last night

last night i dreamt that i married two packs of gum.

i was worried that marrying both packs would be like adultery or polygamy, but the clergyman performing the ceremony said it was okay as long as they were both trident.

"sometimes you got to have a different flavor!" he said.

they were berry and mint.


does anyone know who this artist is?

i tore this out of a brochure a few years ago and now i don't know who the photographer is and i really want to know. it was an exhibit at the art institute of chicago. i think the artist is japanese. but maybe not. does anyone know?


what we were like before

i was messed up before this
i came to the hospital on a float
i had metal binges. i tried to eat my car.

everyday i decided to quit. i threw out all of the cutlery,
nails, kitchen appliances, etc.
i looked for the nearest parade

the man that ate an airplane was not
an overachiever.
he was mentally ill.


something wasn't right

when i woke up i couldn't see my arm.
i felt startled. i felt like the time
i showed up to an empty tent revival.
or the time i woke up and i couldn't see
my leg.


the stranger

i woke up to find my husband had been replaced
with an unrelated man.

someone called, i said.
"who was it?" the stranger replied.

i am not sure if someone
really called. it was late evening i think.

i think this phone is not
my phone. probably we are on a different continent.

i am going to dye my hair, i said.
"i have taken all of the knives from the bathroom,"

the stranger replied. i feel like giving up.
i am going to watch television.


poems are evaporating

the issue of we heart four things that shane jones did featuring me, blake butler, brian foley and zachary schomburg evaporated from the internet. i'm not sure why. does this mean i can send those poems to someone else? i don't think so. here, i will just put them right here. no one reads poems on the internet anyway.

yes or something like wow

i haven't been waiting for you to come back.
i mean, i know what is taking so long.
you have been reincarnated into scrap metal.
it's not something you should feel bad about.
i don't feel bad. well, i mean
i saw a thing about this girl that eats staples.
she finds them in the carpet. she can't stop
from putting them in her mouth.
she says her favorite food is pizza.
i think she forgets about her passionate
metal eating. like, totally forgets it.
she really thinks it's pizza that she wants.

so i know why you've been away.
something shiny or like,
heavy maybe.
something like yes or maybe wow

three weeks later

i tried writing him twice.
my hands turned to glass and
he chewed them. i remember

when he was a constant.
we fell in love while watching television,
then he ate it.

i tried writing him but so much
blankness. i couldn't feel
my mind i was floating.

i forgot the difference between him
and his twin. i saw his
face in the street and it didn't know me.

i had to smash it with my teeth,
everything went soft.
three weeks later he ate a robot.


the missing eye

i worry about how much a disease will cost. the first time i saw a picture of robert creeley i thought of my cat.
this is because of the missing eye.

when i hear the word "frequency" i think of all of the tumors in my body shaking at the same pitch.
today i thought "there will be a moment when i will only have three and a half minutes left."

i wished we were lying down together in a room that was blue and quiet. i felt the cat jump
on the bed even though he died a while ago.

i thought of the words "cat ghost" and then "hallucination" and "mental break." and then i thought
"in our century we have learned not to fear words."

i saw a doctor about it. except i changed the word "cat" to "faucet" and the words "jumped on the bed" to "i heard the water running."
he said "it happened, you are sad." and then i had to pay a fee.

i tried to get another cat but i kept thinking "cat death."
i closed my left eye and thought "this is how things are now."

sometimes i think if i hear "frequency" again i will start speaking french. i will have caught foreign language syndrome from the word "frequency." it would be ok because instead of thinking "cat death" i would think "chat mort."


the future blah blah

matthew savoca made a video poem and it's on here explodes my giant face and also it's right here. watch it, it's good.

blah future blah from matthew savoca on Vimeo.


i would like someone to look at me blankly and then say "chickens."

has everyone been reading sean lovelace's literary battles? i don't know how anyone can achieve this level of wit and chaos. i suspect cocaine. he 'interviewed' jewel for bloggers on bloggers day. also, he is very dedicated to nachos and frisby golf. is that what they call it? i don't know, he is awesome.

tao lin vs. william carlos williams in an epic battle of irritation
jesus christ vs. kim chinquee in a flash fiction match!


yellow circles of light

when it's hot my stomach hurts and i miss henry. henry is a person i have never met. i don't know how i can miss someone i don't know or i could feel so much. henry is like a coke bottle in the parade of auschwitz. i feel so much despair. everywhere i turn there is an animal in a cage.

when i have a problem i buy a red heart purse and spit into it until it is full. then i throw the purse on the subway tracks. the heart gets run over and i feel my chest inflate. every person is full of problems and spit and sometimes people are bad. or maybe there is a kind of badness that is like a bacteria and some people get infected with it but it's not their fault any more than getting the bacteria that causes stomach ulcers. this happened to my grandmother.

