Some More Navel Gazing

AUTHORED BY TENDER BUTTONS

I'm glad to see so many of yinz got my back. And I've got my big sister looking after me so anyone who actually knows Reb would know better than to talk smack. We come from a scrappy family.

My last two weeks of good times and revelry have screeched to a halt as I am fully back in the grind of the 60-70 hour workweek of a contract attorney. Well, of a contract attorney who is only mildly ambitious as some people work more hours than that, but my sanity is worth that few hundred dollars a week I'm missing out on. My friend emailed offering tickets to Green Day at Merriwether Post Pavillion tonight, which would be awesome if it weren't for the weather forecast of storms and mini-tornados. I'm sure that's the reason she was unloading them to begin with.

For fans of reggae and hip hop in DC, my friend Deidre has organized a showcase of local talent, including DJ New York, Mr. Flash Gordon, and Misty Heaven amongst others. That's this Thursday 9/1 at Fasika's Nightclub in Adams Morgan. 2447 18th Street. Doors open @ 10 p.m.

This Week at the No Tell

Clay Matthews takes a smoke break this week at No Tell Motel.

Later Today or Tomorrow

My interview should appear at Here Comes Everybody. It's not there as I post this -- but who knows when I'll be back online. Check it out.

A Very Sincere Go Fuck Yourself from Reb

I ask my busy sister if she would be kind enough to guest blog while I'm away at the beach so this blog doesn't go dark for ten days. She graciously agreed and what happens? Some snarky assholes post rude comments insulting her posts. First of all, she very clearly states she is a "guest" blogger and not me. Second, if you find what she posts to be so trite, um go click somewhere else. And, um, go fuck yourself.

If you want to read my posts on sincerity, well go back to archives, they're there. If you want to see some of the work I dig, go to the journal I edit. If you want to read some of my work, go here.

But leave my little sister out of it.

Signed,
Reb (the poet, not the lawyer Tender Buttons) sampling the Internet access in the Days Inn parking in Kill Devil Hills, NC

Not to Overshadow TB

. . . but I'm borrowing some kind establishment's wireless (i.e. frying in our car in a parking lot with no shade).

Baby pics galore.


Rest stop on the drive down


The "French" suit






The "American" suit

Here Comes the Sun

Tender Buttons from the Field

Tonight I went out to meet my old friend Erin. I haven't seen Erin since WVU in 1997. We recently re-connected on Friendster. She lives in Brooklyn now but was in town so we met at Buffalo Billiards. On my way there, I saw some car that reminded me of a guy I went to law school with. Let's call him Sporty. So I thought of Sporty on the metro and somehow convinced myself that I would see him. For the record, I rarely think of Sporty and hadn't seen him in almost a year. So I got off the metro to meet Erin and her pal Kim, and the first person I see is Sporty. He's chatting on his cell outside Front Page, above the bar where I was going. So, in case you are wondering, I am so totally fucking psychic. Or something like that.

We had several drinks at Buffalo Billiards, and Erin proved she was totally hardcore by drinking Johnnie Walker black label. On ice. After about two hours, the group we were with decided they wanted to go to Cafe Citron, which I shall now refer to as COLMOBJ, meaning Clothed Orgy with Latin Music and Occasional Bon Jovi. Erin's friend Kim, a professional cellist, had some ferocious energy and amassed a following with her non-stop dancing action. I threw more elbows than usually necessary on a Saturday night, asserting my space and letting opportunistic males know that it was not okay to grind on me. Some chick who was the girlfriend of another of Erin's college friends tried to play like U2 was cool and argued with me about Bono before admitting that he looks really old and wrinkly in person and wears the sunglasses all the time only to be recognized. And as a rhetorical question: Why is this Irish annoying musician representing the US in any capacity, and hanging out with politician types? Not that I think Bush appointees deserve automatic respect, but jee-uz, what makes Bono so important? He's so damn cheesy.

Last night, my (and Reb's) cousin Christopher got married to Ashley in Pittsburgh. It was a nice outdoor wedding, despite the rain. I'm pretty sure they chose the Beatles' Here Comes the Sun as the processional march before they knew it was going to rain. A lovely occasion followed by scrumptious desserts, so no complaining here.

