No Tell Motel's Best of the Net Nominations

"Even the Gas Station Attendant Here Is Nice to Me" by Leigh Stein

"Lament" by Jill Alexander Essbaum

"Reply to an Invitation to a Luncheon" by Betsy Wheeler

"Long Ago And Oh, So Far Away" by Micki Myers

"If You Were To Die Right Now, Johnny Depp" by Derek Pollard

"Bargaining" by Charles Jensen

Headed to the beach today -- 10 days of frolicking in a pee-free ocean. I'll have internet access, but blogging will be light and e-mail slow.

So until I blog again . . .

Check out last night's Burlesque Poetry Hour

and remember me like this . . .

Where I'll Be Tonight

This Week at No Tell

Dora Malech slept through the sonata this week at No Tell Motel.

The amazing Boyer truly is amazing.

Harlot by Jill Alexander Essbaum

Coming this October

Cover Art: Cynthia Large
Cover Design: Meghan Punschke

The Myth of the Simple Machines by Laurel Snyder

Coming this October

Cover Illustration: Jaime Zollars
Cover Design: Maureen Thorson

Shy Green Fields by Hugh Behm-Steinberg

Coming this October

Cover Design: Meghan Punschke

Fast Track to Dementia

Well, I ain't a doctor and don't claim to be, but believe obsession with the position of greatness is a real sickness.

There's the concern for the work, to make it the best it can be -- nothing wrong with that. I don't know many poets who stop and say "good enough!" when a poem gets to a certain point -- not if they can figure out a way to improve it. It's not like cleaning, when I'll get to a point and say "clean enough!" when I know damn well there's dust bunnies behind the TV stand and Cheerios under the sofa cushions--cause if anyone starts white gloving my house, they're never getting another invitation back.

White glove my poems and I'll listen. Whatever I conclude, I'll consider it.

There will always be the taste and cannon-makers, ones who deem a poem good, but not great--or--going over an entire body of work and saying, "she wrote a few great poems, but she's not a great poet." People will do it in passing and a few will make it their life's mission to create arbitrary ranking systems--and sure, there's some uses for such systems. We use them to decide what work to include in magazine and books, what to teach and what to read and re-read ourselves.

We can do our best to present our work, ourselves, well. But we'll never going to control what people say or think.

I'm a babe, I want you to love me, but I can't make you love me.

And why is that *the* measure anyhow? If someone asks me who are the great poets writing today, if I'm not totally exhausted by the question, I'll throw out some names of people whose work I really admire. Usually the response I'll get is "Well, they're good, but not great" and then there's the follow-up "Who's going to be read in 50 years?" Well, I haven't a clue who will be read in high esteem 50 years from now and anyone who claims that they do know is full of shit. It might be fun or interesting to try to predict such things, but keep in mind, it's a game, that's all, not a formula or science. It can't hurt to make some predictions, if that's your thing, but don't base your work and your life on it. It's like guessing while you're six years old who you'll grow up to marry. Unless your parents are arranging it for you, you don't know. Maybe you will grow up and marry your kindergarten sweetheart (hello Iggie, where are you?), but what are the chances?

Who did I know I was going to grow up and marry when I was six years old? Iggie? Hell no, I was more sophisticated than that. Paul McCartney! He looked sooo cute on my aunt's album covers, I had no idea he was a thousand years old. Or already married with children my age. Where would I be right now if I was still working towards that? Alone, living in a one room apartment/Paul shrine.

But I hear he's single again, so there's still hope yet.

Thinking about my education, what so many "professionals" of the field said to me and thousands of other creative writing students regarding this idea of greatness, I'm bothered. It's like telling the kindergartners that these are things one must have and do to make it on the Homecoming court in 12 years and that's the goal. How many flaws can you count in that? What bizarre little children we'd create. And what would they be like as adults?

I stand by my earlier assertion, I could give two craps about achieving greatness, I'm more than satisfied with being merely fabulous.

Sometimes I have dreams where I find/remember a room or series of rooms in my home that I haven't been using. In last night's instance I found a guest room with a spare bath, walk-in-closet and a great loft office above it. TB was all "You have this and haven't been using it?" and I was like "I hadn't considered it before."

I consider these signs from my subconscious that I'm reconnecting with something I lost, but was around me all along.

