Sunday, April 18, 2010

Orpheus on toast

here's a link to the publishers of my forthcoming chapbook, Orpheus on toast  

they are good peoples and would like you to say hi. or even send them candy.

my imaginary friend has a sweet tooth.


P.S. I lifted this image from a blog talking about "cotton candy religion" and how Satan infests churches that play Christian rock and otherwise cater to sensual pleasures. I promise you my chapbook plays no Christian rock; I promise you my chapbook delivers sensual pleasures; I promise you my chapbook rocks harder than Stryper; I promise you my chapbook will greet you with the horns. Or at least a Dokken rock lock.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

BNG is a name-dropping wearer of super-cool boots

I've just put on my black leather punk-rock motorcycler spiked knee-high boots (boots that in a Indiana truck stop the Country Kitchen waitress in the restroom complimented me on, which restored my faith in middle America for at least a couple of days) to assuage my blues, because nothing's better than leather in making me feel better, that this year's AWP has come and gone and I didn't get to sneak into any VIP parties or fantasize about being spanked by some yummy bouncer wannabe for slipping into said party and drinking all the free highballs mama could get her hands on. Just recently I was dubbed the wearer of super-cool boots and I want to give a shout-out to my friend and a great poet to boot (ha ha, so not funny, but I do got a thing for boots...check out my poem at DIAGRAM for proof), Dawn Tefft, for so dubbing me. Here's a link to one of her poems:
Check it out; don't make me tell you twice. Check out all her stuff, too, cause she's gonna blow up, I'm telling you...

I also gots a story out:

Ry "Bootzie" Collins

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Shout-outs to lucky bastards

Oy! Oy! All you writers who get to drink and mate and stuff and talk and fuck and run covetous hands across book covers across AWP programs across free cds given out by pushy poets across soul patches and smooth unmuscled arms and muscled arms and big writing hands and pens and closure is a four letter word and arc is too but we all want climax we all want to arch and buck and write and well you know...AWP-goers I'm jealous, yes I am and therefore this post'll be short but I hope y'all have fun and The Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens elevator reading doesn't get stuck between floors unless it intends.

Next year I will come say hi to everyone who's published me unless I don't get the nerve or a highball interlude turns into a highball adventure into a soiree or... if you don't publish me, then I won't come say hi. This is much different than stalking or even cyber-stalking. I only cyber-stalk ex-boyfriends and I'm so slick and quick they don't know it. I am a super-slick cyber stalk of old flames. It passes some kind of time until my toast pops up.

Here's wishing she was drunk in a bar in Denver already, people,

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Come for me bitches.

Post apocalyptic is the new stream of consciousness. For all you 1980s fashion mavens out there, it's the new Polo or Izod or striped Zena jeans clinched at the ankle with safety pins. I'm so dating myself... and I don't give a shit.

I'm going to invent post-apocalyptic chick lit. I will write novels about a sexy heroine who finds the right man but he turns out to be a Vampire or a Zombie and she has to stiletto his heart with her Jimmy Choos. It will be so tragic.

Everyone will cry.

I am sick to death of bleak post-apocalyptic fiction. I am not sick to death of post-apocalyptic fiction. That is just my apocalyptic tumor talking. That is just my bile erupting and my pustules popping and like every goddamned pundit on the planet, my pus's gots opinions.

The new apocalyptic disease begins when O'Reilly opens his mouth and some of his undigested pastrami flies out.

Wait no, that's just an omen. The skies will then rain pastrami and pig innards. Soon we'll be covered in the fatty corpuscles of oinkers. It's not pretty and we'll all smell bad. We'll smell like coal mines crumbling and Freudian cocaine experiments.

Wait, I gotsa poem...

Hard crush love &c
A. Suitor
Inhale her scent. Vin Mariani
only to toast her health.
She smells of retina detachments and other disasters. Carl
Koller applied her to his own eye, then pricked it with pins.
(What he saw):
a red wheelbarrow see-sawing on a plum fulcrum
three corseted women eating madeleines
no Beatniks rolling Benzedrine strips
two Ibizan yachts, waiting, docked at Space
one peony’s whirl, he was
the small black ant in the middle

B. Girl/boy

Exegesis: these are texts written with different script
(read left-right and read down-up;
read horizontally,
read horizons, read the clouds and
squeeze them into tea cups: revise your reading on porcelain bottom:


moisture always, anyways
dells and

he dew on a bee’s belly turns into the dew on her upper lip
into the dew on his mustache into dew glistening
his shoulders from early morning headspins into dew glistening her belly from pre-dawn caterpillaring


up-down, right-left, they dance across wet grass)

C. Slamp

Slam the piece
of bread into
French toast batter. Slam the piece

the piece slam the piece of pie
the piece of pie into Carl’s eye

watch vitreous and meringue combine
birth chickadees with floater-feathers

squiggly gel wings
these babes fly peripherally
always out of sight

in and out of night

It's not about the apocalypse; it's about sex. Maybe that's apocalyptic enough.

Yours in slamp,