Avoiding the Questions

I was passed the music baton a couple weeks ago but the only music I've been listening to has been wails and whines. Too brain dead to try to don my "Wanting to be Tony Robinson" hat. I don't even have it in me to think of a dream room writing studio. All I need is a little silence and I'm not getting it. If you want a response, you're going to have to taunt and insult me.

The last minute subs for No Tell and the Bedside Guide are still trickling in -- today's the last day. Molly and I haven't made any decisions on the Bedside Guide, but we're very pleased with the poems sent our way. It's gonna blow off your skivvies. I think we got ourselves a designer to do the cover too. We intend on getting back to all the Bedside Guide subs by the end of June/early July. General No Tell subs should be responded to in the next two weeks.

Attended The Happy Booker birthday dinner yesterday evening. She reminded me that my Crucial Rooster deadline is fast approaching. Last week she asked me what kind of art do I envision to along with the column. Any ideas? I'm thinking a deep fried beak.

This Week at the No Tell

Rebecca Loudon has a serious assitude this week at No Tell Motel.

Regret?

Maybe I'll regret making that last post. Stirring the pot.

I don't know.

What I do know is that I fucking hate being bullied.

How Does One Say "Go Fuck Yourself" in Genius?: An Open Letter

Dear Pulitzer Prize Winner [Name Removed to Prevent Further "Taunting"]

I guess you spend so much time self-googling and send so many bitchy little e-mails you forget who've you already pissed all over. Let me refresh your memory, I already had the pleasure of hearing from you back in January, when I was 9 months pregnant. For no good reason you sent a vile e-mail informing me of my "rediculous" mediocrity and that my ilk and I were lice. On reflection, I must have been suffering a serious case of hormones because I was much much much too kind to you. I am no longer pregnant and I am no longer weepy. So when I come home from a pleasant Saturday evening on the town and find this pathetic repeat on my blog, well . . .

I have no idea why you haven't been shamed into silence by now. Do you have no friends willing to point out that sending psycho e-mails and letters makes you a laughing stock? I am not your friend and since receiving your messages I am quite positive that I don't like you. You've already pointed out my glaring insufficiencies before. I am aware of your opinion. There is no reason to ever contact me again. You're creepy.

Signed,
Reb

Oh Praise Jesus!

Chris just got back. He was in Colorado all week and the week before he was in Seattle. The only time I was able to get work done was after midnight when Gideon finally falls asleep. So I was staying up until 4 or 5 a.m. No wonder I'm having so many near death experiences.

The Carrboro Poetry Festival was akin to French kissing Jesus. Can I say that? Yes, I think I can.

Ken Rumble links to everyone's CPF thoughts, except mine. Not like I'm bitter or anything.

I kind of like that Craft Corner Deathmatch.

Last Call

If you intend on submitting poems for The Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel, send them by May 31.

Also, regular submissions to No Tell Motel will be accepted until May 31 as well. The reading period will re-open in September.

Snaps

Gabe Gudding has posted a bunch of Carrboro pics.

CHA CHING!

I always enjoy Roderick's blog because it's such a sweet stroll down memory lane. For instance, here he reminds me of Craig, someone I haven't thought of for a very long time. My previous cube neighbor was, all hell, I forget his name, I think it was John and John would spend the days saying "Cool, this is so cool, oh wow, is this cool." See, John always wanted me to jump up from my seat and rush over so he could show me something dumb. I'd pretend I was so immersed in my work that I couldn't hear him. When they moved John to another cube and put Craig in his spot I was ecstatic. Initially. While Craig never felt the need to show me anything he would yell out CHA CHING every fifteen minutes or so. CHA CHING! Occasionally he'd yell SWEET. But usually it was CHA CHING! I never quite got the context. I missed John.

Roderick has a new novel out from Spork Press, TROPIC/OF/CUBICLE. I'm definitely going to have to get it.

I wanted to be Blake

You are William Wordsworth! You get a bad rap
these days, alas. Many people think you
oppressed Coleridge, but there really isn't
much proof. You may have oppressed the women
in your life, but hey, everyone was doing it.
You honestly love nature, and admire an
aesthetic of simplicity and honesty. You love
Milton and human freedom, though some say you
sold out in the end. Oh dear. But you left us
"Tintern Abby" and "The Solitary
Reaper," bless your heart.


