If interested in having me for a reading, class visit, or conference/festival, please contact me at lorcaloca AT aol DOT com

Friday, April 28, 2006

Gods We Worship Live Next Door

I'm going to buy this book when I get back home.


Eastern Washington University Press announces Blue Lynx/Spokane Prize for Poetry and Spokane Prize for Short Fiction

705 West First Avenue
Spokane, WA 99201
Prize: $1,500 and publication of work
Deadline: May 15
Poetry submissions at least 48 pages
Fiction submissions at least 98 pages

More details here

Poetry in Translation Panel--Newbury Port Literary Festival

If you happen to find yourself in the Greater Boston area, Jose Edmundo Reyes will be participating in a Poetry in Translation panel at the Newburyport Literary Festival this Saturday,April 29, at 10:00AM at the Newburyport Public Library Program Room.

Details on the panel and the rest of the Festival can
be found at www.newburyportliteraryfestival.org

MacDowell Bits

I only have six full days left at MacDowell. Double sigh. I love MacDowell. Your art matters here. Correction: my art matters here.
Have I bragged about my studio? Wait to you see the pictures. But let me try to paint a picture: heated slate floors, a loft, deep bathtub in my bedroom, gorgeous shower, amazing windows, huge fireplace and THREE writing desks.

I'm going to miss MacDowell. But enough sadness! I've picked up a lot of gossip. Most of it, of course, I can't talk about on my blog. Who wants to be sued? I don't! I'm such a tease.
Okay, okay. I'll tell you one harmless tidbit. Ben Lerner is not a homo. Nope. Sorry to break the news, boys. Ben Lerner is a happy heterosexual. Doesn't that raised eyebrow just scream happy heterosexual?
Every day for the past two weeks a small herd of deer have been grazing in front of my studio.
New crush: Nick Laird. Sexy as hell. But he's married to Zadie Smith. Boo!
I saw a woodchuck!
I love making fires in my fireplace. I really like the scent of woodsmoke.
The meadow in front of my studio (yes, I've got a meadow in front of my studio. don't you?) is so green right now.
I need to update some of my links. I need to add this handsome man to my blogroll. Morgan, are you happy to see me, or is that a saguaro in your pants?
Right now (1:39AM) I'm doing my laundry. My undies and shirts are in the dryer as I type.
Justin Evans: thank you for the letters.

I'm Digging These Poems Right Now

Theories of Time and Space
Uncle John
Acrostic: Outhouse
Se Me Olividó Otra Vez
Apprentice in Black
First Body
I May After Leaving You Walk Quickly or Even Run
The Bean Eaters

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Television: Stops Serotonin Uptake

Okay. This hasn't been proven. But it sounds correct.

Today, after editing an essay for 6 hours (I'm worried about my skills) I decided to give myself a break and watch some television.

Nothing but horrible, horrible things. Most of them have to do with women & children. I didn't watch television for a few years, and actually haven't purchased one for about 8 years (boyfriends & boy friends can't take it that I don't have one, so they usually end up buying/giving me one). I stopped because everytime I turned on the television it was a story about a child being hurt (horribly, most of the time).

I'm not sure if it's better to just not listen to the news/programs, or if It's a way of hiding the truth from myself.

On another note, my blogging escapade is coming to an end. Word is that Eduardo will be back, I'm sure in full force, sometime later next week.

The price for flights to California are hella expensive...

An ex-teacher bashed the F out of Columbia in this published essay: Columbia's Newspaper The Spectator

Like 2 people have emailed me about it. My response, there is this thing called the internet and there are many websites devoted to MFA bashing. If you remove Columbia's name from the essay, I'm sure you could replace it with any ol' MFA program. I have some other thoughts on this, but since, like I mentioned above, I'm so tired, I'm going to stop here.

I had a party at my house Tuesday night and there is about 40 Yuelings on my desk. Anybody want a beer?

Thinking of Lombardi's pizzeria...

Read recently that the burrito I order at Chipotle (barbacoa) is like 1300 calories...

Oh, I forgot to mention. I'm not obsessed with The Soup Man anymore. My love ended today when I walked in to buy soup and asked to sample two different flavors (to decide which one I wanted) and the girl told me the tasting limit is 1. What???? A really small bowl is like 8 bucks. Who is their PR person??? They made a mistake in making that law up. They've just lost a customer. And I'm a scorpio so I'll probably never go there again.

Okay, I know the link to the "scorpio sign" was cheesy, but since I only have circa another week of blogging I might as well get really ridiculous.

Summer Poetry Workshop w/Tracy K Smith

Tracy K. Smith, author of The Body's Question is offering a 6-week summer poetry workshop in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. The format will include the reading and discussion of published work, weekly writing assignments, and the critique of student poems--all with the aim of cracking-open something new in the creative process.

Wednesdays, 7-10 pm
May 24th to June 28th
Her email is on her website
Tracy K. Smith

Does Anyone Remember This?

