artists. Also I finally get to use the tree. I have this tree in my backyard that sheds about 1,000 pounds of apples each spring and I am happy I could work that tree into my fiction. I am sick of that damn tree. I have to pick up the apples and hit them with my kid’s plastic baseball bat and launch the apples over my creek and into the forest. Admittedly, that’s sort of fun, but gets old. Then I run over the apples with my lawnmower and they all turn to fermented mush and this mush smells sickly sweet and attracts yellow jackets, bees, and brown snakes. Not sure why the snakes like the mush, but they do. I eat the apples, too, but they are usually bitter and hard. Life’s weird that way.

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Speaking oh HTML Giant, they had this up today. This is a little ridiculous–as in so damn good.

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I am tapering now for the marathon. Tapering is key to any race, but I don’t like it much. You can’t really exercise, so feel bloated and always gain a few pounds (since you aren’t burning the usual calories). Well, only two days away, so. I think it will be interesting to run a marathon on a military base, so feel excited and anxious (anyway, my usual state before a long race).

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Rauschenberg_Monogram

S