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

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

One Contest; One Open Reading Period

The Gatewood Prize is Switchback Books' annual competition for a first or second full-length (48-80 pp.) collection of poems by a woman writing in the English language. It is named after Emma Gatewood, the first woman to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail.

Judge: Cathy Park Hong

Reading Period: March 1 - June 1, 2010

Complete guidelines here.


Four Way Books June Open Reading Period

Full guidelines here.

tuesday bits (for naren)

currently listening to lcd soundsystem's new disc. it's good, not great. my favorite track is home. the song sounds like hot chip, no?
last night i dreamt that sarah palin gave me a kiss. what does that mean???
this had me laughing like crazy: homoerotic street signs. not safe for work. unless you work at abercrombie & fitch.
shameless plug.
currently reading the latest issue of kenyon review. thank you, cynthia!
paul martinez pompa has a cool new website. check it.
suddenly the world is full of strangers...

recent Google searches that led to my blog

breadloaf 2010
aaron baker poet
california drivers license
window slut
poems rigoberto gonzalez
lauper lipstick
starbucks hotties
iowa writers' workshop
gay poems

Thursday, May 20, 2010

bread loaf 2010 bits

facebook is awash in bread loaf news. some people got in. yeah! some people did not. better luck next year, losers! just kidding!!
take some freaking bug spray. the bugs up on the mountain will eat you alive. i had to leave one reading because i was sitting next to an open door and these mosquitoes the size of toenails kept stabbing and stabbing me.
if you're a poet, introduce yourself to the fiction writers. and viceversa
do mosquitoes have toes? no, they don't.
if you're a waiter or a scholar: be nice to everyone. don't look down on those who don't have the same finanical aid package as you. i hate that shit. i walk away from those type of people at conferences. don't buy the hype. don't support hierarchies.
don't be a starfucker.
the library and most of the dorms have access to the internet. but all the stuff you've heard about cellular service is true. you won't be able to make calls on campus. for the most part. there's a magical boulder on campus that you can stand on, and if you wave your cell phone around and around then you might be able to make a call.
there's a very small but cool bookstore on campus. you can buy books written by the faculty and the fellows and the special guests. you can buy toothpaste, soap and lady products. you can candy cars and sodas. you can buy postcards. you can buy bread loaf cups, hoodies, t-shirts. i bought myself a baby blue t-shirt last year. oh yeah.
pace yourself! there's so much to do. i tried to do everything the first six days, which wore me out like crazy. it's okay to skip a reading or a dinner or a lecture.
watch what you do and say. the walls there have eyes and ears. i'm just saying.
make meaningful and lasting connections with your peers. you will meet some amazing writers. be kind and thoughtful and real.
take pics and post them on your blog! i want to see them.
don't oogle or touch the literary stars! they're people just like you and me. they're not goats and ponies at a petting zoo!
have fun!

Monday, May 17, 2010


i have something very important to say.
But music has something rhetoric does not. I mean bodily force. The sounds of poems produce their own images, and have their own animal alertness.
i had the day off today. and tomorrow i also don't work. oh yeah.
The Cleveland State University Poetry Center has something special going on in its New Poetry Series. I was surprised at the list of wonderful poets on their website, and met a few new poets there. As a reader of Octopus, one poet I came across was familiar to me: Mathias Svalina.
okay, so i don't have something important to say.

Hottie of the week: Rhett Giles

a money saving tip for all NYC artists who love the MoMA

I remembered someone had told me MoMA gives artists discounts on admission. All you need to do is prove you're an artist. So I biked over to 53rd Street with a postcard from my film Tango Octogenario and sure enough, it's true. $25 "allows unlimited free admission to the Museum galleries and films for the pass holder only" for one year!

Karen J. Weyant on Suzanne Frischkorn

Frischkorn opens her book with a poem titled “Great Lash” — in many ways a poem that is the perfect prologue to this work. The girls in this poem wander cornfields that are “paved in asphalt” and walked barefoot on streets “laid with tar.” These girls, as described by a sharp decisive voice, say “We cut school and watched Foxes/We cut school and drank vodka/We cut school and got stoned/ did our makeup, walked the streets.”

love this poem

The Dragon

The bees came out of the junipers, two small swarms
The size of melons; and golden, too like melons,
They hung next to each other, at the height of a deer’s breast
Above the wet black compost. And because
The light was very bright it was hard to see them,
And harder still to see what hung between them.
A snake hung between them. The bees held up a snake,
Lifting each side of his narrow neck, just below
The pointed head, and in this way, very slowly
They carried the snake through the garden,
The snake’s long body hanging down, its tail dragging
The ground, as if the creature were a criminal
Being escorted to execution or a child king
To the throne. I kept thinking the snake
Might be a hose, held by two ghostly hands,
But the snake was a snake, his body green as the grass
His tail divided, his skin oiled, the way the male member
Is oiled by the female’s juices, the greenness overbright,
The bees gold, the winged serpent moving silently
Through the air. There was something deadly in it,
Or already dead. Something beyond the report
Of beauty. I laid my face against my arm, and there
It stayed for the length of time it takes two swarms
Of bees to carry a snake through a wide garden,
Past a sleeping swan, past the dead roses nailed
To the wall, past the small pond. And when
I looked up the bees and the snake were gone,
But the garden smelled of broken fruit, and across
the grass a shadow lay for which there was no source,
A narrow plinth dividing the garden, and the air
Was like the air after a fire, or before a storm,
Ungodly still, but full of shapes turning.