Which Major Romantic Poet Would You Be (if You Were a Major Romantic Poet)?
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That Last Post . . .

. . . should have been titled "I enjoy being a slut."

That's a refrigerator magnet I got for Tender Buttons one year at Christmas.

My point about "vanilla" (that I forgot to make over the five hours it took to write it -- no, I didn't spend five hours writing it. I was interrupted a lot.) was that many of the poets were so dazzling I felt rather plain. I usually don't feel plain.

Which I think is why I removed the tank top I originally had underneath the shirt I wore on Sunday. So I would not feel plain.

My Vanilla Angst

I'm going to attempt to describe my Carrboro Poetry Festival experience. This is not an all encompassing recap. I lack the fortitute. I am not going to mention every single person I heard read or interacted with. There were 39 readings and I probably met 100 people. If I stuck my thumb up your ass and fail to mention it here, please don't feel like it was cheap or meaningless. Quite the contrary. There are some things that are too sacred to put on a blog. I respect you too much to exploit you or our memories.

Overall impression, holy crap. Patrick Herron put together an amazing two day event. From his selection of poets to the way he set up the readings to the excitement and vitality that gushed forth. (gushed forth? Can't I think of a better way to say that? No, I cannot. Think geysers and garden hoses and dams bursting, yes, dams bursting in air.)

Anybody who was everybody was there. If you weren't there, you should ask yourself why.

I'll start with the mean things I said to people. Things I shouldn't say, but do anyway. Friday night I met Christian Bok and he was all "my reading is going to blow your mind" and I thought if I had a nickel everytime some dude said that to me I'd be in Atlantic City playing the slots for life. But by golly, his reading did blow my mind. I had never heard anything like it. For a sample of what he read, you can listen here and here. So afterwards I said "Wow, and all this time I thought you were just a stuck-up asshole, but that was great." See, this is what I do when I feel my work is inferior to another's, I make the offending author feel like there's something wrong with him. It's my way of leveling the field. Like when I called Gabe Gudding a pinko and teased him about his meditation practices. Later I had to explain to him that I'm cruelest to those I adore most. Heidi Lynn Staples said, "But you've been really nice to me." And yes, that was true, so I had to revise my statement. I'm cruelest to the men I adore most. You just can't be cruel to woman. Because unlike men, they'll lash back on your ass and get you good. Ten years later you'll find her in bed with your husband and you'll ask why and she'll bring up a slight you completely forgotten. Whereas men will just silently seethe, "Why doesn't she like me?" Well, I did call Amy King a bitch for missing my reading but she knew I was joking. Or was I? In ten years will she come home and find me in bed with her lover?

I tried calling Randall Williams a pinko, but he's made of tougher stuff than most. Rolled right off him.

Things I didn't say, but wish I had. I wish I told Harryette Mullen how out of all the poetry books I've read to Gideon, he responded to Sleeping with the Dictionary the most. Or to Philip Nikolayev how after a weekend of doing home improvements in preparation for Gid, Chris and I stayed up late giggling reading out loud poems from Monkey Time.

Saying the nice things is much more difficult.

Another odd thing was meeting in person folks I had been corresponding with because they almost never are what I construct in my head. Julian Semilian is not 25 years old. Chris Vitiello is not a dirty hippie. He didn't even have an offensive odor. Who knew?

Some people came close to my mental expectation. Allyssa Wolf is indeed a sexy bitch. Ken Rumble is warm and funny and his fiance, Kathryn is beautiful and smart.

Thinking, thinking, what other words were shared?

Oh yes, after my reading Standard Schaefer called me a slut.

But in a good way. A nice way.

Hey Z

On my way home from Pilates this morning I drove down the wrong side of the median (like an asshole) for about 10 seconds before I realized what I was doing. This was on a road I've been driving on almost every day for the past 10 years.

Does this mean I'm tired?

No more operating heavy machinery until I get a nap.

I found an interesting review of No Tell that wonders whether or not we're superficial and thinks some of the poems we publish sacrifice feeling. The reviewer feels many of the poems suffer from overly self-conscious girliness or sexiness. Not sure what's wrong with that. Isn't there room for the girlie girls at the big poetry table too? Can't we all just be who we really are and stop trying to act like poets?

Oh and we're not "desperate" (that's a TV show), we're naughty. Big difference.

