i wants a grand gesture

i've been waiting for the grand gesture.

& you all are probably like, oh mama, really? really? well, the ones who care about mama. or the ones who don't like drama. or the ones who don't like to see peeps self immolate in a combustion of semi fumes & self loathing, yo.

mama's been waiting for a trucker to show up with boombox aloft or his beaded seat cover cut out in the form of mama cos he wants to be close to mama so close or melty chocolatey soy ice cream & some rope & a peony or a stainless steel retro toaster & sliced bread or even just some goddamned toast...

no one ever brings mama toast.

or a pinball machine where the trucker's scored all the top scores & instead of his initials put in 4Mama or just him naked on my rents' weedy front lawn with a tattoo of him & mama fucking on his cock or a tatt of mama's pussy on his hand so he can think about mama as he rubs it out incessantly cos he is not near mama...

or he drives his semi up unto mama's alabama front lawn & stops just at the edge of her porch & he jumps out & it is so blue all around & mama's up from her glider & mama's dropped her whiskey jug & mama's wearing a slip & nothing else & she gots big sunglasses on & the trucker grabs her off his porch & crushes him to her & says something good like, beat me, or, i want some bruises, or i've missed your tits, or, i'll leave my mark all over you.

mama's been waiting at love's truck stop.

mama's hungry & they do not have toast.

mama's in a dark mood

& mama's trying not to go to her dark place. that's why mama's staying clear of the bathtub gins & the root cellar vodkas & the underthefrontporch whiskeys, yo.

one of the things that makes mama the happies is thinking about the imaginative potential in every human being. i know, right? when did mama become such a fucking hippie?

mama ain't no hippie cos mama likes the bathings even if it's in the bathtub gins sometimes.

mama ain't no hippie cos patchouli smells like mildewed patchwork quilts set on fire.

mama was the asshole that set your patchwork quilt on fire, yo.

here is a link to mama's confessions of patchwork quilt immolations.

not really. it is a link to a post on her gracious editors' website where she supports the Occupy Movement & tells you, why.

suckers.

yours,
dark mama

Homegirl!: The Hearts & Guts Tour, yo

oh dear bloggy, so glad to have you back! mama'll stop watching her stories & sit with you on her porch in the early albamaz sun & we'll watch the little chilluns wait for school buses & we'll watch squirrels drunk on fermented jack o lanterns spin like disco balls.

once the disco balls collapse then mama'll know it's time to go, yo.

two stops coming up on the Hearts & Guts Tour!!

1. 11/11/11 = Fairmont, WV
mama'll be reading excerpts from Homegirl!  at Fairmont State University at 5:30 in the Folklife Center. mama's never been to a Folklife Center before. mama's gonna feel so cultured. word.


2. 11/12/11 = Hudson, NY

From The Outlet:

On Saturday, November 12th, Chloe Caldwell will kick-off the Hudson River Loft Reading Series in her home in Hudson, New York. The reading will feature “Twelve diverse authors” who “will read poetry, essays and excerpts from their books. There will be wine and there will be beer and there will be socializing and there will be books for sale.”

Readers will include: Daniel Nester, Sean H. Doyle, Chloe Caldwell, Stacy Pershall, Danielle Winterton, Ryder Collins, Mira Ptacin, Matthew Savoca, Kendra Grant Malone, and Eric Wybenga.

mama's got problems, but a book ain't one

it was just mama's birthday & mama gots the reading swag, yo.

these are the books/litmags: Gregory Sherl's Heavy Petting, Jenny Boully's Not merely because of the unknown that was stalking toward them, Johannes Goransson's Entrance to a colonial pageant in which we all begin to intricate, David Rose's Vault: An Anti-Novel, Barge Journal (who are the cool eds: Shawn & Justin Maddey and Christine McInnes, and cool layout ed: Hallie Romba), Front & Centre (another cool ed, Matthew Firth), and Thomas Patrick Levy's Please Don't Leave Me Scarlett Johansson.


mama spent the last hours of her 3 day bday festivities in a moonshine bathtub as the party rocked around her and read Barge Journal. it is the good stuffs. it is so full of the good stuffs; it is like the inside of a teddy bear all full of plushy good stuffs. check out Paul Kavanagh's "China," and Zdravka Evtimova's "The Brandy Maker," and Travis Blackenship's "excerpts from They Burn You" and then everything else in this journal cos your eyes will be tired and the moonshine fumes will make you dizzy but you will want to read on all spinning dizzy from the words and the way the words make you feel more alive and tingly than moonshine or sex even.

& mama recuperated with Johannes Goransson's Entrance to a colonial pageant in which we all begin to intricate. & it was like Genet and it was not like Genet and it was like and it was not. it was like toast & it was better than toast, yo. it blew the empire apart. it blew shit up in my heart. read it now.

mama'll be reading the rests soonsoon. glitterjesus & i can't wait, yo.

luvs,
mama

birthday bonuses & breasts, yo

here is a link to breasts courtesy of my sister, yo...

if you thought mama was gonna flash her sisters' titties you got problems.

this is the shit

that i promised you all a while ago: pix & dicks from mama's tour

these photos are all from or on the way away from mama's first stop, yo, in springfield, mo. that first stop was set up courtesy of one Tracey Parker (who has a very cool etsy store, for reals) and one Lil Olive, owner of Good Girl Art Gallery. Here is a photo-journal of it all... (mama hasn't yet taken a pic of the little wooden baby hand with a screw attached that the dentist gave her...mama is not stringing words together here to demonstrate the absurdity of life; this was one of the highlights, yo but it wasn't squalid & it wasn't mama puking in an alley or falling in love & getting her heart busted or someone falling in love with mama & getting his or her heart walked all over with big motherfucking boots or something muchmuch worse, like what happens to Homegirl or Richboy or Punkboy or even the bartender with the birdlike hands...)