You may need a birthdate circa 1975 to remember this, but do you remember when Geraldo Rivera busted/blew up Al Capone's Vaults and found: Nothing???

I'm watching Geraldo right now and he brought it up. Apparently, it became the most widely watched syndicated event in television history!

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

There There

There There

in pitch dark i go walking in your landscape.
broken branches trip me as i speak.
just because you feel it doesnt mean it's there.
just because you feel it doesnt mean it's there.

there's always a siren
singing you to shipwreck.
(don't reach out, don't reach out)
steer away from these rocks
we'd be a walking disaster.
(don't reach out, don't reach out)

just because you feel it doesn't mean it's there.
(there's someone on your shoulder)
just because you feel it doesn't mean it's there.
(there's someone on your shoulder)

there there

why so green and lonely?
heaven sent you to me.

we are accidents
waiting waiting to happen.

we are accidents
waiting waiting to happen.

Radiohead, Hail To The Thief 2003

Monday, April 24, 2006

Jaime Manrique's New Book!

First off. Isn't this woman's hairdo wildly gorgeous? Next prom, this is going to be my do.

Getting this book today. So far the book has received amazing reviews!

El Paso Times Review
Harper Collins

Even the Amazon folks, which are quick to drag one's project through the dirt, have given it 5 stars.

Heres a tiny synopsis of the book: Set against the majestic geography of the Andes, this riveting novel tells the story of Manuela Sáenz, who won her place in history as the great love of the South American liberator Simón Bolívar.

I predict this will be on the NY Times Bestseller List before long...

Sunday, April 23, 2006

Spring Cleanin, Rain, What Shuts NYC Down, & The Problem with the new Position of My Computer Near The Window

Last night, Amanda Pennelly, fiction writer, helped me begin my Spring Cleanin/Apartment Renovation project. This morning I continued and have (so far) collected a stack of papers (that I don't/didn't need) that comes up to my knees. I'm not exaggerating!

Some things I can't throw out: A movie stub from Bonnie & Clyde in Berlin. And museum stubs I have from Europe. I LOVE going to the movies in different states/countries. People I've traveled with are annoyed with this. Especially when I wanted to go to the movies in Vegas.

On a sidenote, I was sad to know that I missed this while I was in Vienna. But then again, who knew that Austria posessed Motecuzhoma's Headress. I guess I should have figured Mexico's biggest treasures would be in Europe. Remember the conquest? Apparently there's hope Mexico will get it back.

Rain, Rain, Rain, is what shuts NYC down. I tried to venture out last night to Joe's Shangai (ridiculous dumplings) and like 5 subways were not working, and the ones that were took like 20/40 minutes to arrive. They seem to always stop certain lines on the weekends. Why??? In the end, multiple slices of pepperoni & Stella at Lombardis Pizzeria rescued me from falling into a pit of despair. Better then Patsys, and definitely competing with Grimaldis in Brooklyn.

Decided not to leave the house today. Still raining. And more to come.

Now that my desk faces the window I get to feel guilty as many joggers pass below in the rain. I give them credit, they are way determined.

On the tele: Food Network's Sandra Lee is making churros. Right on. When my parents would ship me to Mexico for the summer with my grandparents ( I was like 10) the best part of waking up would be the Churro Man who'd show up to the front door with a half barrel of lard, sizzling, and ready to fry up the pretzled batter. It was like 10 American cents for a 3000 calorie paper bag full of Mexican donut.

BTW: Russell, I wasn't kidding about the Tequila or Stoli Vodka. Show up with it, or else!

Friday, April 21, 2006

This Tuesday

For those in NYC:

OUR WORD Annual Spring Reading

Tuesday, April 25th
8:00 pm
301 Philosophy Hall
Graduate Student Lounge
Columbia University


Denise Burrell-Stinson
Brian Chu
Jae Won Chung
Shahirah Majumdar
Sharon Pacuk
Amanda Pennelly
& Me

Our Word / Writers of Color

- Our Word is an organization for writers of color open to any member of the Writing Division. The goal of Our Word is to promote diversity and a multicultural environment within the Division, the School of the Arts, and as we expand, Columbia University and its surrounding communities. We try to achieve this through readings, working with administrators on related issues, providing social support and outlets, and any special project that promotes the mission of the group.