Something About the Moon and NYC

by Guest Blogger Tender Buttons

I went to NYC last weekend. I hadn't been there since a high school trip in '93 or so. That trip was fun--we had no trouble buying 40s and got to stay an extra two days because of a blizzard. This time I was going to meet up with Ron. I met Ron ages ago when we were working at the same firm in DC but since he lives in London I don't get to see him much, and hadn't in three years.

I took Amtrak up there. People kept suggesting I take the Chinatown Express because its a lot cheaper and has a free movie (usually one that is currently playing in theaters) but I've had enough Greyhound experience to be wary of buses and I wasn't sure I was up for that kind of adventure by myself. Once there, I hopped in a cab to Chris's place in West Village. I had never met Chris before but he's the swell kind of chum that lets his friend stay for a week and then invite an additional stranger (me) for a couple of those days.

That night we went to an oyster restaurant whose name I can't remember. I don't eat seafood--not one little bit. But surely there is at least one non-fishy item on the menu, right? No. I had caesar salad and french fries. But I wasn't complaining. Cause I was also having a celebrity sighting! Those of you who know me, know that I follow celebrity gossip like others follow sports and that I was hoping to see someone famous while I was there. Sitting not four feet from me was Wallace Shawn. You probably don't know the name, I didn't. But you'd recognize the guy--short bald old guy who was Vizzini in the Princess Bride, and a million other things. He kept blowing his nose in his napkin.

After dinner we picked up a bottle of Sapphire and headed for Chris's roof. We weren't there long when it became apparent that his neighbors were getting it on. We couldn't see much, chuckled, and let the happy couple have some privacy. Shortly after, the girl decided to take a rest. By the window. With the lights on. And all we could see, directly in our line of vision, was this bird's crotch. Framed in the window. For two hours. Not that we were staring for two hours, but someone would glance that way every once in a while and say, "yup, still there."

The next day Ron and I took a walk through Times Square. He reveled in the large variety of Fuck tee shirts for sale. "Quit Fucking Looking at Me" "I Don't Give a Fuck" "Go Fuck Yourself" All quite charming. I told him about the "I Fuck Like a Girl" shirt Reb got me that I think is cool, but can't ever bring myself to wear in public. I got Gideon an I Heart NY onesie and some ugly lighters for my own collection. I would've totally got Gideon a "Not My Fucking Problem" onesie but they didn't have any in his size.

We got some cupcakes at Magnolia, the only bakery I've ever been to with a bouncer at the door. Good, maybe a bit too sugary with the icing. We had dinner at Florent in the meatpacking district Sunday night and I felt very hip. I'm going back way sooner than 2016, I'll tell you that.

Are my posts too long? Not "sincere" enough?

Dolly Parton is Cooler Than You or I

by Guest Blogger Tender Buttons

My good friends Jayme and Sue took me on a surprise trip to Dollywood last summer after I took the bar. Located in the dry town of Pigeon Forge, TN, Dollywood is actually a really fun amusement park--it has good rides, fried macaroni and cheese bites, a Dolly museum, and a very angry man in a bear suit who repeatedly tried to choke the life out of me. There, I developed a huge admiration for the incomparable American treasure that is Dolly Parton. Despite the homicidal maniac cloaked in child-friendly costume offering hugs to unsuspecting innocents such as myself.

Last night, I went to see the wonderful and multi-talented Dolly at DAR Constitution Hall. It was fabulous. I had wondered what kind of crowd she'd pull in here in DC. Turns out, about 60% gay male couples. I brought Brock, a self-described "hardcore metalhead". Right after arriving, we ran into Joe, a coworker who I talked into buying a ticket earlier that afternoon. I don't know how Ticketmaster determines "best seat available" when you buy off their website because they stuck Joe in the middle of an almost completely empty section. Occasionally I'd glance over and see Joe, lone fan in Section G.

