Archive for May, 2013


May 14, 2013

Lacenaire’s Hand

Words of eloquence have been lost.

(Rene Char)

Languages in which Jehovah’s Witness Publications Are Published

May 13, 2013

Afrikaans, Albanian, Amharic, Arabic, Armenian, Bislama, Bulgarian, Cebuano, Chichewa, Chinese (simplified, traditional, and Mandarin, only audio), Chitonga, Cibemba, Croatian, Czech, Danish, Dutch, English, Estonian, Ewe, Fijian, Finnish, French, Georgian, German, Greek, Gujarati, Hebrew, Hiligaynon, Hindi, Hungarian, Icelandic, Igbo, Iloka, Indonesian, Italian, Japanese, Kannada, Kinyarwanda, Kirghiz, Kirundi, Korean, Latvian, Lingala, Lithuanian, Macedonian, Malagasy, Malayalam, Maltese, Myanmar, Norwegian, Polish, Portuguese, Punjabi, Rarotongan, Romanian, Russian, Samoan, Sepedi, Serbian, Sesotho, Shona, Silozi, Sinhala, Slovak, Slovenian, Spanish, Swahili, Swedish, Tagalog, Tamil, Thai, Tok Pisin, Tongan, Tsonga, Tswana, Turkish, Twi, Ukranian, Urdu, Vietnamese, Xhosa, Yoruba, Zulu


May 12, 2013

In kindergarten, my friends and I used to play a game with the globe in our classroom.  We would put our finger on it and spin it around really quickly, and wherever our finger landed when the globe stopped spinning was where we would live.  I did a similar thing, tonight, while having insomnia, and playing with my full-length e-text of The Bell Jar.

“From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out.”

I was only allowed one paragraph.

RIP Taylor Mead

May 10, 2013

My colleague HW and I had only one epic night with Mr. Mead at the Bowery Poetry Club.  During the course of this evening, he threw pieces of paper with his poetry written on it into the audience, and then afterward told us about how many pills he took while his shaky hands lightly held a glass of whisky.  (We drank his floater after he left, holding the arm of his babysitter.)  We had always planned to go back and watch the Taylor Mead Show again, but we didn’t move fast enough, because Mead passed away yesterday.  While Googling him, I was surprised that so few of his poems are posted on the web.  Below is the transcription of “Thing & Dirty”… although it may not be totally accurate, because I based it on this audio recording, in which Mead sounds, well, like he’s done too much Vicodin.  (Also, NSFW!)

Rest in peace, little man.

A garden is a shithouse fooby (?)
A locker up your asshole, cutie

I love you, you prick ass baby

Shit on a ticket and knock her through your wicket

or kick it, yeah, babydoll

mother fuck cock, cock

yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

(Musical interlude)
I want to lick his ass


(Musical interlude)
I’ll suck his nipples

around his nipples

under his arms

down his middle around his stomach

his bellybutton

the hair below it to the great thing between his legs

(musical interlude)
On top of it, soft, around

down, a chasm between the mountains point, flesh

round, deep into my throat

down, slowly, too far away


“Take it bitch”
“I can’t breathe!”
“Take it!  Swallow.”

Roll over on my stomach, the great thing dribbles down my back

(Musical interlude)
Gradually finds my buttocks and into them plunges

Slippery slip it

Gradually artistically lubricatingly

ecstatically slowly plunges into my hot whole lips

(musical interlude)
His hands surround my breasts

his lips and nape

his tongue licks thickly

my nape of neck

and hair

a charge suffuses me

(musical interlude)


(musical interlude)
he grips tighter, warmer

his arm muscles flex out against the pressure

he puts on me

oh, and up, over

he throbs on me

for a time his arm slipped down around my middle

his buttocks working greatly

(musical interlude)
his hands on my cock and balls

(musical interlude)

up all over and squeeze

(musical interlude)
my stomach, my sides, ow!

(musical interlude)

still he goes

rolling around, down, away

we tie forever each other

oozingly, graciously, fleshly to eternity

(musical interlude)

Overheard Recently

May 9, 2013

@ Franny’s Brooklyn: “He’s becoming really respected in the Syrian civil war.”

On the 6th train: “I thought we were talking about meatloaf.  How did this become about the Aryan Nation?”

Adventures in Real Estate, Part One Million

May 7, 2013

Subtitle: Why not just end it all now?
A realtor sent me a listing that included no pictures.  I Google Street-Viewed the building, and got the below result.

As the guy who blogs at This Isn't Happiness would say, "Knock loud, I'm home."

As the guy who blogs at This Isn’t Happiness would say, “Knock loud, I’m home.”


May 6, 2013

I got a submission at the company where I work.  The writer proposes a book for middle-grade readers (8 to 13 years) about French lacemakers.  “In 17th century France,” she writes,”The availability of gold for the garments of the king’s court was replaced with lace created by young girls who were skilled in the art.”

This good idea reminds me of a book I loved as a child about young girls who worked in the wool factories up in Massachusetts.  The girls gossiped, fretted about boys, and fell out with friends. Basically it was like Sweet Valley High but with child labor.  Unfortunately, this query letter is completely incoherent, so I’m posting this and asking someone to steal this idea and run with it.

Some Things

May 5, 2013

Just a couple of things I thought I ought to tell you today:

1. I had a nightmare that I was wearing pants in Borough Park and all the ladies were looking at me aghast.

2. I rode the bus next to a young man today who was telling someone on the phone about his friend who “runs an organic underwear washing business.”

3. I realize I missed a huge professional opportunity while reading The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath.  “[This] text is a an exact transcription of twenty-three original manuscripts in the Sylvia Plath Collection at Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts.”  Granted, I was probably too young when this operation was going on, but let it be known that if there are handwritten journals of other poets who committed suicide out there that need to be typed up, I’m your woman.


May 4, 2013

When I was in college, I was far more glamorous than I am now, which is to say I spent my parents’ money freely on baubles and fur shrugs and went to parties downtown at Bungalow 8 and other places that used to be cool.  I also interned at the most famous fashion magazine in the world, and I would stumble into work on Friday mornings wearing last night’s make-up and dark green wedge heels and proceed to romp around the closet and order messengers most of the day.  While there, I became friendly with my boss, who was close with the jewelry designer Lulu Frost, aka Lisa Salzer.  Lisa was making these necklaces out of the numbers from the doors at the Plaza Hotel, which at this point had just been sold.  I had a huge friend crush on Lisa and went to visit her studio, and she, in recompense for my affection, sold me a Plaza number necklace at a discount price.  And today I was wandering around the interwebs looking at jewelry in a moment of intellectual laziness and came across Lulu’s website and OH MY G-D I should have stayed friends with her and tried to snatch something from her “Let’s Bring Back” collection, such as this necklace made of eyes.



It occurs to me that this is at least the second post I’ve written about ocular necklaces, and at least the third about necklaces designed to look like human body parts.  I would have made a great voodoo priestess.


May 3, 2013

Someone I consider a good friend (but I’ve never met him IRL) told me he wrote a blurb for a children’s counting book called Happy Punks 1 2 3 and I couldn’t resist picking it up for… well, anyone I know who has a kid, although I’m quite content to keep it for myself if no one else is interested. Basically the book follows a motley crew of weirdos as they go about advertising their rock show, eating pizza pre-show and then performing. It’s pretty tame for punks (no dragon-chasing involved) but perfect for hipster bebes!  (Apparently the authors also have made Happy Punk paper dolls.)

Hanging posters at the thrift store.

Hanging posters at the thrift store.