glitter jesus showed up for the reading...

mama stayed with tracey parker, aka trailer parker, aka baby, aka little edie 2


here is grey gardens. it is beautiful. mama misses it so:

& the road back to the alabamaz:

& another road shot cos mama heard the road narratives are hot or something

here is some peace and sanctity:

of course, mama grabbed that glitter jesus & mama took that glitter jesus on home, yo that sanctity is a wtf sanctity & why am i here sanctity & existential sanctity...:

& a should glitter jesus read Homegirl! existential sanctity:

& glitter jesus does:

& glitter jesus continues to readeth:

the end:

 yours,
ryder

fetishes yo

hey peeps. i know i promised the book tour bloggy post but mama's been sidetracked by the Occupy & wishing she were there & fantasizing about running from the law with a balaclavaed anarchist & then he & mama lose the nightstick waving nypd & then we're in an alley & the alley has a chainlink fence & mama doesn't have to tell you what'll be going on up against that chainlink fence...

mama thinks one of her fetishes might be balaclavaed anarchists. they pop up in all her stories & even her novel. she has balaclavaed babies running & smashing & laughing in her dreams & up at Abjective (rip dear litmag) & soon to be in barge.

another might be garage doors. or chainlink fences.

mama's not gonna go all deep on her fetishes tho, like remittance girl's deep & insightful post. remittance girl is a writer of the erotic & she thinks hard & long about this stuff. she writes about the fuckings while mama writes about the fucked-up.

if you know mama or if you've read Homegirl!, you know that's not completely true, either...

mama's friends w remittance girl on the tweets & mama really admires rg's post, yo. mama's also friends w other writers & one of them twitted about how if you're a writer you shouldn't front about the alcohols, that drinking does not make you cool...

mama's afraid she fetishizes the alcohols. she's always telling you to get her a highball. she's drinking a manhattan right now. she loved bukowski when she was twenty. she loved mickey rourke for barfly. & she still loves barfly. sometimes for fun she runs through cornfields & steals the green corns. sometimes for fun she reads highball recipes on the interwebs. she's codenamed every one of her exes for some kind of highball.

the last one was the salty dog & the one before the dark & stormy.

now mama's getting all racisty.

boo.

but the one she'll always love is buck's fizz.

mama has no idea what that means & mama can also get behind others' fetishes sometimes. even when she doesn't get them. glitter, for instance.

or glitter jesus.

mama was gonna inventory the reoccurring tropey fetish things from her writings but this manhattan's her second & now all mama can think about is the anarchist & the chainlink fence & mama's got his balaclava off & he's doing things to mama that are better without the balaclava...

unless you gots a wool fetish.

& mama'll leave you with this, yo.

yours,
ryder

Book tour stop numero one

yo.

mama just had her first book tour stop.

mama'll get back to you tomorrow with highlights & pix cos she is still reveling in the weird awesomenesses of it.

yours,
ryder

Call me on my bullshit

cos mama knows she gots it. everybody gots the bullshit. so if you think mama needs to be called on it, then go for it.

& then mama'll say, heard.

& then mama might change.

& that's what the US needs to do now. & that's what all the complacent peoples who think, yes, I understand why the 99% are insecure or upset but I've gots a job & I'm healthy & I gots no worries & I'm a productive member of society, unlike those other peoples...

you could lose your job, just like that

you could get sick

you could

mama's thinking about leaving her sunny porch in the bamaz. mama's thinking.

& those of you who are saying America's too stupid to get it. Well, if they only get fed one perspective then they're not stupid, yo...

this is a picture of some of the 700+ peoples trapped on the Brooklyn Bridge today:

this is a pic of a young girl arrested on the bridge today:

which one might scare grandpa & grandma, & which pic do you think yahoo ran today?

yours,
mama

finally someone at the giants gets real

about  the Wall Street Protest & what's going down in the US today

thank you, Mike Young.

yours,
mama

a book is not a baby rehash

i was talking to my eds (via email cos my eds live in the UK & mama lives in the South) & i ♥ my eds cos they care about art & artists & the state of the world but they're not all pedantic & shit, yo, plus they published mama's novel, which means they rock on top of that. anyway... they suggested an alteration to the book is not a baby contest

recap:
in the original, mama wanted you to like her book more than you liked other people's babies. maybe mama shouldn't have called attention to the fact that peeps never like your babies as much as you do... my bad, yo. mama also stated she'd give away a free copy of Homegirl! to the 100th person who liked her book on FB.

now:
mama's eds have suggested that mama do a random drawing of all the likers of Homegirl! once the likes = 100.

so:
baby = book = Homegirl! likers < 101, but > 99, = free book giveaway to any of the book-likers, yo!

here is the link in case you didn't get it:  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Homegirl/201060176620513

lovs from the bottom of my baby♥,
ryder

Hashtag: Occupy Writing

So, I have been following the Occupation of Wall Street from the safety of my home office. As I graded student essays this weekend, I clicked between essays and websites, looking for information about the protests; I wanted to see who was covering it and what they were saying. I clicked on HTMLGIANT and We Who Are About to Die as well, because I like to read their posts on what's going on in the independent literary world and in art and their takes on the intersection of literature and art with US society today... & I have been thinking about the reactions to these protests and protesters, and what most disturbs me is the non-reactions...

