I am not feeling the last post as much as the two before it

& two writers said of the "sleep. snort. fuck. y'all" post that it was full of perverse anger.

I was feeling that.

I'm working on a new character for my angry-young-woman novel. I'm thinking about starting a new genre and switching the words around: young angry woman. Yaw. To gape wide open.

Almost as good as vaglit or cuntlit. Yawlit.

My new character's name is Casualty. He carries Mason jars of weed with him wherever he goes; he lives with his hippie dad. He knows music & drugs & little else.

& maybe he's responsible for the ravers in my brain...

Here's a link to a published chapter of Homegirl

Fuck yeah, homegirl!

Yours in yaw,
Ry

you & i are always forever playing chicken

It has nothing to do with hearts. Or the turtlenecks I wore in 6th grade that were printed with tiny little replicas of hearts. They were related to Izod somehow; maybe they were Izod. Or Izod's buck-toothed little cousin who peed a little when they laughed always. It has nothing to do with my overwhelming 6th grade desire for Zena multi-colored pinstriped jeans. Oh lord, I woulda pinned the shit out of those motherfuckers; I woulda had the tightest little strangled ankles in any American suburb anywhere.

I didn't get those Zena jeans cos life's like that; you turn a corner with your paper bags of groceries and a Mad Max looking motherfucking motorcycle messenger jumps the curb and clips those sweet tight ankles.

You have no tendons, no Achilles' heels, and for that you, too, are a motherfucker. You wanted to be sad all the time, tho, so suck it up.

You are indestructible as far as I know, now.

I'm ready for happiness & I want the ravers out of my head. They're all high on E and mentholatum and their sick masks scare me. The speakers boom, and water bottles roll across the dance floor that is my neurons. My neurons are bumping, bumping and abused. My neurons hate the glow sticks and pacifiers; my neurons are sick of being stepped on. My neurons are sick of the 1-2-3-1-2-3 steps white people count as getting down.

Even if it's fast, it's still 1-2-3...

& you and I have been playing chicken with our hearts for such a long long time. Now you have no Achilles and now you have no fear.

The ravers know nothing about how you swerved first then I jumped then you swerved then I swerved and it goes on and on every time we get together we fuck and fuck then swerve and jump. All the ravers know is the beat.

The ravers know nothing but raving. Dumb ravers.

The ravers don't know fear, either. Except for the fear that the music will end or they'll come down and see themselves all sweaty in the light of day, googly-eyed and sucking on pacifiers and twitching. They keep that fear down deep and hope and hope it'll always be night and they'll always be high and the DJ'll spin forever and evah.

The ravers always cheer the DJ. All of them always wear sunglasses and tilt their heads to the beat. The beat is the sound of my bike crashing; the beat is the sound of me hitting the pavement. All tucked up in a tiny ball, hurtling away from a motorcrash.

The beat is you and me and how one of us always get through and how we live to talk about it and how we meet up again and there's always a raver waving a white flag and how the hell did you get out.

motorcrash

Your chicken,
Ry

yay! sleep. snort. fuck y'all

Super-psyched and super-stoked Sleep. Snort. Fuck. just took one of my stories. The story's a chapter from my new angry-girl novel, Homegirl!

The editor said much nicey-nice things about my story and I got this feeling that we could be friends. I read some of her fiction and I liked it and not because she was nice and said nicey-nice things but because it gave me the feeling like I wanted to hide under it. I wanted to hide under her story like a poor homeless person'd hide under their newspaper tent on a sidewalk grate in winter. I wanted to hide under it cos otherwise I felt like I would be doing things to my head like homemade lobotomies with pre-chilled railroad spikes. I wanted to hide cos I was forever and ever doing stupid things like sexting my ex-lover a cliche pizza delivery scenario and then when he didn't respond I sexted him again cos I knew he was offended by the cliche and expected so much more of me.

So I sexted him something about when it rains it pours, but instead of rain I put pussy and instead of pours I said come and get it.

