Also, a Taint Joke In there Somewhere. . .

Oblong table, grandma at one head
and the kids and parents all on Chili
with cheese, theology and consequence
hanging from the chandelier like decorative
eggs, over the spoon-beatings the youngest
gives her beans and meat.
Consequences.
Reactions.
Spirals.
The pull of corrupting influence,
our matriarch nodding about "bad influences
tainting" like sour cream in good chili
or bits of peppers, why are there always
peppers, gross, eventually becoming a
veritable morass that sucks one into it,
such truth.
the family that prays together.
wisdom, generational.
Catching on, in the dining room, not-as-little
sister observes sagely that it's always good to avoid
sucking morasses, if there were a corner, mother's
look says, you'd be standing in it. Grandma
continues, unabated, eating, littlest sister continues
failing to stir. At some point someone says "you guys!"
And the theology still hangs from the chandelier
they put in my alotment of upcoming testaments;
you don't have to carry it with you, but you'll
have to come back and get it some day, this black
and white, bound-by-the-holders of your silverware,
finish the cold chili and face whether this is
the dish you'll serve to your own-- wait, sucking morass
gah, ugh. Duh. So bad.

GSH

R.I.P.

There'll be peace.

Flaying Babies

Piling up some rejection e-mails from places I'd like to be published in less because I read themm all the time and more because it'd be cool to say "I've been published in___________"

That said, hell or highwater, I'm compiling a new collection to send to various places and people, specifically with the intention of not self-publishing this time around. It's not that I'm "done" with Self-Publishing, but I wouldn't help footing the bill, booking gigs and whatnot. Already stacking up pieces; range from a few pieces I'm already-sorta-sick-of-reading-live to stuff written just the other day.
More on this as it develops, or not.

Toda at the Loft (from whence I write this) I helped a high schooler write a paper on A Modest Proposal. Saying that essay is still a high-water mark in satire is like commenting on the wetness of water, the greasiness of cheap pizza, the annoying irritation that are lapdogs.
But still-- you forget how dark it is until you're trying to work "making boots out of the skinned babies" into a rhetorical essay about exaggerated persona.

Because I don't have that much to say about "Goblin"

I wrote about Police Teeth.

and how "post punk" is not a thing.

and now I'm going to watch a new Archer episode. Days on are half on, days off are half-off. So it goes.

Meeting Neighborhood Needs

it's commonly agreed that knife-throwing
is a good reason to end a relationship,
or a good way to end a relationship,
all the helping idea books say so.

it's with this in mind that there are such large
magnets overhead,to keep the hand-holding
and quicking kissing going.
as the tourists or townspeople walk through
this district, staring at tea-shop windows
or contemplating vintage autos,
all the knives are sucked from their pockets.

the money, too, but no one ends
relationships over that, the helping books
advise that there are deeper and greater
rewards than pennies flying out of pants.

it's with this in mind that the following district
is furnished with gorgeous apartments
for people to have sex in public places
in which to loudly discuss the length and curve
of pubic hairs and then laugh and
say "oh, you're so bad," because this is part
of an open society and plus, what else will people do
once their wallet has been stolen by sky-magnet;
can't get back-- one needs money for the trolley.

Body Party . . .

can now be found online at the current issue of beat the dust.
Thanks to David Oprava for the nomination.

Other news, Saturday was the Your Hands Your Mouth release party for issues 8 and 9. We had ten people reading in the living room. TEN. And hey, it went well. Readers (from last to first): Robert Lashley, Greg Bem, Jessica Lohafer, Jay Steingold, Chris Gusta (break!) Cate McGehee, Ryan Johnson, Caren Scott, Rainey Warren and Jake Tucker.


Phew.