Anyway, the crowd was pumped for Dolly to come out. She did not disappoint, looking hotter than anyone pushing 60 should, in a sparkly little number. She's promoting her upcoming album of cover songs so about half the tunes were from that--Crimson and Clover, Imagine, Me and Bobby McGee. . . that was all great but I must say I was sad that she didn't perform more of her standard classics. Brock was impressed by her various instruments, like some Fender guitar actually made out of a car and some random piano/guitar thing we couldn't identify. Dolly sang some blues song about PMS that I could've done without. The show was peppered with Dolly's jokes, my favorite being when someone yelled that they loved her and she replied "I love you too, but I told you to stay in the truck!" It as also damn funny when she started singing "Drag Queen, Drag Queen" to the tune of Jolene while some schmuck dressed as Dolly tried to jump on stage. Brock even laughed at the unfunny jokes about Viagara because the drummer would do a rimshot afterwards.

All in all, it was a damn fine show and Dolly sounded great.

Later that night, after I was home and getting ready for bed, the phone rang. It was one of my standard ringtones, Dolly's "Why'd You Come in Here Looking Like That" (sorely missed at the show). I answered, chatted for a bit, and when I hung up noticed that the vibrate icon was still on my phone. I had my phone on vibrate all day--at work, dinner, the concert--and it vibrated when I got texts, voice mails, etc. throughout the day. I never turned the ringer on--yet it rang Dolly.

More Peachy News

According to Carly, it's a go. Carly and I will be co-curating a monthly reading series at Bar Rouge starting next year. I'll go into more details later, but it's going to involve "taking it off."

For money.

I'm not being cute. I really mean it.

Summer Dessert Recipe

From Matt Shindell

Beach

We're leaving for the beach today. I'll probably do some light blogging, but since there's no high speed access, it won't be much.

Stay tuned . . . I will have a special guest blogger to help fill in the gaps.

My Beach Reading

Manuscripts!

Wintered by Anthony Robinson
Bramble: A Book of Lunes by Joseph Massey
Shy Green Fields by Hugh Steinberg
Poems by Rodrigo Garcia Lopes, translated into English by Chris Daniels

This Week At No Tell

Anne Boyer is too wanton for ordinary chores this week at No Tell Motel.

It's All Good

I just finished a bowl of spaghetti Chris made and am watching Monk on TiVo. Usually I don't eat so late, but I just got back from Bar Rouge. Matt, Chris and I hassled Carly. I had the Menage a Trois, a Madonna, a Jennifer Lopez and a Ziggly Marley. I thought I wanted an Ashton Kutcher, but Carly thought that would be too sweet. Tomorrow we're going to hang at Matt's place and invent the Shindell -- a pickle martini. I may just take Matt & Chris' word on that.

For those who inquired, there was a collective New Sincerist kiss. It was a little drooly and I think someone left a hickey on my cheek, but it's all about the sentiment.

And Slipping Off My NS Sweater

Apparently contrasting proclaimed rotting shoelaces and a closet full of shoes is insincere and in poor taste. Apparently my attempts at being warm and humorous have been interpreted as making a clown of someone. Again, my naivety comes into play because this reaction shocks me. Why people jump to thinking the worst -- well, I'll probably never understand.

This has nothing to do with writing sincere poems and I'll continue to write how I have been. But the last thing I want is to be a distraction in "the movement" and drive out the founders so I'll go back under the NS radar for a little while. Not quitting. Just taking a little "quiet" time.

Slipping On My NS Sweater

Some of the New Sincerists wear jackets, but I'm more of a sweater gal. Kind of like a naughty Mr. Rogers.

Steve posted some thoughtful comments about the NS. Cleary Steve is offended by Tony's "most contemporary poetry is boring" comment. I see where Steve is coming from. I, too, get very annoyed when someone says how there's no good contemporary poetry being written. If you're not finding poetry you like, why don't you get out of your comfort zone and read some different publications. Yeah, I don't find much to love in Poetry, Paris Review, etc., either so I don't subscribe. I don't get all bent out of shape about it. I don't take it as a personal affront when a journal doesn't suit me. I'm always find new pubs to check out and sometimes I find one that I really dig and that makes me happy. If I like 50% of the poems in a particular journal, that's a pretty good journal as far as I'm concerned.

But Tony isn't (nor anyone in "the movement" that I'm aware) saying that there isn't any good contemporary poetry. Anyone who is following Tony's blog is privy to a number of examples of what he's looking for (and trying to achieve in his own) poems. Also, Tony's on record at Poetry Dailer and a large extent at The Canary (since he's one of the editors) with contemporary poems he admires. If Tony (or anyone for that matter) only finds interesting 25% of poems he comes across, then most contemporary poetry (as far as he's concerned) is indeed boring.