The goals of our group usually attract writers of color, however all are welcome to join. Opportunities include participating in or leading an individual project, or actively collaborating with us throughout the year.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

911 is a joke, Public Enemy

Now I dialed nine one one a long time ago
Don’t you see how late they’re reactin’
They only come, and they come when they wanna
So get the morgue truck ’em back the goner
They don’t care ’cause they stay paid anyway
They treat you like an ace that can’t be betrayed
I know you stumble with no use people
If your life is on the line, then you’re dead today

Late comings with the late comin’ stretcher -
That’s a body bag in disguise - y’all I’ll betcha
I call ’em body snatchers
Quick they come to fetch you -
With an autopsy ambulance just to dissect ya

They are the kings ’cos they swing amputation
Lose your arms your legs the famous compilation
I can prove it to you watch the rotation
It all adds up to a funky situation

Get up, get get down
911 is a joke in yo town
Get up, get get down
Late 911 wears the late crown


911 is a joke , 911 is a joke

Everyday they don’t never come correct
You can ask my man right here with the broken neck
He’s a witness to the job never bein’ done
He would’ve been in full effect , 911
Is a joke because their always jokin’
They the token to your life when it’s croakin’
They need to be in a pawn shop on a 911 -
Is a joke we don’t want ’em

I call a cab ’cause a cab will come quicker
The doctors huddle up and call a flea flicker
The reason that I say that ’cause they
Flick you off like fleas
They be laughin’ at ya while you’re crawlin’ on our knees
And to the strength, so go the length
Thinkin’ you are first when you really are tenth
You better wake up and smell the real flavor
Cause 911 is a fake life saver

(chorus) (chorus)

Ow, ow 911 is a joke
911 is a joke,
911 is a joke,
911 is a joke, 911 is a joke.
(get up, get get down)
911 is a joke, 911 is a joke, 911 is a joke
(get up, get get down)
911 is a joke, 911 is a joke, 911 is a joke
(get up, get get down)

Ooooh, yeahh

*Thanks Jordan.

Lana Turner Has Collapsed

Lana Turner has collapsed! 
I was trotting along and suddenly
it started raining and snowing
and you said it was hailing
but hailing hits you on the head
hard so it was really snowing and
raining and I was in such a hurry
to meet you but the traffic
was acting exactly like the sky
and suddenly I see a headline
there is no snow in Hollywood
there is no rain in California
I have been to lots of parties
and acted perfectly disgraceful
but I never actually collapsed
oh Lana Turner we love you get up

Frank O'Hara

Vendler vs. Quinn

Edgar Allan Poe & The Juke-Box: Uncollected Poems, Drafts, and Fragments

By Elizabeth Bishop
Edited by Alice Quinn (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 367 pp., $30)

In this corner: The Grand Dame of Poetry Criticism Helen Vendler
In the other corner: The New Yorker Poetry Editor Alice Quinn

This is the NY Times article were Vendler trashes/critics Quinn:

(If the link doesn't let you read the article, google Bishop and Vendler; it's on the New Republic's Website)

More about the row: NY Times: New Elizabeth Bishop Book Sparks a Controversy

What do you think?

Submit: Boston Review Poetry Prize

Boston Review Poetry Prize

Ninth Annual Poetry Contest
Deadline: June 1, 2006
First Prize: $1,000
Judge: C.D. Wright

Complete guidelines: The winning poet will receive $1,000 and have his or her work published in the November/December 2006 issue of Boston Review. Submit up to five unpublished poems, no more than 10 pages total. Any poet writing in English is eligible, unless he or she is a current student, former student, or close personal friend of the judge. Manuscripts must be submitted in duplicate, with a cover note listing the author's name, address, and phone number; names should not be on the poems themselves. Simultaneous submissions are allowed if the Review is notified of acceptance elsewhere. Submissions will not be returned. A $15 entry fee ($25 for international submissions), payable to Boston Review must accompany all submissions. Submissions must be postmarked no later than June 1, 2006. All entrants will receive a one-year subscription to Boston Review, beginning with the November/December 2006 issue. The winner will be announced no later than November 1, 2006, on the Boston Review Web site. Send entries to:

Poetry Contest, Boston Review, E53-407 MIT, Cambridge, MA 02139

Reading: Barbara Jane Reyes

Tuesday, April 25th @ 7:00pm
The Uptown's Best Open Mic and featured poet BARBARA JANE REYES

Born in Manila, Philippines, and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area,
Barbara Jane Reyes is the recipient of the 2005 Laughlin Award from
the Academy of American Poets for her second collection, "poeta en san
francisco." This vital voice in the American literary canon plans to
share work from this collection alongside some brand new work.

Preceded by the Uptown's Best Open Mic and featuring DJ Geko Jones on
the mix...

The Bruckner Bar and Grill
1 Bruckner Boulevard (Corner of 3rd Ave)
6 Train to 138th Street Station
Hosted by Rich Villar
FREE! ($5 Suggested Donation)

Coming from Manhattan: At the 138th Street Station, exit by the last
car on the 6. Take the exit to your left, go up the stairs to your
right to exit at Lincoln Avenue. Walk down Lincoln about 5 blocks to
Bruckner Blvd, turn right on Bruckner past the bike shop. The
Bruckner Bar & Grill is on the corner.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Another Good Article from the BBC

The truth about sex

A True Friend Spits Poetry

"in support of your reading, i have put on the shirt i wore and ruined the night of the reading/me last night in prague. the dry cleaner couldn't get out the black smudge marks...here's to you."

author unknown...