i like yellow circles of light and the shadows they make. when i am alone i miss henry so much my chest sinks down through the couch. i find myself chewing on a coke bottle and then i think, "remember how you are not supposed to be doing this." i can feel the glass in my chest. i don't want to do the dishes if henry isn't here. when i go home there is always a small animal waiting for me in the corner.


i want to know you

i love speaking french and listening to albums in the sun.
what are your favorite things. what kind of teeth grow
on your back porch. i want to know everything.

when you were growing up did your grandmother heat
the furniture? mine did. there were always fires
lit under the couch. the cat wore a helmet.

i want to know things about you so that i can feel
that i know you and that there is a you.
i am against the idea of a decentralized self.

for example, when i was in haiti i discovered beach balls.
this is a clear memory. if i was holding the beach ball
then there is a me to hold the ball and to remember holding the ball.

see. you know what i am saying. i love your brown hair.
you feel like email to me. i could lay down inside your long
sentences. i am always waiting for more from you.

i like it when the sunlight refracts off your eyebrows.
your eyebrows are like dark flames lighting your forehead.
i want to know every fire you have ever lit

and every house you have ever haunted.
do you have the internet in your pinkie?
i heard this about you. every time i sit down

i feel the internet coming up my legs.
it is a sensational feeling. do you have feeling
in your legs? see, i want to know everything.

tell me if you feel your feet. tell me how much sadness
there is in your body and where it is located.
tell me if your hands ever spark at night.

i want to know everything about you.
what kinds of trees appear in your dreams
and what whale is beached in your room when you wake.


i listened to this song 8 times

Valentines Day - Palace Music

i am going to start posting songs that i listen to excessively. they will probably all be by will oldham. you are going to think i am boring and not cool. all of this will happen.


"where i am the sky/is not. away"

i read the latest issue of fence at a bookstore the other day and i really liked this poem by michael comstock. the title is "LOVE, YR EXILED SON" and i said to my friend, gah why do writers do that 'yr' thing. i don't get it. is it some kind of club? like oooo i'm so cool, i've read robert creeley, i'm going to spell things like him. and then i read it and realized it was actually referring to text message language, and also that the poem is awesome. and also that possibly i am not very educated because i still don't know why writers do that robert creeley thing.


loved it, ate it

i wrote a "review" of blake butler's book 'pretend i am there but very little' on venom literati. you should read it. it is important.


"i used to use mousse in my hair. that was when i liked good charlotte."

brandon scott gorrell did a funny interview with matthew savoca. it is mostly about hair.

sometimes i call him brandon scott etc. instead of brandon scott gorrell because i feel tired and confused by the end of his name. i hope he likes this is and is not insulted. i have never spoken to him so he may not appreciate me having a nickname for him already. it is not 'appropriate.' whatever.

i got sick just now at target. twice actually. then i took a cab home and now i feel shaky. the cab driver was not a safe driver. i should not go to target anymore.


"i saw the pillow and i had to eat it"

i have been writing about people that eat metal lately and i feel like the video i just posted on venom literati should be a part of my people eating metal book. watch it watch it watch it.


i feel like this right now

sometimes when on fire i say,
“someone should answer the phone” and
“i am not going to answer the phone.”
then i hear a woman yelling.

i am not going to serve copper pennies
at dinner. i feel calm and then i feel wrenched.
i feel like i am the refrigerator and you are the window.
it is only today that i learned what a fire axe is.

what if you had a yellow orb of light for a head.
i would very much like going to sleep with you.
oh can we go to sleep? i have been waiting
for permission to break the moon with an axe.

when i am on fire i don’t feel obligated
to do the dishes. i do not even take out the trash.
i lie on the couch and smolder.
this is not my fault.


dolls by tom whalen

i read this book this morning. it was the 2006 caketrain chapbook competition winner. i think i really like it. it is sad and creepy and beautiful. and it describes childhood savageness and sexuality very accurately i think. also it brought back tactile memories of my favorite doll victoria. i miss hugging her and smelling her hair.

here is my favorite page:

Once a Doll Was Exploring Her Intestines

Once a doll was exploring her intestines and fell in. What? The doll could not be dreaming. Dolls do not dream. The walls were wet and of stone that sparkled. Oh, I am lost, I am lost. But dolls don't know where they are. A man with a moustache in the shape of an anopheles mosquito passed by her. His clothes and shoes were made of scrap metal. Next she encountered a rat carrying a toy truck in its mouth. What, what? Then an unlit candle and a deaf alligator were carried off by a beetle.

