Wednesday, August 31, 2005

A somewhat impossible request -- if you know of any female fiction writers who are well-published and live in New York City, and who are nice and non threatening, and who would like to teach a 6 week beginning fiction writing course for very little money (about 100), could you maybe let me know?

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Night of the Living! err. Afternoon of the ...

This is still ruff.

Important Questions
How do I know I’m not a zombie?
I walk slow, sometimes I stagger.
My cats are disappearing.
The screen door is ripped, shreds of it
lie strewn among larch leaves on the porch.
I can’t say when that happened.
My parents don’t answer my letters.
My boss looks right through me in the elevator.
The other secretaries have stopped taking
jelly beans from the cut crystal glass on my desk.
If I open the file drawer, it shines like a ghastly moon.
Sometimes when I sit down the seat
of my plastic chair is still warm,
as if someone just left.

I leave gifts outside my boyfriend’s bedroom
door; he doesn’t stop to unwrap them.
Perhaps the gray earth on the ribbons
make him uneasy.
I appear to be missing more than just a toe.
And the stench-- like a fish
tank when all the oscars have gone belly up,
and the pale flesh on their stomachs sways
like my breasts loose in this ripped blouse.
It smells so horribly female,
as if my teeth are infected with a virus
patched together by some doctor
with spectacles and a grudge.
I wake up Sunday mornings
my mouth and hands smeared
with red. There’s steak in the refrigerator.
Maybe I just get hungry.
How can I tell who it is I’ve consumed?

Friday, August 26, 2005

More poems about food and longing:

The Unmade Toast

On the second week
of the All Twig Diet,
I start to dream about food.
You wouldn't believe how much
protein there is in peanut butter,

the woman seated at my mother's kitchen
table tells me. I remember the round
table, gouged with the backs of steel forks,
and how it died violently by fire and I
begin to weep and thrash my legs. The deer
walk through the kitchen again, their
eyes blazing red in the headlights.
They tear at the blue checked curtains
made of dish towels above the sink.
The window there is so small it makes me
short and unable to grab the butter
and jalepenos on the top shelf
of the refrigerator.
Over my shoulder in the next room,
a clean-cut man in a dirty shirt
stares at shadows on a prison
wall with windows no one can reach.
The light is leaving us now:
the bulb burnt out again above the stove,
the lawn outside darkening,
and the woman puts her head in her hands.
There's something I want to say to her
about wheat bread, or perhaps about carbon
and its offspring, perhaps about the importance
of water in a balanced diet but when
it comes out, I'm talking about balancing
on a diving board, the high one
and I must crawl down
before the firemen arrive.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Pictures from the reading Monday night, just of me (no naked butt ladies, this is family friendly!)

There's no more coming! So stop begging, seriously, it's undignified.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005


SMUT was so great, much better than last time – the other performers were fantastic, and I got to talk to Elise Miller, who is smutty and fabulous and down to earth and might just read as part of the series I set up at the Bowery Poetry Club. Also, Jonathan Ames was in the audience, and only left right before I read and came back right after I finished. Fabulous! But every one laughed when they were supposed to and looked horrified when they were supposed to and then some girl got up and fucked an uncooked chicken with a fork duct-taped to her crotch. Fun Times!

Also: naked women, walking around freely in helmets, and people doing some sort of exercise where they hang from scarves and twist upside down and sideways. Thrilling!

You guys missed a lot by not coming to slut. I mean smut. Perhaps you should be grateful. NO!! It was great!! and Eric took the greatest photos of me, which I will post shortly. And I took some great pictures of Eric, which he can do with what he needs to.
I think I might have gotten a back cover photo out of this, plus I finally read slow enough and remembered to breathe – a big improvement, I’m telling you!

I might return to SMUT on another Monday, just to see the hijinks.

Sunday, August 21, 2005


I got myself drawn today in central park, and it kind looks like me, too. I like how the eyes are all squinty -- like, "I'm watching you! You're not getting away with nutin', mothafucka!"

In other news: SMUT!!

8:00 Monday night at Galapagos! Me and some other hip chicks, like the infamous Elise Miller. (She is infamous, you can check..) I'm reading dirty poetry until my head explodes or I get booed off the stage, whichever comes first. Plus, you'll get to see me dress very 80's, with the big hair, fishnets and big shiny, purple skirt with crinolines. I'm reading from Safe Word, which you can find here.