Comparing what Tony has written to some of the things Joan Houlihan has wrote in her column is unfair and missing the point. Houlihan's essays are hater essays. Chopped full of venom and attacks -- specifically going after particular styles of poetry, specific poets and her all time favorite punching bag, the BAP series. She accuses certain poets and editors of "denaturing" poetry, whatever the hell that is supposed to mean. She practically declares war on David Lehman. Tony (or any other NS) has never declared war on anything. Occasionally he's gotten into some heated exchanges with some individual poets. That's him having issues with particular people. That's life.

The New Sincerity proclaims no enemies. There is no New Sincerist jihad. It's a big umbrella. You don't have to kiss anyone's ass. If you agree with its goals (writing poems with feeling, poems that you want to read), you're in. If you agree with its goals but want nothing to do with us, nobody is making you take part. If you don't agree with its goals and think its stupid, nobody is making you read about it (or write "sincere" poems).

I admire Joe Massey's poems. I've corresponded with and consider him a neat guy. That being said, you'll be hard pressed to find much similarity in our writing and you'd be even harder pressed to confuse a boonie-living guy wearing tighty-whiteys and rotting shoelaces with a suburban MILF wearing expensive French underwear and owning more shoes than she can fit in her walk-in closet. While I agreed with its sentiment, Massey's manifesto turned my stomach, but not as much as those Joyce "love" letters. (Sidenote: I adore flirty letters, but if you send me something along the lines of what Joyce sent his wife, mail from your address will quickly be routed to my "Freak" folder and will forever remain unread.)

All these differences, yet we both call ourselves New Sincerists. He is my brother in the movement. We strive for similar results with our poems. We will meet for the first time in Austin and over the course of an evening he will probably drink two pitchers of beer and I will have my standard 1.5 vodka martinis. He'll get into an altercation with an unknown drunk over the jukebox. I excuse myself to the ladies room and on my way back meet a dashing man with good shoes and sparkly watch. This suave stranger will buy me an expensive drink that I will not finish and try to impress me with his knowledge of some trendy-to-like-at-the-moment poet that I've never read and I'll wish I was back sitting next to Joe being grossed out by his flatulence humor. But I won't be able to go back for Joe will have been tossed out of the bar for disorderly conduct a long time before. So I'll smile and look pretty and pray for last call so I can use my standard "I don't fuck" line and politely excuse myself.

Viva la New Sincerists!

Starting Gideon's Santa List Early

This afternoon Gideon was sitting on my lap surfing blogs when this picture literally transfixed us. He could not take his eyes off of it and I must admit, neither could I.

Allyssa, where can I get one of these Gudding dolls? What Gideon wants. Gideon gets.

Now I'm off to find him a golden ticket.

Editing, Editors, Comments, Bias

So Tony is tied as one of the most successful rejects at Little Emerson. Congrats Tony! Actually, I think it's pretty cool that some of the editors recognized his work -- it means he has a strong voice. Soon we'll all be writing T-Rob-style poems. Move over Ashbery. Move over Tate. Here's something leaner to imitate.

I was going to say "sincere to imitate" but I don't wish to attack the sincerity of Ashbery or Tate, so I'll stick with my Sizzlelean rip-off. Perhaps I should go against and say "meatier to imitate" -- last time I saw Tate and Ashbery they were kind of scrawny. But then Tony would yell and say "Are you calling me fat? I just lost 20 pounds!" There's no real way to get out of this gracefully, so I'll just stop abruptly.

It's times like these I feel like a dude.

A few months back I sent three poems to Little Emerson. They were poems that were rejected by countless editors over the years, poems I still thought were pretty good so I was hoping to hear some feeback from these anonymous editors. The poems were rejected and I never heard a single reason. Guess I'll keep wondering.

I agree with C. Dale that I probably wouldn't like a poem that so many editors could agree on either. My favorite publications are edited by one or a small group of editors, publications that pursue a kind of "vision" something more than "this is good" (which my publication has been attributed with doing -- sure we do, but we like to think we're doing a lot more than that). Publications with work voted on by committee (which isn't quite the case at Little Emerson because editors don't discuss the poems amongst each other) tend to be not especially interesting. It's difficult to agree on anything except perhaps the bland.