I thought the Giant might do something like this, at least:

I'm not trying to pick on the Giant or WWAATD, but their silence on these protests left me questioning, why? Why do the writers and commenters of the Giant bemoan a society where the bottom line is money, where art is not valued for art's sake (whatever that is), but for how much money it makes, yet do not even acknowledge a social event that has the potential to disrupt this corporatization bottom-lining of the US? That has the potential to disrupt the value systems that says only this (take your pick: bestsellers, new shoes, Lexus, mcmansions, American Apparel, etc.) is important because it reflects how much you are worth. That equates the number of books sold to the worth of the art. That says there is no place for cutting-edge, avant-garde, or experimental writing (or art) outside the academy (or even in, sometimes...)? That says there is no place for poetry?

Forgive me, if my thoughts are jumbled or if I come across as too earnest and not ironic enough... I'm not trying to attack the online independent literary community. I consider myself a member; I write and I publish online and I enjoy very much the discussions on the big lit blogs. I am just wondering, like Lily Hoang did during the Egyptian uprisings (& yes, I know this occupation is much smaller, but it is spreading...), why a lot of the writers seem to be saying nothing about Occupy Wall Street. There have been a few: The Rumpus has been keeping an "Occupy Wall Street Round-up" and Tao Lin tweeted this:

Why does the online presence of the independent literary community seem so complacent? Is it because we're all jaded? Too cynical? Too worried about legitimacy and authority so we don't want to be linked to "hippies" and "gutter punks" and "optimists" and those pilots(!) because then no one will take our art seriously? 

Mama's thinking we all need to re-examine our roles as writers. I'm not saying we have to write political works or anything... I'm just saying when we live in a society that devalues art, we should definitely consider supporting people who want to change the things that perpetuate this devaluation. I'm not trying to create a manifesto here. I am trying to say, as writers, we need to observe and we need to think and we need to interact and we need to make art and we need to acknowledge, in our communities, the possibilities of change.

To quote the last line of a  blog post by Christopher Newgent (about the BlazeVox "controversy") that was linked through the Giant: "You have to stop believing that this is 'the reality of poetry publishing.' Because it’s not. Because even if it is, it doesn’t have to be. Stand up."

As part of the writing community, I suggest we widen this sentiment to: You have to stop believing that this is “the reality of the US.” Because it’s not. Because even if it is, it doesn’t have to be. Stand up.

Internet Poetry do not be hating or feuding me

cos mama just wants to share this tweetered poem tout suite & mama doesn't know how to share the jing links cos mama's lucky she hasn't lost fingers or blown up entire acres making her mash moonshines, yo

A book is not a baby: Homegirl! giveaway

So mama's on twitter cos that's the newfangled way to know when the ATF's coming for the backyard still. & mama sits on her porch with her shotgun and her jug and her beastyhounds & it is hot & it is hard to read the screen & mama's got one of those convertible laptops with a keyboard & touchscreen & sometimes she hits  the screen with her drunk fingers accidentally and then she's watching the porns on her front porch so she doesn't even notice the chilluns playing some kind of chillun game all over her lawn. She doesn't even run them off.

Mama's almost hit 100 followers on twitter & she doesn't know if she should be sad that she has so few followers or happy that she has so many or all existential that it doesn't really matter either way. She's leaning towards the existential, yo. If mama didn't have a book out she loved like a baby, mama'd be sitting on that porch with her houndybeasts & her weapons & her jug & no twitter and no facebook and no bloggy and okay, yeah, probably some kinda porn or at least her stories...

Mama loves her book like a baby tho mama knows a book is not a baby. Maybe mama doesn't know this, maybe mama just thinks she knows this... but mama knows she can bring her book into a bar & accidentally leave it there & it will still exist & she will not be charged with negligence. Mama can leave her book on top of the car or in the middle of the fucking road, yo...

& mama's baby's already been gestated & nurtured. & mama's baby won't grow up not to love her or be all creepycreepy dependent wanting to call every day and wanting mama to wash their clothes & comb their hair & tuck their shirts in to their underwears still...Mama's book'll never call her a cunt & mama'll never hafta exert herself to shove the ivories soaps into metalbraces mouths. Mama'll never hafta play niceynice with her babydaddy's family even after she heard them talking about how between her moonshines & her masturbations they were tots surprised she wasn't blind.

What mama's trying to get at, in her roundabout alabamaz stills-induced way, is that she wants you to like her book. She wants you to like her book more than you like someone else's baby. In fact, she will give away a copy of her book-baby to the 100th person that likes the Homegirl! page on the facebooks... (mama'll be tot checking that shit, but in case her fingers drunkenslip again, be sure to comment here or post on her fb wall if you are #100).  So far, there are about 40 people who like it... so if you wanna be all sneakysneaker & like it now and then wait til it gets up to 99 & unlike & then like, well mama's distracted easily by the whiskeys & the drunkenslips & the stories & the lizards crawling across her house walls.

yours all existential & shit,
ryder

this is my new obsession

Fuck me like fried potatoes.

why is this "bad"

i think it is awesome. better than velvet elvises any day, yo.

thanks, you up against the garage doors of the world peoples

mama wants to thank all the people, influences, supporters, friends of Homegirl!:

HonestyPublishingPress:ChrisDanielBogdan,SleepSnortFuck:ChloeCaldwell,Juked:JohnWang,BastardsandWhores:AmandaandJoe,Fixitbroken:GregDybek,TheMethLab:NewambaFlamingoandFrankieMetro,FreakyFountainPress:CatherineLearyandRobinWolfe,StaciaMFleegalandDanNowakforfeedingmamathegoodfoods&forreadingthedrafts,TheSugarcubes,JeanGenet,TraceyParker,GoodGirlArtGallery,Tubesocks,HenrideToulouseLautrec,Bukowski,spittyprofessorswithfakeaccents,TommotherfuckingWaits,yo,bowling,TheB52s,52/250,CometCafebeforeitwasarestaurantfeaturedondiners,driveins,&diveswaybackwhenwhentheonlypeopledrinkingtherewasthestaff&smartpeepswithflasks,PABSTmotherfuckingBLUERIBBON,sexting,balaclavaedanarchists,NeilYoung,grindercore,ThomasPynchon(notreallybuthedoesgetamentionbutsodoesSlayer),sexings,wreckingballs,Texaswhorehouses,veganBenedicts,BreathlessCaddyshackForKeepsTeenageMutantNinjaTurtles,theexMarine,moleskines,poorboys,JeanPaulSartre,PlannedParenthood,divebars,Riverwest,thewhiskeys,danandstacia'scoffeetable(notreallyaninfluencebutthanksforthememories),mangosteens,repressionrepressionrepressionrepression,SidandNancy,merrywidows,callingmyselfmama(reallyhasnothingtodowithitbuti'mobsessed),babies,unbabies,babyishthings,unbabyishthings,garagedoorsbutnotgaragedooropenerscostheywouldinterferewithupagainstthegaragedoorsoftheworld,toodrunktofuck(thesong,duh,mamadon'trolllikethat,yo),peanutbuttersandwiches,bartenderswipingdryhighballglassesonsnowynightsthatmakethewindowsallfoggyinside,frogsandcatsandbighearts,meta,glocks,glockenspiels,punkboys,yo.

there are probably manymany more but mama doesn't wanna give it all away the first time; even mama likes to keep a couple tricks in reserve...

mama will thank you, too, if you like Homegirl!

yours full of thanky-thanks,

ryder

Pre-order mama's novel, yo

Homegirl!'s about to drop & you can get in on all the familyfungoodness at amazon

okay, there is no familyfungoodness in mama's novel unless you count 1980s genderneutral fragrances, braces, fathers with addictions a la cheever, & bowling in the darkness...

etcetera etcetera

& mama forgot to mention she's going touring with Homegirl!


here is one stop

mama's tour is gonna be all wonky; mama's tour's gonna be all askew; mama'll drive & drive with books & bourbon & the lines'll waver & the lines'll be crossed & mama'll pass out after the show & she'll wake up with her face plastered to the acknowledgments page & her tongue divining fortunes for all around her...

it will be real. it will be good.

so get in on the action quickquick & pre-order that good shit now cos mama's possibly coming to a town near you & she's gots the penchants for the good lits & the making-outs & the falling downs & the making-outs again & the goggling & the googling & the grog & the punkboys rocking & garage doors & all of us ups against the world, yo

yours,
ryder

a blog is a strange thing

& this blog is feeling existential-crisisy cos what is a blog & what is this blog & what does this blog wanna be let alone who is this blog's audience & where does this blog fit in with all the other litbloggies out there who are barking louder & pissing harder & are in heat ...

mama was gonna write a letter to the independent lit peoples of the US

mama was gonna somehow acronym them to lic but mama forgot how..

& lic is in a tiz cos of the blazevox but if you read the giants, you know all about it

& mama holds no ill will against anyone, not lic (let's go beyond the speed-datings - the in-out, in-out in < 5 minutes; that was gonna be in my letter to you), not blazevox, and not the giants. only the truckers who offered her a cab & whips & cheez whiz & only gave her the cheez whizs or maybe even just gave her an empty jar or a urine jar

& mama's not trying to deceive with the pictures of her book... it's not for sale, yet, smurfs & smurfettes... mama will let you know

you will probly get sick of mama letting you know, if you haven't already. or maybe you want mama to let you know more and more and school you already; you're all like, mama, i know you sit there on your porch in the alabamaz sun with your bourbons & shotgun but you were probly a schoolmarm b4 the rents had to sign for the spankings... do you still have the paddle, yo?

& feisters, did you think that was a pic of mama's book on her kitchen counter in mama's last posty? did you think mama'd have flowered wallpaper or a froggy oven mitt? or wallpaper or oven mitts? or even a kitchen?

yo.

mama went to the Decatur Book Festival yesterday, tho, & even tho she doesn't have oven mitts or a kitchen counter, she met a lot of nice peoples... some very nice people were at the Vouched table, for reals.

cos mama does not blow the smoke up the asses; but if you want a fist there just ask...

luvs,
mama

Cava in a jelly jar times...

But when isn't it, yo?

Here is what Homegirl! will look like after you purchase it and unwrap it from the its dull packaging (if you buy it, but, hey, no pressure, mama'll still love ya...
maybe.)

 The editors at Honest Publishing Press fucking rock! So does the cover artist, Nick Thompson. Mama'll drink the cavas to these blokes across the ocean. They may be sleeping now; they may have cava dreams all crisp and sparkly and jelly-jarry. Or they might be at work. Or playing rugby or eating chips. Mama gots no sense of time differentials... but she do know a good-looking book when she sees one.

Just like she can spots the good-looking mens way down the dirt road from her front porch in the direct alabamas sunlight...