But geez, I wish I could reconnect with my e-mail right about now. Is that within me? No! It's on a freakin mail server being hammered with hundreds of thousands of pieces of spam. Nameste, mother fucker, argh e-mail rage.

Oh yeah, sign my kid up for this.

I think I'll settle for reading Lord of the Flies or John Dollar instead of watching that travesty. I don't know who turns my stomach more, the parents who signed this contract or CBS.

They boy's shiner is almost healed. What I didn't mention was after that spectacular tricycle blowout, the one where he was sprawled on the ground with his tricycle on top of him, after the crying, the neighbor running out of her house to make sure he was OK -- he insisted on getting right back on. I said, "let's walk home" and he shook his head no no no and sat back on. So we pedaled the rest of our usual route before I chased him around the house with a wash cloth and neosporin. And he still wants to ride -- all the time, it's the first thing he asks for in the morning. He points to his head, which means "get my helmet, time to roll." I about keel over every time I see him back on that tricycle, but I'm trying not to place my anxiety onto him.

In other news, working on all the No Tell Books covers and PDF proofs. The proofing process is taking a longer time than I expected, we keep finding things. The blurbs are trickling in. Gorgeous covers -- can't wait till I can show them here. One even has a giant cock -- for real, yo! -- but I swear, it's still an elegant cover.

New Goal

This morning at Pilates I decided to make a new goal for myself. By age 40 I want to be able to touch my toes while bending -- something I've never been able to do, not even as a child. Crazy tight ham strings, yet I have loosey goosey swivel hips and able to sit in all kinds of weirdo positions. Lotus position? Incredibly comfortable, can do it for hours. Hell, I can vacuum the house in lotus. Bending and stretching? I'm like a dood. Bring out the biggest blocks cause I ain't budging. Total freak of nature.

Figure if I can't do it by 40, I'll likely never be able to do it. So tick tock, baby. Time to stretch.

All Male Review in August

Next week at Burlesque Poetry Hour: Jeffrey Ethan Lee, Aaron Tieger and Jess Mynes

Boo Boo Vogue

And this afternoon we learned why it's important to brake while tricycling down a hill. My poor baby won't be doing any ad shoots this week, unless they're for Band-aid or Neosporin.

Recently became aware of my dorky suburban mommy mindset after being invited to a "baking party" and my initial reaction was "Aw shit, I gotta cook for this thing?"

The one nice thing about your kid being too young for school? You can go to the beach after school starts and have the beach and the great weather all to yourself. We're going for about ten days next week right after Burlesque. Think about how much less pee there's gonna be in the ocean minus all those grubby kids. Looking forward to that.

This Week at No Tell

Peter Davis barks at the floor this week at No Tell Motel.

Pinsky on C. Dale

Grubby Hand Update

So I keep receiving all of these fabulous, unique Dusie chapbooks. Last week I got to sign for one from Italy. Not sure why I'm such a lucky gal, but gosh, I'm a lucky gal!

What I received so far:

A Book of Days, Pt 1: Socercery. February 1 - May 31, 2007 by Hugh and Mary Behm-Steinberg
Selected Dream: with a note of phrenologoy by Anne Boyer
Truancy by Sarah Anne Cox
A Gunless Tea by Marco Giovenale
North of There by Chris Pusateri


And Also:

Cab/Net (Issues 1 & 2)

It was a dark, stormy morning. Gideon slept in (always nice), refused to take off his Superman pajama top (he's wearing it at daycare now -- there's a family history with superman outfits that I won't go into now, but let's just say I'm concerned), refused to go downstairs for breakfast until he was finished with his drawing and I hung it on the wall. I created a monster by starting that practice -- every picture *must* go up now. I'm all wtf chuck, do you think your bedroom walls are a blog or something?

During breakfast he threw an empty fruit bowl.

Despite all of that, he was in a delightful spirit and I was appreciative.

Some details regarding Liam's passing are being reported in the news, but they're too terrible and I won't be linking to them. Death itself isn't necessarily surprising, but the circumstances can be painful to contemplate. There's massive disbelief and sorrow within the Bennington community.

Heard sad news that my former teacher, Liam Rector, passed away. Read about it from two different sources, so I'm assuming it's true.

Wanted to write something thoughtful and heartfelt, but the only thing that's coming to mind at the moment is his teasing me before my graduate reading about finally brushing my hair for once. Or him going on about T.S. Eliot. He was a character and of course I'm always fond of characters and am sorry he's gone.