Lumina: Tonight a Reading at Sarah Lawrence College 7:00 pm

The launch and 5th anniversary reading of the 2006 issue of Lumina, Sarah Lawrence's graduate literary magazine, will be held Wednesday, April 19th 7 pm at Heimbold Visual Art Center, Sarah Lawrence College (TONIGHT!). The reception will be followed by a reading at 7:30 from the works featured in this new issue.

The event is free and open to the public. The readers will be: Mark Doty, Matthea Harvey, Mary Austin Speaker, myself (DMD), and other Lumina authors.

Mary Austin Speaker is the winner (congratulations!) of this year's Lumina Poetry Contest. & I will be reading my two accepted poems: The Encyclopedia A was the Only Book in her House & Le Objet Petit a.

This is for Adam Davis...

The Reckless Sleeper, Magritte Check out his latest poem in Guernica.

Plain Sad

BBC NEWS: China selling prisoners organs.

Ridiculous. Why are kidneys being packed & sold in what looks like lunch-boxes? Humanity hits another all time low!

Sunday, April 16, 2006


I have insomnia again. It happens when I write. Problem is, now I just want to turn off. I'm not even thinking about writing anymore, I'm just thinking about stuff. Stuff, as in nothing inparticular, as in my mind feels like that Price Is Right game where dollar bills frenetically blow around a glass container.

Just want to sleep. I'm not sure why, actually I think I kind of know why, but when I have insomnia it feels like the loneliest thing in the world. Not enjoyable.

The wind rattling the streetlight outside my window reminds me of the Santa Ana Winds in California. Today, it was gorgeous in NYC. Now, nothing but wind & fallen blossoms, which is pretty, just in a different way.

It's 3:00. (AM) I don't think I'll be in REM anytime soon. Going to read Lacan. Maybe he'll put me to sleep.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others, The Smiths

"Send me the pillow, the one that you dream on. And I'll send you mine. "

Ese Hombre, La India*

ese hombre que tu vez ahi
que parece tan galante
tan atento y arogante
lo conozco como ami

ese hombre que tu vez ahi
que aparente ser divino
tan amable y efusivo
solo sabe hacer sufir

es un gran necio
un estupido engreido
egoista y caprichoso
un payaso vanidoso
inconciente y presumido
falso malo rencoroso
que no tiene corazon

lleno de celos sin razones ni motivos
como el viento impetuoso
pocas vezes carinoso
inseguro de si mismo
insoportable como amigo
insufirble como amor

solo sabe hacer sufrir
tu no tienes corazon
me enganaste con traicion tu no tienes corazon
ese hombre que tu vez ahi
parece tan amable
pero no es agradable
me enganaste con traicion tu no tienes corazon

pocas vezes carinoso
en un payaso vandioso
que me llena de dolor

tu no tienes corazon (repeat)
tu me enganaste
y me traicionaste
no te quiero ya
falso malo rencorozo
ya no te quiero mas
tu me enganaste
tu me enganaste
y me traicionaste
y me traicionaste
NO NO NO no...
no quiero vertr mas
NO NO NO ...
tu me enganaste
y me traicionaste
ah ah ya no te quiro mas
ya no voy a sufrir mas
ese hombre ya se va!

*For all you Pocha/os like myself, as well as Spanglish & Non-Spanishers, let me translate: this woman is decimating this guy, while trumpets sound off in the backround.

Thanks, Reyes!

Eduardo At McDowell

Nature Morte, Joseph Brodsky

"things drop away from man's/world--a world made with words. "

An excerpt. [June, 1971]. From A Part of Speech.

Best New Poets 2006

The Open Competition for Best New Poets 2006 is underway. Entry fee: $8. Deadline: June 15, 2006, midnight.

Best New Poets is a new, annual anthology that features 50 poems from emerging writers (poets who have not yet published a book-length collection). The 50 poems are selected from a pool of nominations from literary magazines, writing programs, and our Open Competition.

Open Competition entrants pay an $8 reading fee, receive at least one reading of their work (most receive several), and receive a copy of the anthology in the mail. Two Open Competition entrants also earn $200 cash prizes for their outstanding work. We guarantee that we will publish at least two entrants from the Open Competition, though we expect to publish many more. In 2005, 24 of our 50 poets came from Open Competition entries.

Good luck!