MMMMMMM...

Yours,
ryder

i heart you all, even you pythagoras

& i am trying so hard not to call myself mama too much +  i am trying so hard not to steal pix from the interwebs x  i am waiting on pix from a guy you don't know / the number of penis pix on my cell phone + my age - my salary + the # of times my heart has been brokenheartedness / the # of literary cool kids who've stopped by my blog x the turk's circumference - e. said's disapproval of what he thinks is mama's exoticism x the second the lit cool kids were here + the # of sweatbeads drip-dropped down mama's boot at mayhem x the # of heavy-metallers who head-banged & puked / by your dispapproval of mama / by your disapproval of mama's choice of words / by your dispapproval of mama's choice of words & the arrangings of them - mama's hatred of false humility

=

yo

+

for reals

+

yours foreverever (foreverever?)

These people are the nicey-nicest

I want to send big big heart things to the fab four writers who have written such nice things about Homegirl! : Stacia M. Fleegal, J.W. Wang, Dan Nowak, and Chloe Caldwell. They said such nice things; they make mama blush & drink the tanquerays & fan herself with one of those old-fashioned paper fans you get at a funeral except her fan is actually the pastor's boxers & you don't wanna know how mama got em...

Here are their nicer than nicey-nice words:



"In Homegirl!, Ryder Collins breaks every rule, pulls every punch. This isn’t your mother’s love story, though Homegirl and Collins alike are at their best when they show us their big bleeding hearts. Ryder Collins creates a character we quickly seethe with, ache for, and follow through the fog and darkness to whatever end."
- Stacia M. Fleegal, author of Versus and Anatomy of a Shape-Shifter, editor of Blood Lotus

"Raucous, sexy and full of verve, Homegirl! will spank you and punch you in your teeth and leave you longing for more. This is a wildly entertaining book and Homegirl's is a hypnotic voice."
- J.W. Wang, editor of Juked

"Ryder Collins' debut novel Homegirl! blasts onto the scene like a punk rock debutante. Collins shows readers what love looks like and what love should look like. This novel has an energy that makes the rest of us look like we're comatose."
- Dan Nowak, author of Recycle Suburbia and Of a Bed Frame

"Collins' innovative debut is provocative and intriguing. Full of candor and darkness, Homegirl! is a real parable of modern times. Collins makes an insightful statement into the evolution of relationships in the contemporary world. A gem of a read."
- Chloe Caldwell, author of Legs Get Led Astray




♥♥♥♥

mama is too avant-garde,yo

7 mama's not gonna names & make it all bougy Flaubert's Madame Parrot & shit (& that "7" at the start of this should be an ampersand but mama's too avant-garde to change it , yo)... but mama's been told by some higher-ups somewheres in some kind of towers that her writing's too avant-garde for her to be the teacher of the short stories.

mama walks down staircases to get into her classes

     as mama walks down staircases she fragm ents into woodeny slabs

           these slabs do not slinky down; they rough-hewn their asses down

                 mama leaves avant-garde splinters in her wake   she is so cubist, yo

mama really wanted to be a fauvist but robert smith took all the day-glo & he wouldn't let her on that bus

    mama had to settle for the slow dignified shuffling of wooden cubes

    mama wants to say somethings about trajectories: the inverse of MFA narrative arcs and shit but mama's     still descending descending & there is no meaning to be found in a stairwell & there is no meaning to being found in wood

            timber-limbs are heavy; mama's wooden-tired

                  wooden-graceful
                   
                      she is the cubist ballerina    she would pirouette if she had toes, yo.

obsess, yes yes

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

who would like to blurb me?

yeah, that's most likely a euphemism, yo.

mama likes it when writers pretend they really care about all the other writers they know & i means all of them & they give shouts out to their 200+ writer friends & talk about what great writers all of them are when  mama knows that most of them are dennis hoppering words like blue velvet elvis hotcakes.

whatever the fuck that means.

mama's just feeling guilty cos all these great lit mags - decomp, > kill author, fix it broken - have just dropped more babies & mama didn't even go to the shower or buy diapers or footy pajamas or butt cream let alone visit the maternity ward.

just remember mamas afraid of babies.

just remember mama has to drink the many manhattans to even be near a baby let alone touch their uncanny little fingernails or smell their sweet powdery nasty diaper+oldspit-up funk...

but mama will go to those babies & she will read their fresh pink skin. she will read their vulnerable limbs. she will hold them & offer them words. words like aw girls pissing & bitch saying & home girl fuck good & ninjas & sam elliot mustache

& that is no way to talk to a baby

so she will offer them better words like smash & gossamering & lemon dress & yea & verily, yo

mama will also check out barge when it drops its first... & not just cos mama's gonna be part of its second, but that's what's you're thinking...

mama knows. mama's not wearing pants & therefore she's wiser right now.

mama's legs are free & kicking up jigs & anarchists right now.

mama's been drinking the many of the bourbon highballs now. & mama's studying the small defense of a baby's yawn & the small hypocrisy of the fontanelle & the small ice sliver fingernails in her manhattan now & the maraschino juiced cherry fetuses floating floating...

yours in love,
ryder

this is how the southes make me feel

& everyone has to die...

which is why mama's not gonna be networking right now cos no one wants their name & death in the same goddamn sentence...

but mama loves y'all, yo...

okay, mama loves y'all some.

okay mama loves getting some.

yours,
ry

bitches better represent

mama wishes she were better at the networkings & the makings of friends

mama would be a good friend if she didn't always want to sleep with your boyfriend

or your girlfriends

mama says, bitches why you be fronting & not be hitting on me?