There were a few nice things written too, but I'm only focusing on the less flattering because that's what I do. Of course Molly and I disagree with all the critical comments (we wouldn't have picked the poems if we didn't think they kicked ass).

I simply can't imagine reading a Karl Parker poem and not instantly falling in love.


Oh Carrboro, I only tasted a drop of the moonshine. Why do I feel like I drank the whole jar?

Oh yes, and . . .

I'm back from the Carrboro Festival.

It was very nice.





OMFG, what a bunch of freakin' sodomites. To think I was worried about a few stray curses in my poems. I was Sandra Dee trying to make a phone call to AAA from a whorehouse during Fleet Week.


Or maybe I was Janet Weiss (sans Brad) in the Rocky Horror Picture Show.





OK, I'm exaggerating a little bit. I'll post more later. There's ironing to do.

This Week at the No Tell

Corey Mesler sleeps in another room this week at No Tell Motel.

Sexing it Up

An afternoon at the hair salon was a welcome break from this exasperating week (Chris has been in Seattle since Sunday). I haven't had my hair done since before Gideon so it was past time. Back then my stylist suggested to have it short because it would be easier to deal with in the hospital and early-on. I agreed, but now sort of wish I hadn't because now I have to grow it out. Today I told her I wanted "sexy" hair. So now I have a bunch of short layers and gold and cashmere highlights. See, cashmere is way sexier than caramel. Or so I was told. I don't know. Sounds Paris Hilton to me. Oh wait, that's HOT.

I still haven't decided what I'm reading for my fifteen minutes at Carrboro. I decided to limit it to work I've written in the past year but I noticed that a lot of it is peppered with random f-bombs and handjobs. Nothing over-the-top or risque, but my concern is that this might be more of a family event and the last thing I want is for a family's day of culture to be ruined by the depraved housewife who can't handle being out of the house. I asked Ken Rumble what he thought. He read at last year's and will be reading again this year so I figured he'd have good advice. He told me not to sweat it and to read whatever I wanted, that there was going to be plenty of naughty fare and he had a whole bevy of penis poems he couldn't wait to read.

Imagine my surprise when I read this article by Ken that in the first paragraph quotes a woman saying the festival is great for her five-year old step-daughter.

Clearly Ken is setting me up. What a schemer! All the other poets are going to read their poems about rhododendrons and pomegranates and I'm going to read a poem about a handjob in the muck and afterward find my car keyed in the parking lot. Thanks a lot, Ken.

Lame

I do not have sympathetic feelings towards Nazis

and I don't think I'm especially wordy either. I'm starting to lose faith in self-discovery via online quizes.

You scored as Martin Heidegger. You are Martin Heidegger. You are a very wordy person that believes we classify objects by their function, and that community is essential. Once we are in a community, then it is possible for us to differentiate ourselves. You also might have sympathetic feelings towards Nazis.

Martin Heidegger		57%
Not An Existentialist		46%
Friedrich Nietzsche		43%
Soren Kierkegaard		39%
Jean-Paul Sartre		32%
Albert Camus		29%

Which Existentialist Philosopher Are You?
created with QuizFarm.com

On Having It All

A couple weeks ago I was having dinner with a poet a few years younger than me. During the meal she said, "You have it ALL!" and started listing all the things I had. I interrupted and blurted, "But I don't have a book!" and started listing all the things I wanted that seemed hopelessly out of reach. That was a really stupid thing to say and I wish I hadn't. I couldn't help thinking that when I was her age, I desperately wanted all things she had, her publications, her degree, her "exciting" city-dwelling single life. Her freedom! When I was her age I was spending my days in a cubicle tugging at my too small bra thinking "I thought I was going to be somebody" and "Is it almost time for lunch?"

I need to learn how to be gracious. I need to stop getting so wrapped up in everything I want and remember I'm not a four year old selling chicklets to tourists. I need to remember that my 3 month son has a freakin' dental card already. I need to stop feeling like my day is ruined because that privileged and loved little boy wouldn't let me read a single poem in the new Canary or The Hat at the chain cafe where I was trying to front like my life hasn't totally been turned upside down. See cause he's young and a snob and wants to watch me eat my hummus veggie sandwich somewhere trendy and hip and I'm all "Tough shit, this is NoVa where corporations rool!" He says, "I want to live somewhere cooler, more literary." and I respond, "Tough shit. Cool and literary won't buy you those braces I promise you you'll need so thank your Kushies ultra cloth diapers (that are both ecologically sound and spare your bottom from rashes) that your daddy dances for the biggest anti-christ out there cause if it was left to me we'd be in a cult and I'd already have arranged your marriage to secure my position as high priestess of the goonies."

