Today there was a tornado warning…

I secured all the plants on the roof, put a piece of succulent I found into my pocket to add to the succulent garden in my window but sometime during the day it fell out. Last night my friend suggested I watch this video of David Rattray (which couldn’t be embedded) and now I suggest you do it…

Maybe I should be stoned for posting this online……

I feel like I’m breaking sacred trust by republishing this online without asking… but I cannot help myself! May I be stoned for it! But this poem is everything to me at the moment and I sometimes wonder if I’m actually just an internet meme so in case that is what I am, here it is… I love you Dodie Bellamy! This may be the most perfect poem ever, unless I accidentally added in a typo-or-two… You can get a copy from Les Figues Press and really, it’s what everyone should be reading this Fall! I’m headed upstate for a last bout of summer, gonna jump into a lake and some shit!! Byeeee!!

Cunt Creeley
by Dodie Bellamy
Go fuck yourself. Now answer me—where is your body as your mind is jerked around on dried goose turd? I still love you—yes, you in that bed surrounded by books. It’s fitting that you so quickly come when I fuck you silly in a bed full of books. You’re so tough, the way you smack me down with your rebuff. I love it. I love it when you suck me, I love all the bloody things you’ve done. Oh wife, oh wife, you’re blowing my drowsiness all to hell. There never will be another woman in my thoughts, not when you send me your panties everyday, saying they’re for me, not for other men. You shoot shivers up my spine and into my nose. I will wear your panties, will wear whatever dresses your cunt. If flies were the sign of love, I’d adorn my prick with maggots the size of seals. My cock, my darling, loving your mercy, comes like King Kong up your cunt. We fuck forever in the spring, which makes my own worn self to sing. If I touch you ‘til the skin on your neck gets emergency shivers, morning or evening or afternoon, oh my lovely, I fuck you like I’m wringing all the oceans. Most lovely lady, whether you’re dressed or undressed is a sexual experience—a collaboration whether we’re going at it in bed or sitting only. Oh loveliest you are here and I fuck you silly between your lips, and, yes, you fuck me back, yes, my lady, whether you are just or unjust, you are fucking sexy, such a romantic. You can eat me, my lady, you can do whatever—I love seeing you hanging there with my balls. You are the best of ladies—in rain, in shine, in any weather. When my cock slides into you, we rhyme, like in those stories where the hero is beyond help. I’m here with you now, it’s magic, we’re fucking like Hercules or Aeneas going into death. I blur into you I’m moving so fast. We don’t need Virgil’s plan, not with you singing those torch songs of hoc opus, hic labor. This is the now, this kind of love just is—Virgil has been dead for two thousand understandings. I love your industrious wisdom, how you live in a way that hasn’t yet ripped your lips off. Let the heroes stay dead so I can propose to you with my dirty mind. You have me. You hold my weight. You must understand—there are chunks of cement everywhere. If you know what, say it. Don’t pretend. Like electric shock therapy, you know me in a prayer. Before you I’m helpless, helpless in an unreal situation. No woman ever was wiser than you, so my cock hangs above your face and what you take in your hand grows.

Fall is Coming: Current Favorite Poems

On the day of your leave-taking

by Maggie Nelson

On the day of your leave-taking

I wouldn’t want to see you anyway

I want to be alone with my vagrant ugliness

Want the bridge suddenly to double its span

so the only parameter becomes the vanishing

of my already thin-soled shoes

On a Friday night, one girl hangs from a trapeze by her shins

You think it looks scary but having lived among them

I know there’s always a safety (in this case, the toes)