mama doesn't actually talk like that

mama's plans for the future include:

- writing another book
- learning how to one-arm pump a shotgun
- finding true love or at least someone she can stand to fuck every day
-1/2 sleeve (at least!) of tattoos
- owning her weird shit
-leaving bama for good & never coming back not even to travel through cos once the portal opens...
-finding something good to eat in her freezer she forgot about
- finding a book she left in the freezer she forgot about
- starting a fetish porn company called "Ladia"
- making you play guess the fetish
- wearing big boots
- collecting all the bobby pins she left in her trucker's bed

- doing heroin (& maybe they'll have even better drugs by then!) when she turns 80
- sitting on her porch with one arm shooting up and the other one-arm pumping the shotgun when she's 80, yo
- using exclamation marks cos they makes her jaded heart just a little less jaded

yo.

mama's got a brand new tatt

yo.

for reals.

yo.

love is a frog and catting thing, yo.

i am so not cool

i have a dog & my dog barks all the time & my dog doesn't listen to me & my dog would rather roll around in the alabamaz dirt than sit near me...

i read thought catalog  articles about hipsters & can't decide if i'm a hipster or not & know deepdown if i were a hipster i wouldn't be conflicted about my identity or maybe i would?

i am no longer twenty

i am no longer twenty but sometimes forget & go to the bars

i am no longer twenty & didn't have the books of poetry published when i was

i am no linger rimbaud & never really was

i am no longer twenty but sometimes forget & go to the bars & get drunky

i have a picture of my dog that makes him seem like he's drunky & i'm no longer twenty

i'm no longer twenty & i forget and go to the bars when ovulating

i know when i ovulate & when not

almost every sentence of this post begins with "i"

i'm not trying to be meta, yo

i don't try to be meta but it just comes out that way...

here is a Meta portion from my book, Homegirl! Homegirl! is wayway cooler than mama & doesn't call itself mama:

Meta tried to pick up this Homegirl chick at a bar but b*tch gave him the wrong number or else she was too drunk and couldn’t remember her own cell number, which is a very good possibility.

Meta, like everyone else, easily gets bored with their own FB updates.

Meta is one of those FBers who comment on their own FB status updates. Not because Meta has no friends but because that’s how Meta roll. Meta also doesn’t find talking about Meta in the third person the least bit awkward.

Homegirl oh my god, my head.

Homegirl wants to know if you know any publishers or agents or even interns or an intern’s intern or the people responsible for Twilight’s popularity. Or Goth minions looking for a mistress/author.

Homegirl is going to get a tatt that says "deirfiúr" and will tell anyone who asks it means "deflowered."

Meta likes If you think writing about writing is so 1990, I will cut you, If you think meta-fiction’s seen its day, I will kill your dog and also make every day of your life just slightly less pleasant by one unnoticeable increment til you gets to the point where your less pleasant day is your standard for pleasant, and I bet this pickle can get more fans than yo mama.

Homegirl likes, Omg, leave me alone, my head and Go get mama a highball and quit your crying cos Santa ain’t real.

the end,
ryder

this is what my book looks like, yo

i am so excited, for fucking reals!

check this awesome cover out. mama is in love...

 thanks, honest publishing press for finding such a kick-ass artist!

wow. like i said, i'm in love. i'm so much in love i'm wearing a pink gingham sundress and heels and a pink headband and rhinestoned glasses and i just got an updo &  i'm fucking cleaning and twirling and cooking & spinning & i will have a fucking pot roast and a fucking martini ready for that cover when that cover comes  home, yo.

love,
ryder

post-Louisville wrap-up: aught-11

here is a re-cap from my annual sojourn to the kentuckyz aught-ten:

That's my tough talkz; I am in the Kentuckyz; I'm reading about a quilt. Businessmen in the Kentuckyz love the high knee boots. Believe it. They're not like the Alabamaz businezmen who like the sorority girls in their little heels and their prom dresses and the promise of pom-pomz and pigtails later.


this year mama's matured & she calls the kentuckyz the kentuckies.


this year the hot lesbian did not look mama up & down like she was gonna eat her up.


this year a hot bald guy tried to flirt w/ mama & mama, lacking the social skills & the drink at that time, just didn't get it...


this year mama was stopped often & told she had a great sense of style. she was also told she looked eurotrash. maybe that's a compliment for hipsters but in miltown where mama's from them's fighting words, yo. bitch is lucky she didn't get a pbr upside the head. for reals.


this year mama wasn't looking for her mojo. maybe she should be looking for her mojo. maybe mama spent all her mojo in the writing of Homegirl! we'll see, eh? cos Homegirl!'s gonna fucking drop this year, yo.

the last night in ky, this year, mama went to a chi-chi bar by herself cos mama was looking all eurotrashy & she sat at the bar & ate chi-chi potato gnocchi & drank a manhattan & read Jean Rhys Good Morning, Midnight & it was yar...

after mama ate & drank & read, she walked around the chi-chi restaurant's hotel's museum & she fell in love with the juxtaposition of the drunken wedding receptions & the solitude & she took pictures of the pictures & giggled to herself & thought about crashing a reception but they looked boring fratboyesque & so she left & walked down Main St (i fucking kid you not) & stumbled upon the ky gay pride parade & tried to catch beads.


it was more than yar.


mama ended her last night in ky in a dive bar on bardstown with a double of maker's, no mardi gras beads, a crush on a 70 year old photographer, & three magnums in her underwire bra... cos that's where she keeps her integrities, yo...

yours,

ryder

This is what mama's working on, yo...