Mama hates to be ignored except when she's hiding under stories that remind her of fucking or stories that remind her of humans or stories that remind her.

I am going to get a tattoo that says don't forget in French.

I am going to get a tattoo that says fuck you in French & will tell everyone it means sister.

I am going to get a tatt of a smaller tatt of a smaller tatt of a smaller tatt of a smaller tatt ad infinitum until I can't stand how clever I am anymore or any of the live-living things I have to do day in and out as a human.

Then I'll grab that spike out of my freezer. I will lick that spike and it will be icy and hard and taste like all the hopes that hoboes carry in their bandana-packs. It will taste spicy, railroady, hobo-hopey, and I will remember everything I ever tried to forget ever for a brief second.

Still dreaming (for now),

Ry

The forbidden pop-ins in the Alabamaz

We are armed against the apocalypse; we've barricaded our flimsy doors (no screen doors, wtf) with towels against the heat and guns against the arrivals.

Tha angel of death is on the way and no one knows anything about Passover here. The angel of death is on the way and no one knows anything about Kafka. The angel of death is Kafka and I will invite him in and I will ask him if he wants me to remove that rotting apple. I will ask him what music means and how scurrying up a wall can change your perspective.

I will ask him what bugs eat, if he can show me both what and how before the world ends.

Before the world ends, there are a lot of things I want to ask Kafka, but some of them'll get lost in a bureaucracy and some of them'll get lost in a broken "m" key and some of them'll just get lost and some of them'll get lost in all the moonshine I've been making out of your used bathwater.

I want to ask Kafka what he's afraid of, but that's just because I want someone to tell my fears to. Someone I don't see every day; someone, like an angel of death, who can get past my semi-automatics and my land mines and my dumb dog named Bo Bo who will rip your throat out just for looking at me or singing off key or popping in or not bringing any fortifications. Like a pillow or a blanket even.

I am afraid that I'll be talking dirty and I'll say I want you.

I am afraid I'll be talking the sex talks and I'll say I love you.

I am afraid I'll be talking the sex talks and I want you'll morph into Get in me, which is not scary at all, but then it'll morph into Get in me belly, and I'll have to pretend I'm a sperm-eating pirate or Mike Myers and neither option is oh so sexy.

If I went the Myers route, it would be a weird montage of bald and mini-me and bad teeth and tight pants and head. Look at the size of that boy's head...it's like an orange on a toothpick...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yYKHek8Z7zk

If I went the pirate route, neither of us could take my tongue seriously and you would laugh every time my mouth got near you. I would make smooshy fish lips in your peripheral vision while you watched television, even. I could buy an eye patch, tho, just in case you got over your pirate aversion or whatever. And I'd practice my pirate speaks while you slept. I could accessorize my eye patch with a new semi-automatic and a welcome matt that says hi in German for Herr Kafka. I could practice my German pirate speaks and that'd be taking it somewhere no one would want to go, not even Kafka and he's upside down like a huge cockroach in a puddle of my vomit right now.

Your apocalypse-girl,
Ry

Flash flash flash

In my living room with all the blinds down, me recreating that iconic scene from Flashback where Jennifer Beals aka her body double's pounding away in leg warmers?

No.

 Me in a dirty trenchcoat scaring frat boys on campus?

No.

The skeezer peeping in my window routinely and me not knowing until his friend tells me at the bar like ten years later?

WTF does that have to do with flash?

Notting.

Awesome flash here: http://52250flash.wordpress.com/


More sexy flashing poets collab to come soon!

- Ry

bucking the cherry - more collab, more epic, now!

First epic poem for two

I like to touch your osso buco and your
billy beard. I know by heart the curling
hairs and the marrow I suck down nightly,
your old man nipple and the hip hop heart
you try to hide beneath that cool jazz veneer.
We are too beautiful and we'll take our
shit to Bremen Street; we'll flagrante delicto

(Stacia M. Fleegal)
and if my tattoos could impersonate
Gaga, they'd bossily, saucily say
let's have some fun, this beat's my dub,
I wanna take a ride on your billy club.
I'm so glad you're done fucking
around with that Dickinson chick--isn't
she a lesbian? Come
enjoy the company of a woman
whose clothes are already off.