Ok, yeah, there are some exceptions. If your publication has 20 editors all voting on the same poems, don't write and tell me I suck. Your publication rocks.

OK, it doesn't rock. I just don't want to argue about it.

Or maybe I'm bitter because my poems never stand a chance in committee votes. I think my threshold is three editors. If there's four or more editors making the decision my poem will definitely be voted down.

I've had a few friends offer to help at No Tell -- offer to read through the slush pile, etc. I always decline their generous offers. Not because I think they don't have anything useful to contribute and not because I have an unlimited amount of time to work on No Tell. I sure the hell don't. But it wouldn't be No Tell Motel if I wasn't reading every single submission. Work I would love would never find it's way to me or I would have a pre-disposed bias from other editors' comments. Poems I wouldn't be especially fond of would be given more consideration because "everyone else loved them -- what am I missing?"

It's natural to have biases. Reading some of the reasons editors gave for not taking Tony's poems made me think "that's a stupid reason for not liking a poem" yet I have my own list of stupid biases too. That's why I like working with Molly. She's chopped full of biases herself, but they're often different than mine. Since there's only two of us, we can't gang up on each other, form coalitions, bully, etc. Instead we slap sense into each other. We're each other's shit detectors.

Hmm, that kind of takes out all the romance, doesn't it?

Not Very Sentimental After All

Yesterday was No Tell Motel's one year anniversary. Or is that a birthday? Either way it passed by quietly. Didn't even cross my mind.

Just Sharing

Most of you don't care and that's cool, but since a lot of folks are talking about their upcoming births I feel like sharing Gideon's stats from this morning's six month check-up:

Height: 28.5 inches >95% percentile (grew 2.5 inches the last two months)
Weight: 19.4 pounds 75% percentile (over four pounds heavier)
Head Circumference: 47cm 95% percentile (2 cm growth -- baby Oppenheimer!)

It seems like he's taking after his 6"8 father -- tall and lean with a big head. (Well, we both have big heads.)

Thank god he didn't inherit the Livingston ass.

I think Deb is making a mistake. My son is quite the catch.

Did I mention he has blue eyes? Dreamy. He got those from me.

For Your Information, Mr. Massey

Yes, I am very uncool and a misfit -- but I am quite cute, borderline fetching, even with this extra baby weight.

Although not as cute as Charlie.

Sob.

Carly at The Page

The Page's wandering eye is fixed on Carly Sachs today.

Bits

Sunday was Chris' 33rd birthday. We went out for Italian at a restaurant that in March my father, step-mother and sister all claimed watered down their wine.

We didn't order wine so it was OK.

This didn't happen at the restaurant last night, but more and more often hosts/hostesses try to give us a children's menu for Gideon. I say "no thank you" and then they try to push it, try to make me feel bad for depriving him of his hot dog or chicken fingers, so I point out "He doesn't have any teeth." Usually that's enough for them to drop it, but not Saturday. They brought him out his own plate for the potato skin appetizer.

Three weeks ago at the grocery store I bought Gideon's first "solid" food -- baby jars of peaches, carrots, bananas, that sort of thing. The cashier told me I shouldn't waste my money on that stuff, just give him mashed potatos, it's cheaper.

I'm writing a blurb for Joe Massey's next chapbook. Well, I will write the blurb. I haven't started writing it yet.

I have a stack of permission contracts for the Bedside Guide that I need to go through. There's at least two people who still owe me contracts, but they've contacted me. I imagine there will be a few others once I go down the list. I'm not fond of these administrative duties for projects, but they're necessary.

I have three manuscripts I need to print out so I can read at the beach next week. One of them is the famous Wintered that I keep hearing so many good things about. The other two I've had since April and May.

I have a pile of French puppets I need to attend.

This Week at the No Tell

Cynthia Huntington makes an extended homage to the penis this week at No Tell Motel.

All Better

Suzanne's post reminded me that this week we finally got the hole in our living room ceiling fixed (for the second time).

We had somebody do it while we were out of the country. Ha ha. Wifey wins again.

Can I say how happy I am that I was all bigged up during the winter and not during this disgustingly humid summer?