            The Hater’s Winter

The hater hated winter.

The hater hated a lot of things, of course, but winter was especially bad.

It wasn’t because of the cold and the isolation and the boogers freezing and then cutting the inside of delicate nostrils or the sun sparkling off frozen white crystallized sheets of snow that scrunched crunched under heavy booted but still cold feet. It was that, yes, and then it was one of her exes.

The hater had a lot of exes. That’s goes without saying, yo.

The hater wouldn’t have cared so much if she could just get away from her exes, but the more an ex hated her the closer he lived to her.

This one was a couple houses down now. On the same side of the street even.

It was part of a curse or something and something she meant to ask the ghost who lived in her bathroom about. But she was always pissing the ghost who lived in her bathroom off by singing indie pop in the shower.

The ghost especially hated her Beach House covers, but she just couldn’t stop.

This one’d gotten a boner every time it snowed. This one’d gotten a boner all the time but this one would get even more of a boner when it snowed and this one would grab the hater’s hand and pull her off the warm couch where they were cuddling and watching some crap movie this one owned while making out and trying to be discreet because this one had a three year old son who didn’t know any better about men and women except that his mommy and daddy no longer lived together and the hater was not the cause of that.

This one would say, Snoooooowwww. And it would be so long and so drawn out it was like a coming moan. It was more of a coming moan than any moan this one’d let out when they had sex. & this one would pull the hater up and pull her out the door and leave the three year old behind. Then this one and the hater would be in his car – a datsun or some shit – and he would be peeling out of his driveway and he wouldn’t be looking and he would be kinda moaning and trying to light a cigarette all at the same time and the hater would be all like what am I doing here, but she wouldn’t articulate this because the hater always wanted to see what kind of shit she could get herself into in a small way and how she could get herself out of it and how little energy she could get away with exuding to get her ass out of whatever small but poignant or dramatic or fucked up situation she was in in her small way.

If the hater could just sit and never say anything, she thought she’d be okay.

This one had a small one but it was thick and that was all right, but it was no Turk, yo. This one drove like he had a big one or more like he was making up for not and that was so cliché and so were the doughnuts he’d be spinning in the snow except that he was 35 not 15 and the hater was 30 and her youth was wasting wasting. Her youth was gone. She’d spent it in coffee spoons and goth makeup and sexual tensions she’d never acted upon and hot crayon wax and fake alcohol drinks and peach schnapps and a couple of softball teams and a guy who called all summer long when she was thirteen and asked if she knew anything about cross dressing and he’d scared her but she kept on picking up that phone because she didn’t know how to leave anything alone.

This one would be spinning spinning the car and it would be snowing and the hater would be like, are you for real, but she wouldn’t say it out loud. 

All around them it would be that soft dark that only happens when it snows and it could’ve been über-romantic with the almost pastel sky and their breaths visible and so close in the car’s closeness and their hands seeking warmth.

I'm up North, bitches

that's right ------------- mama made it past the Mason Dixon line. suckas! she's walking the riverwest streets in sunlight with her cujodog & waiting for the mayhems.

there have been little mayhems but she's waiting for the big mayhems

there has been a one year anniversary bender but no coffee table kissed mama's ass this time

mama 's waiting for the mayhems like a burst heart on center street cos she saw the ex-marine & he was all paunchy & grey & drinking a grande macchiatto & her heart just couldn't take it

mama's waiting for the mayhems like Homegirl! in a mexican standoff & then there's a gunshot & Homegirl's runningrunning & blood purring pouring a la Thomas Hardy pooling in the shape of a heart...

mama's waiting for the trucker to convoy through the blockade past the sheriff, up the sidewalk, & straight into her arms...

mama's waiting.

yours,
ryder

there are things too terrible to say but this is not that

this post is for the 7th Language/Place Blog Carnival. it is mama's meditation on the novel she's working on called The Hater's Winter. the novel has a hater & in at least one chapter there's winter. mama may have been huffing things while meditating on her novel. she may not have. she doesn't remember. it was just another monday evening down in the bamas...


oh, & check out the previous Carnivals. 


there is too much narrative and it is buzzing

there is too much narrative and it is a-rodeoing

there is too much narrative and a stranger comes to town

when the stranger comes the town rubber bands

when the stranger comes there's an increase in kool-aid & dope fiends

oh, yeah

that might be too narrative; that might equator

there are kool-aid & sex fiends in your winter

there is a winter and there is a hater

the hater lives. she lives in the winter. she breathes it in & the winter congeals

the winter tumbles. the winter corpuscles. the winter tongues.

the laws of physics do not apply to some narratives...

                    especially when there's too many kool-aid strangers

the only equation here was stolen from a blog

when strangers come to blogs there is sex-doping

this only equation has nothing to do

this only equation has nothing to do with narratives or strangers

the winter breathes in the hater and she goes dope-sex carnivaling

she goes doping she goes sexing she leaves you fiending on your couch

you drink kool-aid and you tumble

you drink kool-aid & your tongue's now her hater

it is snowing

it is snowing & there is a stranger

it is snowing & there's a hate in your winter


yours w/ luv,
mama

mama has to go deep & go dark

mama has just finished Barbara Browning's The Correspondence Artist & yes, mama reads & no, mama is not just all body body...

this bit killed mama:

(wait - spoiler, alert...

if you haven't read Browning's book click click away now, chilluns...)