(Ryder)
Kimmie, your stuff's better than Emily
or any BAP poem I've selected. It's
tight & wet & sings the blues about love
& cigarettes every time I enter it.
No one ever asks how many angels

can fit in there; no one ever holds your

muff up to the light. I say drop mousey

me in & watch me probe my way out.                             

 

 

(Stacia)

Oh Billy boy, flattery will get you

all you were ever afraid to write about:

cunt envy, a reading gig on Bremen Street

the evening after the farmer's market when

you'll understand the aerodynamics of
rotten rhubarb and radicchio. Talk about wet
and singing the blues. Don't worry, I'll
unbutton the top three and distract
the mob--but now you owe me. Blurb me,
oh yeah, right there.

 

 

(Ryder)

I’ll blurb you so hard that the neighbor’s dog

will start barking again and I’ll wish I had

a gun. But you, Kimmie dear, are ammo enough

for an old poet like me; I’ve said there’s

nothing I need more than what’s on my kitchen

table. I lied. Until that day when

wifey’s away and I throw you up on it,

my kitchen’s desolate and too homey

without your tatt-ed body. I want to

see you bucking the cherry wood across

the linoleum as you writhe under

my pen. I will write you hard and I’ll write

you long, as long as my old flesh can, and if

you workshop me, I’ll even try revision. 

Yours,

Stacia & Ry

P.S. Sex on the kitchen table brought to you today by Punkboy and the letter S.

It’s official: we’re in love or wedding bells or something...

Sam Pink sent me one of his books today. Sam motherflipping Pink. I would say motherfucking, but when I told my sister that Sam Pink’d sent me one of his books, she said I should marry him.

& my family wouldn’t approve of me calling my first husband a motherfucker, especially if he became the father of my children. If we weren't careful and had babies and didn't eat them up with our Cheerios. Then he would be a motherfucker, unless he divorced me or wouldn’t fuck me for what pregnancy’d done to my body…

He’s the first author that’s sent me a book; I’m a book receiving virgin.

Oh, Sam, be good with/to me.

And what if I got with every other author who personally sent me a book. That would make me a bookslut & I wouldn’t want to be that, now, would I?

Or, if I married Sam, I wouldn’t know the delights of getting other books in the mail. Going to my mailbox in my kimono, caressing the hard steel cylinderness of it, daring to put my hand on the door, rubbing it, hoping…

I cannot look at my mailbox without thinking of penises now.

I cannot look at my box w/out thinking about penises, either.

My sister just wants me to marry Sam Pink for his last name; she wants us to have a daughter and name her “Pretty.”

Middle name: “In.”

Sam Pink left his return address on the package. Maybe he wants me to stalk him. My friend who lives in Milwaukee says he'll stalk him for me. Stalking by proxy. But, that friend's a writer, too, and what if he writes a book about his proxy stalking days? What if he makes millions and then doesn't even send me a copy so I can't get with him?

My mama says you should never stalk someone you haven't fucked or at least touched once. You gots to know if it's worth it.

& it might not even be Sam Pink's address. It might be a Port-o-Potty or a WalMarts or a gangster's moll's penthouse, and Jennifer Tilly and I'd get all dirtylike like in Bound and kill the gangsters and then I'd have blood on my hands and I'm not sure if I want to be a gangster killer yet.

Yours only,
Ry

Oh, the Alabamas!

Jogging at 5 this morn. Pockets of warm fog. Everything wet wet wet and alive and breathing moving contracting squeezing all around me, like running through a huge vagina...


Homegirl sez, The world is my cunt and I'm going to fuck it til it loves me, and then I'm finna leave it.


Pure pop pleasure:

Animal
 
 
That is all.