Another girl enjoys bars with themes

Another is painting bunnies in Kentucky

I am taking my welts to the tub

hoping the porcelain is free of blood and hair

The blood and hair I left there, streaking

the pale pink soap melting into the brick wall

which grows black and green with companions

People continue to grind the veiny fat into the asphalt

with their feet, it’s only nine degrees, my river rocks

now bearded with ice. So the fat freezes and a spoon

wedged into the cement glistens, I keep wanting

to pick up every hard and bright object I find

and put it in a Mason jar, then add blue pigment

and shake. Gnarled hand of green glass, leftover

confetti, petrified pieces of pizza that appear

near the trio of homeless men who watch a shaky TV

hooked into a generator in a parking lot, it’s where

I get my news these days and why not, they always

know the score, the five-day weather report. I can see you

boarding your jet plane, see you with your hat on crooked

as if you recently tumbled onto the planet out of the carapace

of a rumpled goddess. I hear the gulf is a little bellicose

but beyond that, livable, despite the depressing stats

from that part of the world, and you know I’ll be here, perched

into blotchy corners, not knowing what life

could possibly mean without its soundtrack

so I can hum along to its pain, as if its humdrum

or shared nature could possibly dim its particular

luster. But it’s the cold that makes my mascara pool up

around my eyes and gives a shock to my quads

as they push forward, the only idiot crossing the bridge

at sunset, but you have to march across the span

while you can, before winter’s sweet cocoon

gets punctured and happiness presents itself

as an option, and I have to accept the possibility

of another body in my bed. I keep dreaming it’s

someone else that’s paralyzed, a childhood friend

I’ve fallen out of touch with, I keep dreaming

we’re fucking but somehow never alone, sometimes

I think it would be so hot to fuck you with another

and other times I know I’m just making the best

of a bad situation. Have I mentioned I’m watching

a man softly cry as he searches for a lost pill

under the pillows of a sage-colored couch, he has

a cough that comes from the Underworld, one lens

of his glasses dramatically cracked. I want

to hold him, the way I want to hold anyone

who seems contagious. Maybe we could

keep each other warm. And you emptied yourself

twice into my throat and I remain utterly starved

for more, the smell of one sex intimating the smell of another

but who am I kidding, really, on this January day

that has dwindled into the single digits, in which

we have to pin the drapes shut with safety pins

and stuff towels into the honeycombed walls

I just want to be called out as the greedy whore that I am

Pittsburg: Another Sensibility

As I’ve mentioned, I spent the past couple days in Pittsburg, gave a reading at the very lovely The Big Idea Bookstore, gave a lecture at the University of Pittsburg and then lost my shit at Blue Moon bar, those bitches werk it out.

AA

1.
Bill Scott, professor at The University of Pittsburg brought me out to guest lecture on the topic of the Occupy Wall Street Poetry Anthology and my involvement with the Peoples Free Library. We discussed free speech, poetry, activism and wandered amongst the various intersections. I even managed to bring porn into the conversation thanks to the hard work of” Occupy My Throat.” Link here:

https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B24RGAm86s1VWFg5S2o0anNfd2c/edit?usp=sharing

I meant to talk more about why I thought that porn was interesting from my personal angle as a poet… while living in Zuccotti Park I had written a poem called “Gangbang for Democracy“. I read it while living there but didn’t know about the video until after the park was closed down and I met David Sokolowski (one of its stars). I didn’t spend much, if any, time online while I lived in Zuccotti Park because wikipedia, for a moment, went into real time. Anyway, I thought it was a really beautiful gesture what they had done. I myself consensually fooled around a bit in Zuccotti Park and it was an extremely magical atmosphere bursting with human creativity. But I’m pretty sure it’s the most honest depiction of the hierarchy of the movement, a few walked away with royalties to a film and the rest got thrown some pocket cash.

The lecture went really well, surprisingly so, by the time I checked to see how long I had been talking already an hour had passed. And the students questions really broadened my understanding of what we had done. I walked away with a pretty positive outlook on what our time in Zuccotti Park had done, Occupy acted as the social justice cheerleader for a generation to get off of its ass for a moment and think about what is going on around the world. As long as were alive we’re part of what happens on this earth, and we have to admit to ourselves that our actions affect our surroundings and we must strive for harmonies, we must dream of new realities as we heal ourselves and everything we touch. It’s going to be very hard because we’re all totally insane but I think we can do it. Life in New York is rough and often much more mundane than the fantasies we believe we deserve, but the magic is stronger. The nights and lights never end here so everyone can have their 15 minutes to stretch into the infinite because there are so many people and everyone has an extremely busy schedule because we’re wizards. True change will only come through direct actions that can only happen by very focused and secretive groups which are committed to disrupting the status quo exclusively by peaceful means; like planting an edible plant or native species in a roadside garden full of invasive species and don’t forget to talk to the worms while you’re there with your secret group so we can figure out a way to solve our biggest problem… the 99%

*insert sarcastic just-after-sex grin* Continue reading