I think about my friend who got divorced last year. Both he and his wife were unhappy. I get the distinct impression that now that he's "free" he wishes he would have tried a lot harder to fix that marriage before it was too late.

I have to remind myself that I don't really want to be free. I don't really want it "all".

Still, I do want that book. So please backchannel with the names and what exactly is required. Knee socks or garters? I'm quite clueless when it comes this kind of stuff.

Speaking of Tits

I have a poem up at Unpleasant Event Schedule.

Sunday

The Carrboro Poetry Festival schedule is available. I'll be reading on Sunday in Session H which starts at 3:20 p.m.

That reminds me of one of my favorite shows I used to watch as a kid, Prisoner Cell Block H, kind like OZ, but for girls and Australian.

This Week at the No Tell

Dorothee Lang is blinking red this week at No Tell Motel.

Oooooh

9th grade telephone boyfriend added new pictures to his site.

How stalkeriffic of me to link to them!

Evidence

What have I been doing all weekend?

Humiliating my son. Why not? He's totally helpless!

Yes, that's a sailor suit and I took him out in public wearing it this evening.

My Shoddy Scholarship Catches Up With Me

Oh.

My bad.

It was an off-the-cuff remark that I should have researched before making.

I hereby confer upon Gabe the degree of Masters of Fine Arts from Rebbie U.

Enjoy the benefits.

i.e. SCORE!

What is Your World View?
created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as Existentialist. Existentialism emphasizes human capability. There is no greater power interfering with life and thus it is up to us to make things happen. Sometimes considered a negative and depressing world view, your optimism towards human accomplishment is immense. Man is condemned to be free and must accept the responsibility.

On Being Misunderstood

On the last Queer Eye for the Straight Girl, a show I find immensely disappointing but keep watching in hope it improves, they made over a young woman who looked like a whore. A really cheap whore. They gave her a bunch of tips on how to look less like a whore and kept saying things like "I can't believe you have a degree from George Washington -- you can't tell by looking at you!" She agreed with them, but didn't seem to want to not look like a whore. There was also a whole weird daddy approval thing that made me a little uncomfortable, but I digress.

Last week I mentioned the Daisy Fried article that gave a brief shout out to No Tell Motel. Molly and I appreciated the article, we really did, but we didn't quite know what to make of the description "emphasizes the ironically breezy or breezily ironic." Sure, some of the poems we publish are sardonic, but the majority aren't. At least we don't think they are.

We wrote off the comment as suffering from the requirements of the soundbyte blurb. So I understand why Kemel from MiPO was also struck by Fried's description of their pub. But imagine my chagrin when Kemel went on to write "Accordingly, Fried's soundbyte-length synopses largely avoid concrete descriptions of the zines' poetries. The exception to this is her calling No Tell Motel's poetry "ironically breezy, or breezily ironic," which I find to be an apt and remarkably deft encapsulation of No Tell's fare."

Aack!!!

When one person says it, you can write it off as her getting it wrong. When two people see it that way, well, maybe we are applying our mascara a little too heavy. Maybe our design does add too much context to the poems. Maybe word of our discrete dalliances has gotten out.

But we like looking pretty. We don't want to cover our bosoms!

ABC-ya!

Apparently all the poets of consequence have been rounded up and thrown in jail leaving just little old me because today I got an invite to read at the Carrboro Poetry Festival. Excellent! A perfect excuse to abandon my family.

Collab

I got the OK from T-Rob to post our first collaborative poem. I'm not sure if he likes it, but I do.

Whatnot Tribute

Should have kissed your knee cap instead of calling
My nurse, my pretty little bump, my special hump in the front

On the porch swing with my triple beam, weighing up grams,
Should have kissed your pretty place, all pinked

And succotashed, all flush and livermashed, all knowing
And albeit nevermine, nevermine, nevermind

Don't undermine my serial slump, my frequent melancholic
Piece of vitriol, my affection for your birthmarked heart

It's a ruse, a rooskie in a flea market peddling pins that I
Sink into a pretty cloth doll, she resembles you, all hushed

And trammeled, trampling your foes with a straight flush,
Chasing the poker boys back to the blow-hole

The sink-hole, the deep bowl, the spin till spun
Spun till span, it's your hand grazing, steam hazing

And the final lazy bastards who stole all your Purina--If
It's difficult to forgive it's probably worth crossing over.