Ry

Serious epic-ness and collab-rity continues; oh yes yes yes, it continues!

These poets are in love!

First epic poem for two

I like to touch your osso buco and your
billy beard. I know by heart the curling
hairs and the marrow I suck down nightly,
your old man nipple and the hip hop heart
you try to hide beneath that cool jazz veneer.
We are too beautiful and we'll take our
shit to Bremen Street; we'll flagrante delicto

(Stacia M. Fleegal)
and if my tattoos could impersonate
Gaga, they'd bossily, saucily say
let's have some fun, this beat's my dub,
I wanna take a ride on your billy club.
I'm so glad you're done fucking
around with that Dickinson chick--isn't
she a lesbian? Come
enjoy the company of a woman
whose clothes are already off.

(Ryder)
Kimmie, your stuff's better than Emily
or any BAP poem I've selected. It's
tight & wet & sings the blues about love
& cigarettes every time I enter it.
No one ever asks how many angels

can fit in there; no one ever holds your

muff up to the light. I say drop mousey

me in & watch me probe my way out.                             

(Stacia)

Oh Billy boy, flattery will get you

all you were ever afraid to write about:

cunt envy, a reading gig on Bremen Street

the evening after the farmer's market when

you'll understand the aerodynamics of
rotten rhubarb and radicchio. Talk about wet
and singing the blues. Don't worry, I'll
unbutton the top three and distract
the mob--but now you owe me. Blurb me,
oh yeah, right there.


Your Virgils guiding you through the rings of over-sexed poets,
Ry & Stacia

Because I am slow to figure things out and have that deep fear of commitment

These kids are doing groovy, chic, cheeky things with the word-thingies. 52250 A Year of Flash They're gonna flash each week for a year; they've been going since May. As usual, I'm slow on the updraw. I'd lose in a showdown. My hand'd be stuck on my holster or my spur would catch on my chaps and it'd all be over.

Don't forget to check out all the gems in the archives. I like how they play with the wordstuffs.

Quick picks:
Week 1: "Breadfruit" by Elizabeth J. Colen
Week 2: "Before Leaving Town" - Jane Hammons and "The Microseconds" - Christian Bell
Week 4: "A Mountain So Lost" by Sheldon Lee Compton


And and and &&&&&&...

Guest-blogging rocks! Devil horns to xTx for letting my PARIAH come out and play:

http://www.notimetosayit.com/2010/07/zombie-summer_08.html

Super devil horns to xTx cos her stuff rocks! I don't believe those women are sleeping either...

Yours & how,
Ry

Sexing poets collab interruptus

I've got a novel excerpt and it's not a sell-out, so agents, you don't need to read this and you can hate me for playing with your small little hearts. This excerpt is not from This is my sell-out novel; this excerpt is from Homegirl!, my new something novel and it's copyrighted, biotches.

This is Chapter One, maybe:

                                               Homegirl!


Homegirl was better off without either of them, probably, or so she thought. She’d met the one in her writing workshop – a rich anarchist, and the other at work – a punk anarchist. Both of them liked to fuck. A lot.

So did Homegirl.

Homegirl did the rich elitist in her car. It was their second time; the first was at his house. They’d done it in her car this time cos they were coming from some workshop bar get-together and he only had a moped, a souped-up Italian moped, some hipster brand Homegirl couldn’t remember. While they were making out in the front seat of her hatchback, rich anarchist’d started pulling her hair hard and he hadn’t even penetrated her yet. Then he was biting her all over, and he started to put his cock in very slowly. She liked it and wanted more and said so. He started pinching and slapping her and then he pulled out without coming, without even getting his dick very wet.

I’m done, he said and wouldn’t say any more. He went kind of catatonic. Homegirl was kind of worried about him and tried not to be pissed. Maybe he wasn’t such an asshole cos the other time they’d had all right sex. At least he’d finished. Maybe this time he’d had too much drink or a combo of drugs + alcohol or just a combo of drugs. Homegirl was naïve in a hard kind of way and that was the worst way ever to be naïve.