I'm sorry, this is an exclusive blogroll, but maybe Eduardo will add you to his.

Nice poem, I bet you could publish that on your blog.

That poem makes your ass look fat.

Not a whole lot shaking on this blog, I know -- I'm busy working on all the upcoming No Tell Books titles: Harlot by Jill Alexander Essbaum, The Myth of the Simple Machines by Laurel Snyder, She Green Fields by Hugh Behm-Steinberg and the fashionably late The Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel -- Second Floor edited by Molly Arden and myself.

I'm hoping all the single-author collections will be out in October -- followed promptly by the Bedside Guide.

Today is Chris' 35th birthday, ew, I know, my husband is totally old! -- and at this moment Gideon is crashing hard from an ice cream-induced sugar high and adopting an anti-pajama stance. I'm gonna let the birthday boy handle the civil disobedience tonight.

Collin Kelley discusses his first book and self-publishing at every other day.

Run down of some of the latest DIY Poetry Press releases.

This Week at No Tell

Joni Wallace is dressed like Christmas this week at No Tell Motel.

The Most Significant Literary Event of 2007

Gideon meets Mose, August 10, 2007

That's also the same date Gideon threw water on a sleeping 4 month-old Lewis (sorry, no photos of that).

Biographers, take note!

Today's Karmic Prediction

Prepare for chaos but don't take it personally.

Panic in the Lollipop Garden

My usual hairstylist is on vacation/booked for the rest of the month and I can't wait that long. So they booked me with someone else -- and I need highlights too and I'm psychotically picky about my highlights and it took me 7 years to find my current stylist -- and well, first I checked my astrological chart and then I checked the hair studio's website. The description of the stylist doing my hair tomorrow:

Shannon's stylish cuts and colors reflect the latest fashions and trends. Her trend cuts can be tamed down for the day, add some products and you’ll be dripping with sex appeal for the evening. Her blowdries are like magic for people with naturally curly hair

But I have straight hair!

And I'm much more accustomed to:

If you crave glamour then let Dede create a look dripping with urban sex appeal. Her incredible talent for color will add new radiance to your skin and enhance your face shape. She is one of the founders of our color department. Combine cut and color to feel revitalized and beautiful.

My hair normally drips with urban sex appeal, but after tomorrow it will only drip with regular sex appeal and then only during the evenings.

This is serious, it could be months before I post another picture of myself.

No Tell Books Author Readings in August

If you're in NYC, go hear Bruce Covey read at these venues.

And if you're in Texas, don't miss Shafer Hall's Brooklyn Thunder/Texas Rain tour.

Today's Phrase of the Day

Virtual asshole parade (now with trombones)

This Week at No Tell

Jen Currin intends to feel two stars compete for her attention this week at No Tell Motel.

ESO Reviewed in CAB/NET

Julia Bloch on Bruce Covey's Elapsing Speedway Organism in CAB/NET 2:

Covey shows himself to be a poet in charge of his materials, often coyly causing them to collide and match awkwardly with each other.

At a family picnic on Saturday. Spent some time looking over genealogy documents one of my aunts has been collecting for years. I wasn't able to spend much time looking at any one particular item, but found a poem my great-grandfather published in a local newspaper for his first wife (it was all O Winifred and an aching soul) and an article he wrote from the Philippines during the Spanish-American War. It read like old-timey FOX News.

Oh and apparently the shirt I wore (a flowing embroidered linen blouse) gives the ILLUSION that I'm pregnant.

Not pregnant.

But a little insulted. Was under the mistaken impression beforehand that I looked cute.

Consider me disabused of that notion.

The Next Lindsay Lohan!

Gideon just landed his first ad campaign -- yes, the owner of the title company is my aunt but I assure you he was selected for his best lookingness from a nationwide good lookingness search -- no wink wink, nudge nudges here!



He's also available for weddings and bar mitzvahs. Inquire within.

The Concher, the most delicious poetry magazine in the ENTIRE GALAXY, is accepting submission for issue 2.

Blogging From the New Chaise Lounge

That unfortunately is about four inches wider than I imagined -- making it not quite the envisioned elegant solution. (And now I'm really wishing I picked a fabric with a pattern.)

But I still consider this a success, check the ottoman out:



What's so special about it?

It opens up for toy storage!



People, I'm getting control back of my living room, do you hear me?