Friday, April 14, 2006

My Story In A Late Style Of Fire

Whenever I listen to Billie Holiday, I am reminded
That I, too, was once banished from New York City.
Not because of drugs or because I was interesting enough
For any wan, overworked patrolman to worry about—
His expression usually a great, gauzy spiderweb of bewilderment
Over his face—I was banished from New York City by a woman.
Sometimes, after we had stopped laughing, I would look
At her & see a cold note of sorrow or puzzlement go
Over her face as if someone else were there, behind it,
Not laughing at all. We were, I think, “in love.” No, I’m sure.
If my house burned down tomorrow morning, & if I & my wife
And son stood looking on at the flames, & if, then,
Someone stepped out of the crowd by bystanders
And said to me: Didn’t you once know…?” No. But if
One of the flames, rising up in the scherzo of fire, turned
All the windows blank with light, & if that flame could speak,
And if it said to me: “You loved her, didn’t you?” I ‘d answer,
Hands in my pockets, “Yes.” And then I’d let fire & misfortune
Overwhelm my life. Sometimes, remembering those days,
I watch a warm, dry wind bothering a whole line of elms
And maples along a street in this neighborhood until
They’re all moving at once, until I feel just like them,
Trembling & in unison. None of that matters now,
But I never felt alone all that year, & if I had sorrows,
I also had laughter, the affliction of angels & children.
Which can set a whole house on fire if you’d let it. And even then
You might still laugh to see all of your belongings set you free
In one long choiring of flames that sang only to you—
Either because no one else could hear them, or because
No one else wanted to. And, mostly, because they know.
They know such music cannot last, & that it would
Tear them apart if they listened. In those days,
I was, in fact, already married, just as I am now,
Although to another woman. And that day I could have stayed
In New York. I had friends there. I could have strayed
Up Lexington Avenue, or down to Third, & caught a faint
Glistening of the sea between the buildings. But all I wanted
Was to hold her all morning, until her body was, again,
A bright field, or until we both reached some thicket
As if at the end of a lane, or at the end of all desire
And where we could, therefore, be alone again, & make
Some dignity out of loneliness. As, mostly, people cannot do.
Billie Holiday, whose life was shorter & more humiliating
Than my own, would have understood all this, if only
Because even in her late addiction & her bloodstream’s
Hallelujahs, she, to, sang often of some affair, or someone
Gone, & therefore permanent. And sometimes she sang for
Nothing, even the, & it isn’t anyone’s business, if she did.
That morning, when she asked me to leave, wearing only
That apricot tinted, fraying chemise, I wanted to stay.
But I also wanted to go, to lose her suddenly, almost
For no reason, & certainly without any explanation.
I remember looking down at a pair of singular tracks
Made in a light snow the night before, at how they were
Gradually effacing themselves beneath the tires
Of the morning traffic, & rethinking that my only other choice
Was fire, ashes, abandonment, solitude. All of which happened
Anyway, & soon after, & by divorce. I know this isn’t much.
But I wanted to explain this life to you, even if
I had to become, over the years, someone else to do it.
You have to think of me what you think of me. I had
To live my life, even its late, florid style. Before
You judge this, think of her. Then think of fire,
It’s laughter, the music of splintering beams & glass,
The flames reaching through the second story of a house
Almost as if to—mistakenly—rescue someone who
Left you years ago. It is so American, fire. So like us.
Its desolation. And its eventual, brief triumph.

Larry Levis, Winter Stars 1985

Eduardo Sez: Have You Seen My Poem?

I'm this month's featured poet over at the Poetry Northwest web site.


Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Monday, April 10, 2006


Chicana Studies Issues: The editorial board of Feminist Studies is interested in poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction for a special issue in Chicana Studies. Go to www.feministstudies.org for guidelines on how to send work electronically or by mail. Deadline: May 15, 2006

Saturday, April 08, 2006

6th Avenue

Billy Bragg, New England

I was twenty one years when I wrote this song
I’m twenty two now, but I won’t be for long
People ask when will you grow up to be a man
But all the girls I loved at school
Are already pushing prams

I loved you then as I love you still
Tho I put you on a pedestal,
They put you on the pill
I don’t feel bad about letting you go
I just feel sad about letting you know

I don’t want to change the world
I’m not looking for a new england
I’m just looking for another girl
I don’t want to change the world
I’m not looking for a new england
I’m just looking for another girl

I loved the words you wrote to me
But that was bloody yesterday
I can’t survive on what you send
Every time you need a friend

I saw two shooting stars last night
I wished on them but they were only satellites
Is it wrong to wish on space hardware
I wish, I wish, I wish you’d care

I don’t want to change the world
I’m not looking for a new england
I’m just looking for another girl

Alone Again Or, The Damned

Yeah said it’s alright

I won’t forget

All the times

I waited patiently for you

As you do just what you choose to do

And I will be alone again tonight my dear

Yeah I heard a funny thing

Somebody said to me

That you could be in love

With almost anyone

You think people are the greatest fun

And I will be alone again tonight for you

Hey said it’s alright

You know I won’t forget

All the times

I waited patiently for you

Now, you do just what

You choose to do

And I will be alone again tonight it’s true

*Okay. The lyrics aren't muy complicado, but the song is mad-great (as are most of the songs lyrics I try and post).