Brigit Pegeen Kelly

Thursday, May 13, 2010


i had mince pie for the first time yesterday. it tasted like xmas.
now that i've been oh-so-quickly rejected by bpj i have to send my poems somewhere else. but where should i send them? how about to uranus? ha, ha, ha. thank you, thank you! i will be here all week.
i miss james allen hall.
saw iron man 2 last saturday. what a bore! but i'm a sucker for comic book movies. i'll watch them all.
james franco has directed a 14-minute film based on spencer reece's poem "the clerk's tale."

that was quick

last night (let me state that again: last night!) i submitted three poems to beloit poetry journal via their online submission manager. early this morning (let me state that again: early this morning!) i got a rejection note.

this is the fastest i've ever been rejected.

i'm so glad al gore invented the internet.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

3 bits

Four poems by Ana Božičević.
J. Michael Martinez has launched a new-and-improved website. He's very handsome. And those glasses are killer.
Karen Schubert on Mark Levine:
Levine is in dialog with other poets from various schools throughout his body of work. The poems have a confessional feel to them – in the way they deal with personal failure and disappointment, in their unabashed nudity. However, unlike confessional poems, there is not a singular persona in these poems who is an obvious extension of the life of Mark Levine. Some of the poems have a Frank O’Hara feel to them...

Rider on a Horse: Mixed Media on Paper: Martin Ramirez: 1954

Martín Ramírez was a self-taught artist who spent most of his adult life institutionalized in California mental hospitals, diagnosed as a catatonic schizophrenic.
More work HERE.


tough and crazy days, no?
i'm at a starbucks. there's a superhot guy next to me. should i bat my lashes?
nevermind! the supercute guy is wearing crocs. yuck. moving on.
currently listening to juan gabriel and rufus wainwright.
pics of martín espada & paul martínez pompa reading.
i need to send some freaking poems out. but i don't like to send out during the summer. maybe i should wait until the fall? what to do? what to do?
c.k. williams on walt whitman: I refer to him as being something like the subconscious, the unconscious of American poetry.
why do cute guys wear crocs?

Monday, May 10, 2010

love this poem

Walter B. Needs Some Time

When Walter B., one evening, explained to Beatrice that he “needed time,” Beatrice pulled the last bite of fish from Walter B.’s mouth and shook it at him. She wished he had said instead that he needed a timbrel, and off they would have gone together to the spectacle where the timbrelist often played. But Walter B. did not need a timbrel. Walter B. “needed time.” So Beatrice wrapped what was left of the fish in a red wool cloth and set out to find him some. It was cold outside. If I was time, wondered Beatrice, where would I be? She watched the humans in the distance breathe into the grass. If I was time, wondered Beatrice, how would I remind myself of where I was? She held the last bite of fish up to her mouth for warmth. It began to feel heavy in her hands. She wished he had said instead that he needed a timbrel. She wished she was for Walter B. the time he needed. But she was not. She unwrapped the last bite of fish and studied it. It reminded her of a world inside of which Walter B. was mostly gone. She rubbed her arms with it. She buried her face in it. It began to grow around her like a soft, white house. It grew, and it grew, until at last Beatrice was inside. She slowly walked through its rooms. In the first room, a pile of shovels. In the second, a pitcher of milk. When she stepped inside the third, Walter B. and the timbrelist were helping each other on with their coats. “If you were time,” called out Walter B., “where would you be?” Before Beatrice could answer, Walter B. saluted her, took the timbrelist by the hand, and left her alone in the soft, white house. Beatrice sat on the floor. Much later she would drink from the pitcher of milk. She would lean against the pile of shovels. But for now all Beatrice could do was sit on the floor. She would sit on the floor of the soft, white house until she grew hungry again for Walter B.’s last bite of fish.

Sabrina Orah Mark


three poems by Carmen Calatayud

Saturday, May 08, 2010

RIP: Rane Arroyo


We met in proud Utah and wore opaque
vodka on those vague Sundays for the
unfaithful on your dangling back porch
while dreaming of the very New York

where we entangled for the last time.
Te quiero, you said there, my ears as
paths. You then vanished with a macho
because I had a lover, because we’d

never ride across Russia together in
that frozen train, because listening
to A Chorus Line all those weekends
didn’t teach us the foreign language

of our bodies, because of your career
as a model after years as a military
mannequin, because we never expected
adios to be our actual parting last word.

Because, because, and because. You
turned around to stare at me and I waved
back: I love you too. What an education:
poetry always demands all my ghosts.

Rane Arroyo

Thursday, May 06, 2010

Darcie Dennigan interviews Elisa Gabbert

Here’s how I feel about the phrase “woman writer.” I’m a woman, and I’m a writer; insofar as English syntax allows nouns to be used as modifiers, I’m a woman writer, by definition. I don’t know what else that phrase could mean.

Getting a Word In

Very sad,
Having to
Come out of nowhere,

The rain
We’ve been waiting for
Is waiting too.

By now,
Have had enough daylight.

They’d like,
To sleep it off.

If nothing
Else, nothing

Behind our backs
Things mean themselves.
Violins crack

From wanting to exist.
It’s hard, getting a word in.
I’m waiting

To arrive inside my clothes,
If nothing else,

To be (having to
Come out of nowhere)
Very sad.

James Galvin


gosh, some poets make me laugh with their sadness. they savor every little crumb tossed their way. so sad.
palabra is accepting submissions now! i'm going to send.
i'm feeling good about my own work these days. rare thing.
Russell Crowe:'I'm not a hard man, I like poetry and wear make-up for a living'
congrats to my buddy tomas q. morin who got a scholarship to attend the P-Town workshops this summer!
i kissed a frog today.

Monday, May 03, 2010

and the winner is...

JayTee! Contact me and I'll send you the three books.