She thought she was safe from naivety cos she was hard, but that made her even more susceptible to naivety. She knew people were bad and she knew the bad things they could do because she was bad herself. She didn’t always realize there were people way way worse than her.

Homegirl drove him back to his flat cos she thought he’d never make it back on his souped-up mopeddy thing. She watched him as he took his long-legged time going up his steps and tried not to think he was doing it on purpose, torturing her for no reason. Look at these legs, bitch. You could’ve been straddling them. We could’ve been doing things together but you fucked it up.

Homegirl was still wet and only very partially fucked.

She went where she thought the punk-anarchist might be. She went where she knew her punk rocker could be.

The dive bar.

They did it in the bathroom then, of course. The bathroom had no lock on it but they didn’t care; Homegirl wanted to be a writer and punk rock boy was as close to nihilistic as most blue collar Miltown guys got.

Writers keep themselves open to all sorts of experiences, or at least that's what I'm told. And, need I say? Nihilists just don't fucking care.

Homegirl always carries a black notebook as proof of wanting to be a writer. It’s a moleskine she stole from rich boy’s flat. He had a bunch lying around his bedroom and when he left to go piss after they’d fucked that one time successfully, Homegirl’d scooped this one up and put it in her big pleather bag. The notebook was only very slightly used; it had a sketch of Richboy naked and he looked elven and someone had given him wings. Probably one of his other girls, cos it was signed Cos I’ll always love you but I’m looking for that heart of gold, Happygirl. And Happygirl was outlined in a big golden heart, and Homegirl not only couldn’t appreciate the Neil Young reference cos her parents were fans and thoughts of them slow-dancing to After the Gold Rush made her gag, but she also didn’t know or care to know who the fuck Happygirl was so she ripped out and burnt up that hipster irony in her bathroom sink after her roommates went to bed.

After having sex with Punkboy in the dive bar bathroom, and that was hot and Homegirl got off, thank god, Homegirl pulls out that moleskine at the bar and writes, The only thing the nihilist woman cares about is the cock. She changes it a sec later to Cos the only thing the nihilist hetero-woman cares about is the cock. Then she looks at Punkboy but he’s busy staring at his tallboy of PBR. Homegirl looks back at her notebook and corrections and wonders when she got so p.c. and/or who is she trying to impress.

Homegirl’s awkward like that. She envies Richboy his ease, his ability to sidle up to anyone or better even, to be aloof and have everyone come to him. He’s super tall, good-looking, well dressed, and everyone says he’s hot. Homegirl’s tall, good-looking, and well-dressed, too, but she thrifts cos she has to, and Homegirl’s hot but it takes a certain brave soul to acknowledge it cos she don’t look like everyone else. She’s exotic and erotic. A lot of men want to fuck her but don’t know why and can't be bothered to figure it out, either.

Homegirl’s not a classic beauty, but she is. Her face is, but she don’t act like it. She doesn’t let her face rest; she doesn’t wear enough or the right kind of make-up; she makes funny faces; she worries too much about stuff. Class stuff, especially. That’s why Richboy could do particularly anything to her.

She knows this but doesn’t really know it yet.


Yours, back to selling out soon,
Ry

More hot sexing poets epic-ness collab

First epic poem for Sleazio & C in Milwaukee's Best


I like to touch your osso buco and your
billy beard. I know by heart the curling
hairs and the marrow I suck down nightly,
your old man nipple and the hip hop heart
you try to hide beneath that cool jazz veneer.
We are too beautiful and we'll take our
shit to Bremen Street; we'll flagrante delicto

(Stacia M. Fleegal)
and if my tattoos could impersonate
Gaga, they'd bossily, saucily say
let's have some fun, this beat's my dub,
I wanna take a ride on your billy club.
I'm so glad you're done fucking
around with that Dickinson chick--isn't
she a lesbian? Come
enjoy the company of a woman
whose clothes are already off.