Can I say how happy I am that Gideon is no longer a newborn? Six months is way more fun than 2 weeks. Even if he doesn't know who the hell I am anymore. Well, I think he remembers now. We spent the last two days playing his favorite games: "I am Spartacus," "Fight the Power," "Stop Kicking Yourself" and "Have Faith in Jesus."

Can I just say that I'm happy and not fear that I'm jinxing myself by stating it?

More Baltimore (and additional Lucifer readings) Pics

at Marcus Slease's blog.

Three Poems in SOFTBLOW

Check them out here.

SOFTBLOW presents

NATE PRITTS is the editor of H_NGM_N, an online journal of poetry & poetics, & is the author of three chapbooks of poetry.
+
REB LIVINGSTON, a poet & jewelry designer residing in the greater Washington, D.C. area.
+
JORDIE ALBISTON, author of four poetry collections, her poems were featured on radio, television, stage & made into an opera.
+
SCOTT WIGGERMAN, poet & editor of the di-verse-city series of poetry anthologies for the Austin International Poetry Festival.

SPECIAL TRIBUTE:
SIMON WILLIAMSON (1968-1999) was born in Ngaruawahia, New Zealand. The poems are edited by Mark Pirie, who have submitted these poems on the late poet's behalf.

On Being Misunderstood, Part 3

Tony wrote:

There is a growing group of poets who position themselves outside the mainstream poetry establishment but who are also unsatisfied with existing accepted models of comportment, poetics, distribution, and so forth. We identify with much of the thinking and methods of the so-called "post-avant" but turn our noses up at the sterility of so much of the poetry being written (and praised) outside of the mainstream. We want our poetry to have soul. We want to read writes with soul, wit, and feeling.

We use process as a means to an end. The end is the poem as act of communication. Process in itself is seldom interesting.

Or at least *I* think these things. Other New Sincerists can chime in at will.

I'm chiming in to concur with the above and explain why I consider myself to be a new sincerist.

On occasion my poems (and me for that matter) have been considered insincere. Since I am sometimes naive to the minds and thinkings of others, this always shocks me. This especially haunted me last year when I wrote a poem for a new friend. He responded saying he was "searching and searching for traces of the jaded but it appeared sincere."

That fucking hurt my feelings. I never did or said anything that would lead him to think I'd write something insincere. Least of all for him. Yes I tease people, yes I make smart remarks, yes, sometimes I use sarcasm, yes I sometimes use humor or "wit" in my poetry, but I am never insincere. If I'm teasing you, I probably like you and I think the way I tease it is pretty obvious I'm not being mean. I was teased mercilessly in elementary and middle school and you know what? Those kids sincerely loved me!

But clearly it's not obvious to some people. Neither in my work or with me.

For over a year I've been trying my best to be conscious of this in both my writing and my actions. I know I contribute to this misunderstanding, but also the current climate of poetry contributes to this. People expect insincerity and are often suspicious when they're given something that's not. So they "search and search" for insincerity because they find it such a leap to believe someone is offering a little geniune feeling.

So I am being obvious and direct. My poetry is sincere. Yes, my poems really do feel that way. Sometimes I do too.

You got a problem with that?

David Hasselhoff (?) Loves No Tell Motel

Shirley Stephenson's poem "The Legend of Quintana Roo" which first appeared in No Tell Motel has been translated into Dutch at Poeziepamflet.

* * * Note: The language this poem has been translated into has been corrected to state DUTCH, not German.

Can I attribute my error to jet lag?

No, simple sloppiness and stupidity. Apologies.

And now my David Hasslehoff joke has sunk to a new level of lameness.

Sound

Hey, I'm back, safe and sound and fat and happy. I'm going to try to make my 10 a.m. yoga and hopefully will write something about sincerity later today.

It's OK to Escape

Probably my last post until I get back to the states.

The waitress at breakfast used "escape" instead of "leave" -- when I asked if I needed to sign for anything she replied "It's OK for you to escape." I kind of liked escaping from breakfast.

Leave it to the Italians to turn a croissant into a cream-filled doughnut.

It's going to be odd going back to cereal, yogurt and bananas during the day. Maybe I'll spice up my life and start making cucumber salads.