Random Thoughts: Food Network

Rachel Ray: I like Rachel Ray. She’s got booty. However, she can be annoying with her emphaticisms. But I do like what she cooks, despite her exaggeratory gesticulations. I hear she’s making millions now. She’s got a new show where they fly her out & she chills and gets to spend over 40 dollars a day. The funny part is every time I’ve seen her visit different places, she’ll walk into the local novelty store and buys the ugliest trinket/souvenir in the house!

Did you know she posed for FHM?? See side pic of Ray & collander. Basically, I think she's cutie pie.

Paula Dean: Chocolate covered potato eggs? She brings her two boys on the set sometimes. I think her husband die-vorced her and she got her life together and started the show (good for her) (I was too lazy to read the chef-ographys Food Network offers). I’ll admit, I would like to eat rack of lamb & potato salad & chocolate cake for Easter. But every day? I don’t think I need to learn how to prepare chicken fried steak and french fries. So, I love what she makes, but to be practical, I think it would kill me if I ate the stuff on a daily basis. I like her personality. She seems like she’d be fun to tequila shot with.

Semi Home Made with Sandra Lee: One word: boring. She’ll throw apple sauce & cinnamon into yellow cake mix and call it apple cake. I like more complicated recipes. The show also seems geared to “dear” things. Current episode: How to make an Easter Bunny Cake.

Barefoot Contessa: I feel bad for her! I recently saw an episode where she cooked brunch for herself & her husband and he was kind of ignoring her. Maybe he was just uncomfortable on camera. But--this woman is cooking crab cakes for breakfast--I thought the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach?

Oh, it might just be me, but it always seems like she’s out of breathe when she’s stirring something. I wonder if she’s an undercover smoker.

Unwrapped: I’d rather not know what is in a Vienna sausage.

Giada (sp.?): I promise, I’m not hating. But why does she have to over-pronounce everything? Parma-jjjjjohnnoooo! Re-Kaughta! It’s like we know you’re Italian already! Just arrange your antipasti. I’ve also seen her boss her kitchen-helper-guests around, which I don’t think is very nice. Not that this matters, but her family is loaded and I once saw an episode where she bought hand-made 700 dollar/euro shoes in Rome.

Emeril: I was starting to backlash against Bam! Until I a saw an episode where he reconstructed an entire Harlem School/Kitchen, supplied the kids with groceries, invited them out to his food show, pimped out the kitchen, and had artisans throw mosaics of Malcolm X & M. Ali on the pillars of the school. I might have had PMS but I remember crying at certain points. So nice of him! Previously, the school was keeping their oven door closed with string.

Also, helikes using butter, which is key to my heart.

Healthy Appetite with Ellie Krieger: Haven’t seen this. But since I promise myself, every other day, I’m going to start eating healthier, I might find this show interesting.

Sidenote: What happened to 2 Hot Tamales?

Ham on the Street: I’ve never seen his show, just the commercial. But the commercials are funny in a boy-sorority-ha-ha-I-can-drink-a-keg-of-beer kind of way. His upcoming show is about things that are fried & on a stick. I have tried a deep fried Oreo, so this show may be fun.

Iron Chef: By chance, I watched this show and realized it’s now a competition in English. I kind of miss the weird voice-overs. The woman actress/judge on the old show had a voice like Hello Kitty. I was amused. But I do appreciate that I don’t have to watch chefs prepare eel meatloaf, or crab eyes a la lemongrass. I didn’t find the meals appetizing.

Know I’ve missed some. Bobby Flay. The Blond Guy who tells you what temp water boils, and a dark haired man who looks like he’d make a good husband.

Friday, April 07, 2006


I'm back in NYC but off to Carnegie hall for a little Beethoven. Indiana was mad-great! After rest, I will give details of the Indiana Review Reading, which went, totally well.

You Are What You Love, Jenny Lewis with the Watson Twins

This is no great illusion
When I'm with you I'm looking for a ghost
Or invisible reasons
To fall out of love and run screaming from our home

Because we live in a house of mirrors
We see our fears and everything
Our songs, faces, and second hand clothes
But more and more we're suffering
Not nobody, not a thousand beers
Will keep us from feeling so all alone

But you are what you love
And not what loves you back
That's why I'm here on your doorstep
Pleading for you to take me back

The phone is a fine invention
It allows me to talk endlessly to you
About nothing disguising my intentions
Which I'm afraid, my friend, are wildly untrue

It's a sleight of hand, a white soul band
The heart attacks I'm convinced I have
Every morning upon waking
To you I'm a symbol or a monument
Your rite of passage to fulfillment
But I'm not yours for the taking

But you are what you love
And not what loves you back
So I guess that's why you keep calling me back

I'm fraudulent, a thief at best
A coward who paints a bullshit canvas
Things that will never happen to me
But at arms length, it's Tim who said
I'm good at it, I've mastered it
Avoiding, avoiding everything

But you are what you love, Tim
And not what loves you back
And I'm in love with illusions
So saw me in half
I'm in love with tricks
So pull another rabbit out of your hat

Rabbit Fur Coat, 2006

Wednesday, April 05, 2006


If I post freewrites/journal entries/poems on the blog, are these postings considered "electronic publications?" Making them ineligible for first-time publication?