(Ry: Billy C responds)
Kimmie, your stuff's better than Emily
or any BAP poem I've selected. It's
tight & wet & sings the blues about love
& cigarettes every time I enter it.
No one ever asks how many angels
can fit in there; no one ever holds your
muff up to the light. I say drop mousey
me in & watch me probe my way out.


Liking them so much better when they're naked,
Ry

The epic-ness continues

(The second strophe contributed by Stacia M. Fleegal, who not only is an editor at Imaginary Friend Press, but also one at Blood Lotus, plus she has two poetry books coming out soon soon soon and everyone should buy one - and watch out, world cos she's got mores...  + bonus, she's one of the coolest chicks I know)

First epic poem for Sleazio & C in Milwaukee's Best


I like to touch your osso buco and your
billy beard. I know by heart the curling
hairs and the marrow I suck down nightly,
your old man nipple and the hip hop heart
you try to hide beneath that cool jazz veneer.
We are too beautiful and we'll take our
shit to Bremen Street; we'll flagrante delicto

and if my tattoos could impersonate                      

Gaga, they'd bossily, saucily say

let's have some fun, this beat's my dub,
I wanna take a ride on your billy club.

I'm so glad you're done fucking

around with that Dickinson chick--isn't

she a lesbian? Come
enjoy the company of a woman
whose clothes are already off.

We'll make you say oh-oh-oh,
Ry & Stacia

P.S. More champagne, more toastes (a collab video; the song's censored in the original video on You Tube, & mamas ain't down w/ censorship):  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X5ho5MNUOvs

Drunken 4th of July shit/epic poetry collaboration

So, I escaped the Alabamas briefly and they even let me over the Mason Dixon line this time (suckers!) and I was celebrating the 4th via a wedding and debauchery with a couple other writers. The other writers, who may be named later, if they do collaborate with me, were, like me, in various stages of inebriation and talking to inanimate objects that must have been cutting loose for the 4th, too. I mean, this one coffee table wanted me to get down and old school disco. Must have been the Marxist baller's champagne my friends liberated from his Commie-bougie grasp...

Any cook should be able to run the country; but give a Marxist baller Cook's and you'll get some serious yakking.

Anyways, we were sitting around drinking Lenin's champagne from the bottle and talking about poetry. You know we were drunk if we were talking about poetry. Who ever talks about poetry? We decided to create an epic persona(s) poem. The characters are not based loosely on anyone in the poetry world (disclaimer). But we are down with hip-hopping, butter-loving, laureating Billy C and we have created a protege for hip-hop Billy C with the sexy-tattoo name of Kim Addoniz.

And I know I've promised my serial sell-out novel to begin soon soon soon on this site, but I love teasing and anticipation, don't you? I love it when guys accuse me of giving them blue balls. That's happened only once, actually, because I like sex a lot and usually jump into bed immediately unless the guy's too aggressive or too frat boy or looks like he don't know what the fuck to do with a pussy besides a 5 minute missionary session, and my friend, who's also a writer but wasn't with us drinking champagne on the 4th, was passing out in my living room and she heard this twenty year old say that to me that one time and she shouted, Come in here and I'll give ya a handjob for fuck's sake... It was awesome and I should always have someone around who'll clean up my messes for me...

The following may be a mess, but the following characters are fictional and in no way resemble or are living poets in the U.S. (disclaimer, again). Parts of the epic poem may be written in form, some may be free, none will be chronological and the title is, of course, working... (hint, hint...my comrades in the poetry struggle).

First epic poem for you two in Milwaukee's Best         

I like to touch your osso buco and your
billy beard. I know by heart the curling
hairs and the marrow I suck down nightly,
your old man nipple and the hip hop heart
you try to hide beneath that cool jazz veneer.
We are too beautiful and we'll take our
shit to Bremen Street; we'll flagrante delicto

(Ok, comrades who steer me clear from poetic sell-outdom, your turn...feel free to add on in the comments or email me or whatever...)

Yours w/out any questions about angels,
Ry