To get to Galapagos --
70 North 6th Street
between Kent and Wythe
Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NY 11211
718 782-5188

From Manhattan by Subway- Take the L to Bedford Ave. (1st stop in Brooklyn), exit on N. 7th and walk down one block to N. 6th, take a right and walk 2 1/2 blocks over. We're between Wythe and Kent on the left side.
Or Take the JMZ to Marcy Ave. Walk two blocks west on Broadway to Bedford Ave. Catch the B61 bus and take it to N7 (approximately 5 minute ride).

From Manhattan by Car- Take the outer right hand lane across the Williamsburg Bridge, get off at the first exit and curve around to the right until you are on Broadway. At the 2nd stoplight take a right. Continue up to N. 6th, take a left and drive 2 1/2 blocks. We're between Wythe and Kent on the left.

(I just take the L. I find that quite easy.)

Oh, and also, my reading series is away! It's rolling! The Bowery Poetry Club agreed to host it. So all you chicas who are in NYC and would like to read, please send your bio and a sample to inktastesbitter at We're doing poets, novelists, whatever. Please apply. Some of you may have already agreed to read, and I'll hold you to it! Like a hand to a burner. Or something a little nicer.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Types of Rain

1) in sifting from clouds to earth, turns to white balls,
striking children down like wrath
2) evaporates in the shimmy of the air
before they reach the sidewalk in July
3) causes older women to stay indoors in November,
draw back the curtain and sigh at the window
4) leaves sparse comet craters
in the dust between
rows of August corn
5) serves to cleanse the hands
despite what clings under the fingernails
6) falls on the face and offer no relief
7) spatters like a sprinkler in June
when everyone is in their bathing suits
out on the lawn
8) strikes solely and mythically on TV,
encouraging a tree to part a house,
a pole to blend violently with a car
9) taps on frozen wooden roofs
to remind you that you are
finally inside: warm, dry

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Sorry it's been such a long time -- I've been away, etc. But here's a little light bit of work, just a draft. I'll get back to everyone I owe emails to, I promise.

Goldilocks, Dreaming

a skeleton walks into a bar,
tells the bartender,
give me a bear and a mop
because a bear leaves
oily footprints and
people could slip

and the bartender says we don't
serve no bear here,
this is a classy joint

the skeleton turns to the horse beside him
and asks if he'd like a bear

the horse says
I had a bear once when I was younger
I slipped out of the corral
into the woods

it was a dark and stormy night
I never did see his face
but I still have the teeth marks
here on my shoulder
I don't think I could handle
anymore bear right now
I've had enough for one night

then a termite walks in and asks, where is the bartender?
we all shrug, and
the new mothers in the corner go back
to nursing their bears

Sunday, August 07, 2005

A new poem. Amazing, huh? You'll comment if you know what's good for you. What do you think of the tense change in the middle, and the ending?

The Beached Fiance

the last time we went to the beach
you had a cane and I started
to limp
my mother said, "Christine, help him"
when you were out
in the surf and I
said "he’s all right" (you were not)
rocks can be so sharp when you’re
barefoot like we both were
the next day I loved you to death, my death, and when
I woke up the "you" in you had gone I took you
to the hospital but they said you were
already broken
sometimes electricity can help I tried rubber banding
you to a lamp socket
but then I forgot and left you
for a few days
when I came back
your mouth was black your fingers singed
I was sorry
but it’s not my fault
no matter what your friends say
and I feed you
when I can when I remember
I have to eat, too,
you know
who would have thought a sea monkey so difficult
when I tried to bury you in the backyard
I got evicted and the police came
and padlocked the front door
and you were still inside
I tried to tell them they said call
animal control
and I said but he’s a fiance and they just shrugged
you went to live
with your mother who fed you tomatoes
and rice all night
after you broke all her Hummel figurines
she tried to call me
but I was disconnected
you had left no forwarding address
that’s all behind me now
I have a new husband and sometimes
I feel sorry
I left you in that green room
in the daycare center with your meds
on high and
now all you can do is macramé
and whisper to yourself
but hey, that’s life

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

I got a little bit of extra cash. Anybody have a chapbook to sell me? Leave a note in the comments with a link to the site where I can purchase it.