In case you missed the online hoopla, today was No Tell Motel's last day of publication. We closed out our 7+ years with a week of Jill Alexander Essbaum. I greatly appreciate the lovely comments from folks about the magazine's run. It means a great deal for the work to be acknowledged. Last week J.P. Dancing Bear interviewed me on WKUP where I discuseed closing No Tell Motel as well as my own poems. You can listen to the podcast here.
I envisioned this being a relaxing and joyous time for myself, but I've hardly had much time to revel. I am completely consumed by non-poetry events (for one, we're in the middle of selling our townhouse which has not gone as smoothly as we hoped, as well as getting ourselves properly set up in our new home, and on and on). I'm grateful that I have one less time-consuming responsibility because otherwise I might crack. I dream a lot about our houses (both the new one and the one we're selling), playing strange versions of Monopoly -- like today I dreamed that I landed on the space that took me to the DSW (designer shoe warehouse) website but am too overwhelmed to make a purchase. And there are references to Medusa and basilisks. It's true, just glancing over (or pondering) some things makes me feel like I'm going to instantly drop dead. I can't tell if these dreams are about real estate or are metaphors for writing or lord knows what else. Some days pretty much anything makes me want to fall over and die.
Speaking of death, in a non-metaphorical way, we recently had to put our 17 year old cat, Darla, to sleep. It was sudden and sort of unexpected, even though, yeah, she was really old. I dream a lot of Darla and also the (dream) dog that I promised G we'll get when he's older and more responsible. In the dream the large dog jumps right through the driver's side window and onto my lap. I instantly like the dog and want to keep it, but I'm worried that I can't handle the responsibility right now. He's here, but I don't feel ready. I take him back to my house to think about it. The house is a mess, there's a party going on, other dogs are running around, there's a pile of kabassi in the sink and all I'm wearing in a swimsuit. I keep asking Chris if we should turn the dog over to the police or if we should keep it. He's noncommittal. It's up to me. Gaaahh!
As I access my (waking) situation, there's not much more I can cut-out/pare down. I spent the last year letting go of what I no longer needed or wanted. Maybe this is as calm as it gets. Maybe it's time I make room for that (dream) dog.
Sorry, G, the (waking) doggie still has to wait a couple years until you're old enough to shovel poop.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
This poem has a coherent message, this poem works all night long, this poems shaves its armpits, me so spondee esta blingaWHAT? Now this poem has your attention. Only the little people use linebreaks. This poem deserves the whole page and shouldn't have to share with freeloaders like you. This poem lets you eat bukkake. This poem has an amazing bukkake collection that costs more than you make in ten years because you're pathetic and weak. Where would you be without this poem? Living in a mud hut bartering with toejams, that's where. Toe cheese, it's what's for dinner without this poem. This poem is a trickle down cream of steam, here's your taste, lick this poem's ankle drippings. There, now get off welfare and cream yourself for once. Unlike you, this poem lives in reality. This poem doesn't have time to sit around hooting on bongos crapping out its ass while living in a lollipop garden. This poem bathes, ok? This poem would rather die than assist your cancer-ridden sphincter. This poem doesn't have time for a sphincter because it's busy running its Subway francise and has six children it liked better when they were fetuses. You can't keep up with this poem, oh no you can't. This poem has a work ethic. And God on its side. This poem is better than you. This poem has a tiger cream sandwich to sell you for the low price of $4.99. This poem thinks you're fat. This poem suggests you make a few more trips to the salad bar and lipo your flabby sphincter. Don't worry, this poem doesn't want to lay its hands on your uterus cause you real ugly! This poem is all business. This poem doesn't need elitist verbs because that's Ivy league socialism. You need this poem. You need to do something with your life and stop hating on this poem. Stop making poem warfare. Go back to the kitchen and deepfry this poem a corndog. This poem just trademarked "corndog." Corndogs would not exist without this poem. Suck this poem's sourdough while you're at it. This poem has had just enough of your complaining. Don't be jealous of this poem for smelling better than you. If you weren't spending your nights in the kitchen deep frying corndogs, maybe someone would want to fuck you. If God didn't want this poem to be in charge, he wouldn't have printed it on a white page. God made this poem in his image and doesn't know where the hell you came from. Jesus loves this poem more than he loves you. Jesus hates it when you're shrill. You make Jesus sick. Jesus wants you to pull yourself up from your bootstraps and remember that you're in America, not Norway. Jesus wishes you were more like this poem. When this poem created God and Jesus, they wept with gratitude, unlike you. This poem wonders why you can't be more like God and Jesus. You cry like a hyena getting a bikini wax while being smacked in the face with a big fluffy bukkake. This poem keeps saying "bukkake" because it distracts you from your sad life. This poem is looking at the poem in the mirror and doesn't see what is your problem. You need to remember this poem is sensitive and has feelings and what you're saying is really hurtful. Your needs are a threat to this poem's standard of living. This poem is gonna count to three and if you don't disperse it's gonna use the security force to bukkake spray your ridiculous corneas into corndogs. Bukkake! You're welcome.