NaPoWriMo: Catholic Style

I first read NaPoWriMo and was thinking of googling the word until I realized it was short for: National Poetry Writing Month!! I'm slow, but so is the sun in coming to April, so today is my April 1st. 5 days late, I'm recognizing.

My close friends & now blog-city know I'm an overt complainer that is suffering from post-MFA hell/post-partum poetry writing depression/or just plain fear of the line, the break, and the penultimate lineage of all poetic things.

I feel guilty. I'm not attempting a poem a day, or even posting lines that zap me while listening to people sleep, kiss, and curse on the subway. What is wrong with me? I freewrite every morning, why can't I just post that?

I realize I need to rise to the adult occasion and suck it up and just post the shiznit on the site. I'll post by the days that happen in April & hope I don't fall so hard, I become part of the liquid flowage purported to exist in mid-earth.

Hasta Basta! Guilt wins again. Read my posts soon.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Details for Reading on Thursday

I'll be reading Thursday, April 7 in Bloomington, IN. These are the details:

The reading is at 730pm in Chemistry 122 on the Indiana University campus.
The reception is at Tutto Bene on 213 South Rogers Street at 9p.


Here's Another

16. "A cage went in search of a bird."

The Blue Octavo Notebooks--Franz Kafka

Excerpt from: Reflections on Sin, Suffering, Hope, and the True Way

8. "It is like the struggle with women, which ends in bed."

The Blue Octavo Notebooks--Franz Kafka

Monday, April 03, 2006

Quick Hello from Eduardo

Hello Darlings!

This is a quick post from the MacDowell Colony. I'm having a great time here. I'm in love with MacDowell.

I'm giving a reading this Friday in downtown Peterborough. If you're in the area drop by and say hi.

For National Poetry Month, MacDowell has two local events. The first occurs this Friday at MacDowell Downtown. Readings by poets Serena Fox and Eduardo C. Corral begin at 7:30 p.m. at the Peterborough Historical Society.

Also, I've been given TWO more weeks at MacDowell. So I'm returning to Urbana sometime in early May. Yeah!

I hope Diana will continue guest-blogging for me!

Next time I post I will upload some pictures of my studio and surrounding area.

Kiss, kiss

Eduardo C. Corral

Movie Rec: Slither

Slither: A movie that knows its genre and does it well. If you want to be grossed out & laugh your arse off, see this movie. Despite my wooping cough, that was at Level Red Terror Alert, I managed to enjoy this flick & reccommend it.

The Rumor is Confirmed

Okay, this photo was taken during my high school realm, so don't rag on the attire & coif. I was at Magic Mountain for gawd's sake!

I've bragged about this pic for a long time and decided to pull it out of the Delgado Archive to prove this picture with ( ? ) was not a fictitious event.

To many, this guy is (was) way famous. Who is he?

Sunday, April 02, 2006

The Monkeywrench as Saboteur

Since it's 3:22 AM and no one in NYC is awake, and even my mother in California was sounding a little bored with me via the telefono, I thought I'd go on a belligerant rant pertaining to my favorite topic: Nonsense.

Given this specification, I'd like to talk about the word "monkey wrench." Where does it come from? What does it mean? Why do I derive so much pleasure in fitting this crazy little word into conversations?

First example:

"He totally threw a monkeywrench into my weekend. I'm F'ed! "

Another fav:

"Basically, she's nothing but a monkeywrench"*

*I thought I'd give you a break and not use the F word in this example. Metaphor at its best!

Here, I've turned it into a sort of multi-purpose verb:

"My rent is monkeywrenching the F out of my bank account."

Now, some etymological discourse...

Monkey Wrench

What monkey wrenches have to do with monkeys is unknown. The term for a wrench with an adjustable jaw dates to the early 19th century and is originally British, although now is chiefly North American in usage. It has been suggested that the monkey is an alteration (folk etymology) of the inventor's name, but this explanation lacks supporting evidence.

The phrase to throw a monkey wrench into the machinery dates to 1918, although the metaphorical sense of throwing a monkey wrench, meaning an obstacle or hindrance, is a bit older. On 30 July 1907 the Chicago Tribune published the following:

It should look to them as if he were throwing a monkeywrench into the only market by visiting that Cincinnati circus upon the devoted heads of Kentucky's best customers.

The British version of this phrase, to throw a spanner into the works, dates to 1934.

(Source: Oxford English Dictionary Online)

Wikepedia gives different versions: monkey wrench. They're probably both right. Although, lately, I've been hearing some nasty things about Wikpedia (that their information is not sturdy).