Folks have asked if I miss Gideon. I do, but Chris' sister e-mails a daily poop update (I'm serious). So it's just like he's here. He pooped four times yesterday. See, I can be thousands of miles away and still be a good mother.

It's interesting and sometimes kind of disturbing to see which aspects of American culture take hold in other cultures. I think: there I am suffering in the states being inundated with that crap and here you guys choose it! Maybe I'm choosing it too. Yes, I'm very guilty of choosing of it. It's a very guilty planet we inhabit. Here.

2nd Bag Purchased

Both are full of underwear, baby clothing and puppets.

Don't ask.

Heading back to Paris tomorrow afternoon by train. Flying home on Weds.

At every single meal I thought "This is really good. I should take a picture of my plate for Tony."

But I never did.

Today in Milan

A Late Breakfast


Duomo Under Construction


Castello Sforzesco


Mime in Milan (and me using all of my brainpower translating the gelato flavors)

This Week at No Tell

Amy King is sweet and long-legged sitting on brown shag carpet this week at No Tell Motel.

Off to Milan

There's no more room in our suitcases or the bag I got in Paris.

I have all these baby outfits with French writing on them.

I don't speak French and for all I know, they could say "Little Cocksucker."

But I don't that think they do.

Did You Miss It?

The new Crucial Rooster was posted yesterday.

Off to Geneva

42opus

I have a poem up at 42opus today.

Truth or Myth?

Lightweight American passes out after drinking half bottle of wine.

Truth or Myth?

Curvy American shouts in a lingerie shop:

Who do I have to fuck to get this in a C cup?

Cock Fight!

Male New Sincerists vs. Tony Tost
I'm the naked lady -- cause it's not interesting if it doesn't have something to do with me.

Seeing Gideon in Paris

What I Missed Last Night

I'm loaded up on Sudafed and hopeful about today.

Pardon Mi Dragon

If you want to download the play that shook a socialist/anarchist bookshop, you can go here.

Thanks Mike.

Things Important to My Thinking

Spent the morning and afternoon shopping and looking around. Gideon will be a very chic baby this fall/winter. May have to buy a suitcase to bring all of his stuff home. Still haven't found that baby mime outfit I have my heart set on. But I have faith.

Spent the late afternoon and evening sleeping. I have a very nasty cold and it's pissing me off. I wanted to wear my new skirt this evening.

Tomorrow evening I'm attending a reception at the Musee d'Orsay.

-------------

I never said other journals should adopt a one-poet at a time format. My point was if you're going on about how you're going to distribute poetry in a new way -- tell me what this new way is (cause honestly I'm very interested in that kind of stuff). Perhaps there are some really inventive ways to present "issues" online while following the print standard. I haven't seen or heard about such ways. I'm not talking what kind of poems or context or what writers are important to who's thinking -- I'm talking about revolutionalizing the way people physically read poetry. I never claimed to have revolutionalized anything, just that it was something I thought about when focusing on my goals (which I'm not saying should be anyone else's goals).

I'm a Capricorn, the last thing I am is revolutionary. I'm Richard Nixon in a push-up bra.

Anyone who's reading this: You're more experimental and revolutionary than me.

I'm a New Sincerist. You all know what that means.

I'm not saying anyone's goals for their publication are unworthy or tired or been done before (although other people are, that's not the point I'm making). When I inquire about new ways of presenting poetry and the response is Olsen, HD (whom I love), essential figures, International poets, poetics, theory, context, etc., we're not talking about the same thing. Saying the issue route is the way to go because that's the consensus at a lot of other good journals may be accurate, but it's not new or revolutionary. Perhaps issues are the way to go for many online publications.

Just don't say you're rethinking how poetry is distributed, cause you're not.

And I don't mind criticism on No Tell, although I wish the criticism was honest because I don't think it has anything to do with the one poet at a time format. I think the criticism stems from the uber-girlie design and poems published. I think that's where the lame and begging of ridicule "not important to my thinking" dismissal comes from. But it would take balls to go after the work because so many of one's friends' poems appear on those pink and beige pages.

The phrase "good poems" in such context comes off as dismissive.

But I'm used to it.

This Week at No Tell

Carly Sachs is quietly blown open this week at No Tell Motel.