Night descended. The child put her to bed. The dog peed in the corner. Dolls do not pee, at least not proper ones. Still, she went on exploring, saying What, what, I am lost, I am lost, while the dog slept on and the child released from her vagina a large bright red goldfish.


the hot air balloonist and pedro are not in love

my chapbook "i am in the air right now" is being published by greying ghost press! greying ghost press makes lovely chapbooks and they have a lot of good things lined up. thank you to carl annarummo and shane jones.


this is something that i think happened

there were 12 lizards in my shoe
we were on the beach
she was bobbling her head all around
she said are you pregnant?
i said no.
she said are you sure?
i said do i look pregnant?
she said no!...you are glowing

what if i really was glowing
i wouldn't need a lamp for my bedroom
if i was walking down a country road at night
i wouldn't have to put my arms out in front of me
because i had that feeling like i was about to walk
into a wall of darkness


crap dragon

i am crappy because there are no
red popsicles. either something is not
good enough and you want more or
something is really good and you want
more. it is good to give up.

dragons don't have the internet.
their emails addresses cannot fall in love.
oh another thing, if you think you have fallen
in love in cyberspace, it is really just your email address
falling in love with another email address.

my email address prefers scientists and actors.
it has a "type." it likes big eyebrows.
i was cold because the heat wasn't on
then the heat came on and i opened the window.
everyone outside is having a domestic dispute.
i am never going to get what i want.


my futon is nonflammable

something happened to me
i disappeared
i reappeared
this happens
my futon is broken
everyday i sit on a broken futon
hurts my tail
but i don't want to spend money on a new one
what a waste!


dragon poem and drawing by matthew savoca

dragons are green

i have been worrying a lot about money
it infiltrates even my gmail chats
that’s how you know something is
really seriously bothering you
when you start gmail chatting about it
incessantly, even
when you start to make inaccurate declarations of
that is, when your anger starts off justified
and ends up mangled like, say, The Club, in the hands of,
say, a dragon
for example:
i ‘hate’ not having money
i ‘hate’ having to get money
i ‘hate’ money
I ‘hate’ your mother
i ‘hate’ everything green
which is a ridiculous thing to say
because, i mean, it just isn’t true


last night

i woke up in the middle of the night
with 'sander's hand'
my hand hurt
from sanding
the dragons had their lights on
it was very bright.

i am only writing dragon poems from now on

matthew savoca and i are writing a chapbook of dragon poems. when it's done we are going to send it to presses that only publish 'serious' literature. i will tell you what happens. i don't know if matthew wanted to keep it a secret, but matthew if you did, don't worry. only like five people read this blog.

also! you should draw pictures of dragons and send them to me and i will post them on this blog. by 'you' i mean you. i'm talking to you.


the air does not hold memory or voice

it is hard to tell where my hands are
the cloud coverage hides shadow.

i have accidental dreams of fish, murder
and native americans. photography bores me,

literature bores me, vanished kidnapping victims bore me.
i have been to the same parlors you frequent, i know

that while i was dreaming you were gathering mushrooms
to poison my soup. you are getting close to me

so that murder can ensue.
the air does not look like you at all.

i have to stop looking at the trees though, they are expressive like
your face. you do not need to raise your eyebrows

so much. i get it. i get it.
things i know, i repeat

the hot air balloon: neutral, wiped of memories does not remind


nothing satisfies the empty space

cleopatra gazelle brought a horse on the balloon
and the candy striper didn’t even bring medicine for my vertigo
the passengers are useless
i would climb down if my hair were longer
or if my anxiety could form a vine
anxiety is useless because it stays on the inside

watching a candy striper and a frame cleaner make out
is not that interesting. i am bored again
i would like to swallow a large piece of the atmosphere
and charm the horse while wrapping him in shroud
all the horses followed me home and slept
with me under silk sheets for years

it is dumb to put your lips on someone’s lips; heat
comes from fire and not some unknowable source like
‘love’ or ‘nuclear power.’ sometimes he took pictures
of native americans and jousting weapons and
sometimes i confuse his face for pedro’s face
but his face was not pedro’s face and it was not clear

like my face and it did not glimmer like a silver dollar
and there is not enough room for a swollen heart,
a frame cleaner, a candy striper and a horse.
forty-seven people i’ve touched have died
i am not sorry. i regret the pollution but not everything:
i had a brief affair with mark rothko


sorry i didn't catch you as you plummeted towards the earth--w4m

you: brown haired man wearing blue jacket and corduroys
me: woman in red hot air balloon

i was studying my split ends yesterday in my hot air balloon when i saw you pass by. the warm glint in your brown eyes made me forget all about my follicles. i bent down to find something i might offer you on your journey, like a crust of bread or a morsel of cheese. it is always good to offer men food. but when i stood up again you were gone.

i wish we would have had a moment to talk. there are so many things i wanted to ask you. like, did you jump or fall? do you need an oxygen mask? do you have any siblings?

i am hoping you got snagged in a tree. if you are still alive and have made your way back to civilization, call me. actually though, there is no phone in my hot air balloon. but you could have a skywriter write me a message. tell me what color shirt I was wearing so i know it’s you.



