Thanks, everyone, for your kind words about the pushcart prize nomination. I keep finding myself saying, it's some sort of mistake! but hopefully, they won't catch it.

The reviews where I thrash the authors until their bottoms burn are in: go to Altar Reviews and search on the page for my last name, "Hamm." I reviewed Murder -- poetry, and The End of Art -- art theory.

Thanks to Ivy, I just found out that I've been nominated for a pushcart prize, here, at the bottom of the page. It's for a poem that I've actually been struggling to rewrite.

The Meatus

those holes
men and women share
so the landscape can mix
with our innards

the meat canal
through which music passes
into the ear

the half-mouth inscribed
in the face
of your cock

the channel for piss
carved in the front of me
where my flesh gathers itself
like a tucked skirt

those holes that
pierce us
let the night in
and the darkness out

So I finally got the word from Daphne G.: my poem is accepted for Homewrecker, a Softskull anthology!

She had this to say about my poem:
"your poem Animal Husbandry spoke to me from the first. It
exemplified exactly what I was looking for in this anthology --complicated, ambivalent, difficult work of the highest literary order."

This is the second time I'm going to be in a collection by Softskull, the first being, The Murdering of Our Years by Mickey Z. Maybe someday they'll consider a collection of my work? Although I doubt it, as my work has been getting less and less "street" the more I write.

Since I'm only a poet, I couldn't take advantage of this, but I thought I'd pass it along:

Novelists Needed for Painful Project
Reply to: morgan@fluxfactory.org
Date: 2004-11-10, 9:02AM EST


Flux Factory (fluxfactory.org) an arts organization and collective in Long Island City, is doing a project called NOVEL this Spring. We will build cubicles at our gallery for three novelists. They will be isolated in these quarters for a month. During that month they will complete a novel from scratch. Every weekend there will be public readings. Food and such will be provided. We're currently working to get a publisher or publishing house to sponsor the project and/or commit to publishing the work. We are looking for published novelists and serious writers. Send list of publications if intrigued. Definitely a major challenge and a major commitment. We are not screwing around.

Once again, it's time for the quiz that annoys everybody. And hey people, if you hate it so much, why post the results?

It's new and improved, now with 50% less Sharon Olds.



You are Adrienne Rich, feminist poet who explores
the depths of the lesbian female soul. You
believe real poetry delves into the real self.


Which 20th Century Poet Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla


"Real poetry delves in the real self" -- what was I thinking? Was I hitting the crack pipe again?

Christmas in Hell

It's the 70's. My socks have holes and my toes
fascinate me. Christmas lights blink: the room
shimmers with red light from the fireplace.
Our tree has shed all over the indoor-outdoor
carpet. I must be careful not to eat tinsel. I
run hard in circles until I slip and fall, bite my
tongue. Everything tastes like blood from
then on. I eat more chocolate santas.

My pajamas are blue and dirty and too small.
I have shook all the presents twice. I arrange
the packages in order of size, then stack them
into a city. I try to push my brother into the
fire. He resists so I smack his face. My brother
climbs up the tree. Bulbs pop and spark. The
tree leans to one side, is propped up by a wall.

Ants have gotten into the plate of cookies left
for santa. I eat them anyways. My brother
howls until I push one through his branches.
The milk has spoilt, curdled solid. I finger
it onto each cheek -- war paint. I find the dog
under the table. He has left me a present too.

I haul him out by his tail. He snaps wearily
then goes limp. I push the dog in the fire.
He does not resist. The presents are next.
Flames and gold foil are pretty. The smell
starts in bright puffs, plastic and sharp.

I start to gallop in circles again,
faster, faster, thinking,
oh my god, why did I ever have children?

For My Mother, Cooking


She's the salt lady

salt on the spinach salad,
salt on the scrambled eggs,
salt with the rocky road

ice cream, salt under
the beds, salt at the window
sills keeps us from escape.

Sundays to teach us she hides
the water, screws the pipes
shut, we stink and

toilets overflow with shit
and salty cabbage, we cry
silently, no tears, thirst

draws closed our throats
like the drawstring of a
silk purse, each huddled

over our shoes in the closets,
moaning and rocking, counting
the minutes to Monday, fiddling

with laces as our eyes burn, oh
mama, we are dry, we are dry

it's to teach us,
she says,
to appreciate.