Sestina! That's what I forgot to write for you, see I'm
Blushing. I'm so sorry, so sorry, so sodden and Gomorrah.

The weekend in Pittsburgh was good. I think Gideon has now met every immediate relative on my side. I'm not sure if he caught a cold or if it's allergies to the pollen, but he has a runny nose. So in addition to pee, poop and puke, I can add snots onto my repertoire. That makes me classically trained, right?

Saturday night I gave advice to a friend about how he shouldn't leave evidence of his fucked up parenting for his children to discover later down the road. Half a day later I was snapping pics of Chris and my uncle posing Gideon with a cigarette and Heineken. I should probably start following my own advice. Please don't call child protective services. It was an unlit cigarette.

Here's a more appropriate picture.

MiPO Blog

MiPOesia has a blog.

This Week at the No Tell

Aaron Belz has no pants this week at No Tell Motel.

First Time in Pittsburgh

We're in Pittsburgh this weekend introducing Gideon to the family.

I recorded two poems for My Vocabulary. Matthew is doing a Mother's Day show tomorrow and I'm supposing the poems I read will air then -- assuming Matt can air a poem with the word "ejaculation" in it. I'm afraid I might not be able to hear the show because I'll be on the road coming home. I sure wish they had an archive so I could listen afterwards because Sundays are usually pretty hectic for me.

My dad is supposed to be grilling hamburgers this afternoon, but it's thunderstorming.

Read or Roo!

Crucial Rooster: A Poetry Column

I Did It!

A shoulder stand!

Now my body is functioning on the level of a 60 year old instead of a 70 year old! Sweet 50 is right around the corner.

Huzzah!

Time to clean the floors. Carly Sachs is visiting this evening. It's too early to introduce her to the new state of filth that has become my home. She can discover than on her second visit.

Please ignore the sounds from the attic.

Tomorrow: Crucial Rooster. Effing yeah!

The Angels Shine Upon

Sure he didn't sleep all evening and was King Pissy Pants for most of it -- but when we did finally get him to sleep at midnight -- he stayed asleep for SEVEN hours! I feel like I should go out and slaughter a goat or something. Thank you fickle gods.

This Sunday is Mother's Day. This weekend we're going to Pittsburgh to introduce Gideon to my family. This evening Tender Buttons is going to drop off gifts for our mother, stepmother and grandmother for us to bring along. I asked her what she got them but she couldn't tell me because she got me the same thing. That's right, I'm getting a mother's day gift. How weird. But appropriate, cause I'm a mother now and why shouldn't I get a piece of the action? So you hear that, baby's daddy? I'm supposed to get a gift on Sunday and you better have something good else you'll look like an asshole in front of my family.

I mean come on, on my way to pilates this morning I noticed baby vomit on my beautiful suede Coach handbag and I didn't go apeshit. That's what being a mother is all about. Having everything nice ruined and accepting it.
---------

Writing my poetry column for the Happy Booker. Think it's going up on Friday. I still have to come up with a spiffy name for it. I ran a name past Tony and he let me know it was pretty lame. So I'm still working on that.

No Tell Motel: "Breezy, Ironic and Jersey"

Honestly, we were going for more Miami South Beach. Or California.

Daisy Fried weighs in on poetry online at Poetry's "web exclusive" -- I'm not sure why "web exclusive" makes me giggle. Perhaps I'm a little breezy in the head. It does make me feel special. I'm easy these days.

"Notellmotel.org, with its pastel retro-fifties/sixties Jersey Shore motel look, emphasizes the ironically breezy or breezily ironic."

She also plugs Octopus, MiPoesia, canwehaveourballback and a few blogs, Here Comes Everybody, C. Dale, Silliman and Jim Berhle.

This Week at the No Tell

Alice B. Fogel feeds them hungers delicious this week at No Tell Motel.

Tick Tick

Ugh, where'd the weekend go? I spent a lot of it on No Tell subs, responded to all of March and a big chunk of April. We'll only be accepting subs until the end of May and then we're shutting down our reading period for the summer (we'll open it back up in September). So if you were planning on submitting send before May 31 or forever hold your sub (until Sept).