on the scientific principle of "hot air rises"

i like to perform experiments on the air. it is “bad for you.” everything that is good is bad
for you. the air gets colder the higher up you go because the molecules spread apart and less
friction is less heat. but if hot air rises wouldn’t it be hotter the higher

up you go? science is difficult. for example, the midwife’s mother has brown eyes and her
father has brown eyes but she has blue eyes. do blue eyes surface in a baby the way hot air
rises? it is impossible to know. we do not have the technology.

i am very cold. for example, the molecules on my skin are spreading out the way the
continents broke apart a while ago. if i had been high enough up in the air i could have seen
the continental drift. the midwife insists on birthing

babies in the air. it is the newest form of technology since water birth. she says that when
babies are birthed in the water they come out blue because of the scientific principle of blue
water. but when they are born in the air they come out clear

and babies should be clear. but isn’t the sky blue for the same reason that water is blue? it is
impossible to know. i do not understand how hot air balloons work. it has something to do
with fire. hot and cold are the main components of technology.

when they work against each other things rise. when they work together continents break
apart and people fall out of the sky. i did not throw the midwife overboard. i did not drop the
baby in a lake. it was science. for example,


the sky is not a good place for careful observation

it is difficult to see the native americans
at this altitude. they are pinpricks over the landscape
i think or else those are cars. it is difficult to see
a four-leaf clover without looking closely.

all of the sweet peas gather under a full moon; their light
limbless, balled into sweating fury. or else
those are trees, i don’t have water up here.
i keep my sweat in a bottle for hot days.

i have an art collection in my balloon. i have seen civilizations
pass and painted them in blood and water. War is not paint
and tiny brushstrokes
; i don’t have paint up here.
“what do you do when you have to go to the bathroom?”

the passengers are dumb. i don’t go to the ground
for them anymore. i am well-stocked with lavender pebbles,
sour peaches and potatoes. i don’t need to see history
closely. i don’t need to see your face up close

to remember the boring fizz of love. my eyes sting
from dry air, not realization or tears, asshole.
i wonder how the alphabet has changed since i last
used it. i wonder if slurpees are called something different

now. it is difficult to know my mind without other minds
knocking into it. there are birds. i miss the native americans.
i miss your bald expressions. i miss mirrors. i miss time
will open up into me, blankly, without passing.


i saw a dead bird in the road today

there is a house on the water
made of dead birds
their open beaks hatch the roof
and their eyeballs are doorknobs
their wings paper the walls
and their guts are sofa beds.

they watch home movies
and remember their childhood
the movies feature dead birds flattened
in the streets and dead birds floating in the water.
dead birds with soap bones, dead birds with
cloud bones. church bones. water bones.

birds that are alive swoop
on the house. they peck at the roof
and eat the muscle couches. they think
about how the ocean is better than the hospital.
birds that are alive do not like hospitals.
sheet bones. medicine bones. dream bones.

cult bones. eye water, white
film light. remembering while floating. black bird
funeral, blood funeral in water. bird tongue
on the table. eyes in the water.
brain in the sink. flat birds in the street.
song bone. beautiful flying bone.

i don't see any tears

i think it's great that a woman and a black dude are running for president, but, for reals, why does everyone have to be so racist and sexist about it? like, any time obama puts any "flavor" into his speech people are like, "oh hells no! he's trying to be black now!" and this morning the big topic on talk radio was whether or not hillary clinton is sexy. they were saying things like, "do you notice she doesn't wear v-necklines anymore? she's trying to be asexual." and what is up with everyone saying she cried last week?

hillary is wonderful. back up.


i am political now

this is me and the heart-shaped cutout i made of hillary clinton's face. i watched her give her new hampshire victory speech last night, and for the first time i let myself imagine her as actually becoming the president. and i had this feeling like if that happened, my world view would completely change. suddenly, it would be a world where dreams come true. where the impossible happens. where good triumphs. before last night i have never believed hillary could win. she is a woman. i would not let hillary in. but now, look. she has won me.

ah, hillary you vixen. you have stolen my heart.


"i have a thing inside me"

i stole that line from blake butler's blog and wrote this:

the air is empty but i have a thing inside me
i have several families living in my chest
i am going to open my own store and sell only
things that i especially like. puppets, diet coke,
spell books, beautiful rocks. i am going to sell
these things to the families in my arteries
some of the people in the families die. there is a funeral
in my kneecap. the grandmother throws herself
into the grave. the children play at empty plots
some of the people in the families say maybe they’ll call
which means they will not call. one person says
he will walk again, which means he will roll into his grave
and my knee will snap. there isn’t any time in the air
all time is encased in skin. it is new year
it is a rolling ocean and empty air and a grandmother
haunting my fingernail. it is a bright sun and a mother
under my eyelid, complaining of the heat.