Post Scriptum: This post is dedicated to Amanda Pennelly, who puts up with my monkeywrench sarcasm.

The Reckless Sleeper, Magritte

I have insomnia. It's 2 am.

This happens to me, every once in awhile, mostly if I have things on my mind ( I do, I do, I do).
I think I'm nervous about flying to Indiana. I get nervous about flying. I do it, I don't say much when I'm doing it, but it's always the week beforehand that I get the little freakouts. I'm also planning on heading to Mexico this summer, so there is another long flight I'm not looking forward to. Lots of unmentionables.

I was on a writing jag today, so that didn't help (I'm not complaining about that). I wrote from 2 in the afternoon 'till about 10. It didn't even feel that long, which is good. It's actually the first day I've written proper in a long time. I wanted to reward myself and have a cigarette on a bench break, but I have this horrible cold that keeps coming back every two weeks (Go away!). Thus, no cigarette, just Chinese takeout, which is, and always will be, key to my heart.

Before the post, I reread a passage from Lolita. I did this because I didn't want to read something that was going to make me think too hard. Nabokov's sentences are seamless, they flow and bounce like bubbles! (If you haven't read Lolita, stop here)

I reread the part where Humbert Humbert visits the grown, pregnant, Lolita. It's this way ridiculous sequence of emotions that happens in about 5 pages. It's so endearing, it's creepy. He loves her, He loves her, He loves her. And then you realize, and he does too, that he screwed up her life (this is the succinct editorial of what happens).

And when he drives off, "the dog started to lope alongside my car like a fat dolphin."

Nabokov is my maestro...

Saturday, April 01, 2006

Come back from San Franciso, The Magnetic Fields

Come back from San Francisco.
It can't be all that pretty,
when all of New York City misses you.
Should pretty boys in discos distract you from your novel,
remember I'm awful in love with you.

**You need me like the wind needs the trees to blow in.
Like the moon needs poetry, you need me. **

Come back from San Francisco and kiss me; I've quit smoking.
I miss doing the wild thing with you.
Will you stay? I don't think so,
but all I do is worry, pack bags, call cabs, and hurry home to me.


When you betray me, betray me with a kiss.
Damn you. I've never stayed up as late as this.

2 Weeks 2 Go

I received a postcard from Eduardo yesterday (He's at McDowell). For those that miss his hilarious postings (I do), he'll be back in about two weeks.

I haven't decided if I'll start my own blog. I'll see how I feel in two weeks.

See How Fast The Weather Changes?

Mostly cloudy. Showers likely with a chance of thunderstorms. Some thunderstorms may produce gusty winds. Highs in the upper 60s. Southwest winds 15 to 20 mph. Chance of rain 60 percent.
After the Grand Perhaps
by Lucie Brock-Broido

After vespers, after the first snow
has fallen to its squalls, after New Wave,
after the anorectics have curled
into their geometric forms,
after the man with the apparition
in his one bad eye has done red things
behind the curtain of the lid and sleeps,
after the fallout shelter in the elementary school
has been packed with tins and other tangibles,
after the barn boys have woken, startled
by foxes and fire, warm in their hay, every part
of them blithe and smooth and touchable,
after the little vandals have tilted
toward the impossible seduction
to smash glass in the dark, getting away
with the most lethal pieces, leaving
the shards which travel most easily
through flesh as message
on the bathroom floor, the parking lots,
the irresistible debris of the neighbor's yard
where he's been constructing all winter long.
After the pain has become an old known
friend, repeating itself, you can hold on to it.
The power of fright, I think, is as much
as magnetic heat or gravity.
After what is boundless: wind chimes,
fertile patches of the land,
the ochre symmetry of fields in fall,
the end of breath, the beginning
of shadow, the shadow of heat as it moves
the way the night heads west,
I take this road to arrive at its end
where the toll-taker passes the night, reading.
I feel the cupped heat
of his left hand as he inherits
change; on the road that is not his road
anymore, I belong to whatever it is
which will happen to me.
When I left this city I gave back
the metallic waking in the night, the signals
of barges moving coal up a slow river north,
the movement of trains, each whistle
like a woodwind song of another age
passing, each ambulance would split a night
in two, lying in bed as a little girl,
a fear of being taken with the sirens
as they lit the neighborhood in neon, quick
as the fire as it takes fire
and our house goes up in night.
After what is arbitrary: the hand grazing
something too sharp or fine, the word spoken
out of sleep, the buckling of the knees to cold,
the melting of the parts to want,
the design of the moon to cast
unfriendly light, the dazed shadow
of the self as it follows the self,
the toll-taker's sorrow
that we couldn't have been more intimate.
Which leads me back to the land,
the old wolves which used to roam on it,
the one light left on the small far hill
where someone must be living still.
After life there must be life.