"I mean, I'll miss the fiction, I'll miss Tzipi and her cruelty and her hair, I'll miss Binh's images and his beautiful cock, and Djeli's angelic voice, and Santuxto's hypochondria. I'll miss waking up every morning and running to the computer so I could be with them again. And I cried a little, again, writing the end."

that little bit made all the games, all the postmodern slippage, all the simulacra worth it for mama in the end.

cos I cried when I was done writing Homegirl! and then I cried some more when I finished the re-writes & now I'm crying cos I know mama has to go deeper & darker at the end & sometimes mama wonders just how much art wants from her. couldn't art just leave her alone to watch her stories & then every now & then drop by for some moon pies?

couldn't art just call, every now and then, even tho mama doesn't have a landline?

couldn't art just text & be like, how u doing?

couldn't art just turn up in a pocket of mama's housecoat, cos she bought it from the goodwills, & just be there, waiting?

couldn't art just come by with the sheriff & be all, this one yours, too?

mama knows better & when art calls mama lays out the good jelly jars, the ones without the chips, & she serves cava & the hummus cos she knows the arts probably likes to pretend its cruelty free even tho art is the first one to smash your face into the pillow ant take you from behind while wearing newly-skinned veal calf boots and baby seal furs.

yours,
ryder

This is mama’s home, this is mama’s skin

This is a guest post by Caleb J Ross as part of his Stranger Will Tour for Strange blog tour. He will be guest-posting beginning with the release of his novel Stranger Will in March 2011 to the release of his second novel, I Didn’t Mean to Be Kevin in November 2011. If you have connections to a lit blog of any type, professional journal or personal site, please contact him. To be a groupie and follow this tour, subscribe to the Caleb J Ross blog RSS feed. Follow him on Twitter: @calebjross.com. Friend him on Facebook: Facebook.com/rosscaleb

Mama said I like what you done, thanks for that, you write all those books? yeah, any good, no. I like what you done though. My writing? nope, everything else though. Like Saramago you write on and on and on with barely a breath. Just for this blog post, I said. Very meta. Saramago doesn’t do meta.

Mama welcomed me, said I could stop by this blog of hers and did so without stipulations. Bad news for me. See she’s done some things, witnessed some things too, and at the end of all these things she’s still standing. Not true for those she’s witnessed doing those things or those she’s done those things to.

She creases back Stranger Will, her knuckles and fingernails still bloody from those things she’s done. I read some of this, she says. I read the part about finding the lady in the basement, about taking her to the hospital, about finding out she’s been pregnant, but isn’t any more, about finding out that doctors told her she’s just got to wait until the rest of the baby pieces come out naturally. Naturally, she says pulling up from the book, not funny.

No supposed to be.

Then I like what you done, she says.

I read the part about the kids hugging that tree, all covered in poison-

Phenol, I correct her.

That stuff really burn through clothes like you say?

I didn’t say. I wrote.

I done some things too, none of this garbage you write about, but real stuff. I’m gonna look into that phenol stuff. Can I keep this book?

I’m not taking it away.

tomorrow: guest post; today: hate

tomorrow: caleb ross's stranger will tour stops here! mama's so excited cos someone's actually stopping by & doesn't mind the chilluns & the empty highball glasses & the mama's in a housecoat cos all her mumus got burned up by her last ex right before he left cos alagasco shut off the oven again & he needed somethings to start a fire cos he lost his lighter & you know...

today: hate
mama did the hate fucking once. only once. she left her boots on. this was way back when mama was a willow & a teen & she had the passions for more than just the muscly men in her stories...

mama's lying here; mama's always got the passions cos she's like mel gibson minus the christ & equal the crazy & minus the misogyny and equal the drunk dialings...

mama once had a guy say, i think i'm beginning to hate you...

mama appreciated the honesty. for realsies.

& that's when mama finally gots the allure of films like casablanca and an affair to remember. it took mama a long time. before she always wanted to share. she craved intimacy: the hairs all over the bathroom counter. the burnt toast scrapings. the beer bottle caps underneath her feets. the sheriff knocking at her door & asking, this one yours? the sheriff knocking again and again.

mama's lying again. mama's got more class than you think. she's drinking cava. from a jelly jar. but cava nonetheless, you snobs.

(mama didn't mean it, babies. mama loves you all.)

yours,
ryder

BlazeVOX 11 is alive & reals...

check it out, yo

at the combination pizza hut & taco bell

mama's been thinking about you. this post is for you. there is no you. there is only you.


mama was gonna do an homage to wigleaf's un/happiness writers' playlist and list un/happy songs she listens to when she's stranded at Love's Truck Stop in the combo pizza hut/taco bell but then mama was distracted by the readings of the other entries... 


& wigleaf's playlist's gots Kyle Beachy, Ryan Bradley, mama, Gabe Durham, Erin Fitzgerald, Carissa Halston, Andrea Kneeland, Lacey Martinez, David Peak, Matt Salesses, Lucas Southworth, Amber Sparks, Terese Svoboda, and xTx. 


mama wants to give a shout out to Carissa Halston, both for her piece cos it's rocking, & for liking mama's, but sometimes mama feels shy about giving the shouts-out to writers she don't know cos then they might think things that are not so nicey-nice about mama or they might become twitter friends & rock (you know who you are, Tina, and let me know when new stuff drops...) or they might ignore her or mama might take it too far & ask them to be her boyfriend.


mama's all kinds of confused cos it's six in the morning & there ain't no gin and juice.


yours,
ryder


p.s. this song makes mama happy...