Hey, I just got a good word from the poetry editor of Rhapsoidia, a very nice journal based in Cali. He liked The Mule Deer and Discount Heaven, but of course I had to inform him, AS I HAVE informed relevant presses of multiple submissions and relevant acceptances MY WHOLE WRITING CAREER,(uncomfortable smirk, short cough) that Discount Heaven is no longer available because it's being published by Lodestar. He said that he can't promise it'll be published, but that he likes it (them).

Also, random picture of me:



And some linkygoodness. That page is frequently updated with calls for submissions, contests, etc.

It's that time again. Time for the three year submission of a manuscript to SoftSkull. My goal this time is to have it returned more slowly. Last time, the turn around was a week. As if to say, "NO. no thank you no please no!"

This is from a collection I'm working on, featuring animals and (surprise) food. I was thinking of calling it "Animals and Cannibals," but I decided on "Hotdogs at Monkey Beach."

Ladies and Gentlemen:

Monkey Beach

The monkey and I decide to take the subway to the beach. We start to take the A train to Far Rockaway, but there's construction at 59th Street, so we switch to the D to Coney Island. Just as we're entering Brooklyn the train stops in the tunnel. Lights flick on and off. The monkey gets restless, shits his pants. People move away in concentric circles of dismay. The train hums, shudders and goes still. The conductor gets on the loudspeaker, asks Ralph to give him a hand. No one moves but the monkey. He grabs a pole, sways back and forth, his wet trousers hanging low.

Ralph does not not appear. The conductor asks for him again, repeats himself twice, sounds angry. We look among ourselves for Ralph. No one admits to it. The train hums, then goes silent. The monkey sits on the floor. He whispers to me that the beach isn't so nice.

People are trying to pry open the doors, using fingernails, umbrellas. In their efforts they shout and laugh. No one can open a door. The men and women fall silent again and look at the floor. A man in the back plays with the ringtones on his cell. The conductor calls for Ralph. The monkey asks if the beach is always this way. I say no, sometimes it rains.

I seem to be writing a lot about bad food recently.

The Salad

You see where it touched
the dirt, there and there.
The radishes resemble dried
blood. The dressing is clotted,
full of whitish chunks and
brown specks. Occasionally,
a tomato cries out.

It is good for you, this salad.
It will make you grow
differently inside. Grow until
your skins stretches and peels,
grow until your eyes burst
and run down your cheeks.

We are asking that you eat this.
We are your parents and we are
asking you this.

I'd like to welcome a new poet, or rather, an experienced poet who is NEW to the blogging world, Land Mammal. You'll see great things from her, appearing shortly.

So I did get accepted to be Lodestar's poet of the month, which has me thrilled. They actually asked for a headshot, which got me attempting to do something nice with a mirror and a digital camera. It turned out ehh. Here's one of the poems they're publishing:

Affection Control

All spills must be contained.
Special orange cones have
been provided.

Here is a list. Please point
to the nearest hazardous
condition in your environment.

It should be clearly indicated
on the map on your desk.

Do not leave the room until
the “all clear” sounds.

A nurse is available at all times
should anyone need an injection.

The needle is small but causes a great
deal of site trauma. Bruising and
swelling of the face sometimes occurs.

Watch for drooling and spontaneous
erections. Infected individuals may want
to touch everyone’s hair.

As the affection progresses, safe areas
diminish. These should be circled clearly
on your skin.

The nurse will provide you with a magic marker.
It is a mistake to try to write at this point.
Humming is also discouraged.

Please be sure to rinse the affection from your
eyes by dousing them with ammonia for five
minutes.

You may experience blurred vision.
Staggering & moonblindness are common.

Sorry I have been neglecting you, blogger-friends, although I have been writing a lot, it's mostly on my live journal, which offers semi-anonymity. One of those sexy pieces I posted there caught the attention of Daphne Gottlieb (the subculture poet I've worshipped since I read "Why Things Burn") and she offered me a chance to be the featured poet on Lodestar Quarterly which she edits. Past featured writers -- Michelle Tea, Mark Doty, etc, etc, famous-cakes.

After I stopped screaming and hyperventilating, I sent her five pieces, which I hope don't make her change her mind.

If I am accepted, because of how "hot" one of the poems is, when you google "Slut", my name will pop up. At least more than it does now. Hah.

I've been so busy hyping Discount Heaven, coming up with an ad for Bust Magazine, that I've been neglecting my writing -- and I've been tormenting all my patient friends with the constant Discount Heaven, Discount Heaven, buy Discount Heaven! Instead of feeding y'all poetry treats as I should. So here it is -- another dark and chewy one -- please feel free to suggest cuts, as it's kinda long.


My Last Meal

The day before this we will arrive
at a rickety restaurant perched on the
hill overlooking Los Gatos and before
the vibrations of passing lumber trucks
collapse our lungs, collapse the gables onto
the flying buttresses so that the whole “she-bang”
sails down the treacherous road like a kite,
on this, the last day of all, we will have dessert
before dinner.

And it will be gently encased in a thin
chocolate shell which melts as we raise
it to our mouths, our hands will be greased
with chocolate, our white ruffled shirts ruined
with fingerprints, the collars sopping with chocolate
dribbling down our chins.

And before the mascara’ed waiters can wisk in
with the steak tartar the men with long beards
and hats start lining up outside the window watching
us. They are too soon joined by small dogs with white paws.

I look into the chocolate smeared mirror of your
face and I see my own bulbous giants.

We hurry slipping on gravel and having
accidents with our cheeks, embedded sugar,
embedded stones, flesh ideograms dotting our
path downhill.

We must get home before our wives. Put on
your blazer of smoke, lets ride the grassy lawns
and be broke-down cowboys. I’ll be your Cary Grant,
you’ll be my Oscar Meyer.


I’ll be your Cynthia Nixon, you be my shrinking feeling.
I will be undone and you will be doing.
Hurry up please. We’re almost here.