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,
Ry

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:

rainrainrain

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

read

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,
Ry

I'm getting all metaphysical and shit

Oh, blog. I left you with a bare chassis; I'm such a pervert. The skeleton bones of my dream car laid bare for all the world to see. See? Again:

Which is worse, to be laid bare on the Internets or to be stranded somewheres in the Alabama?

             Insert stereotypical picture of pickup truck-driving
             bubba with a gun here.

             Insert 80s Tron-like image of the Internets here.

             Compare.

I'm thinking the AL cause it's a hell of a lot less metaphysical.

And yeah, I've been drinking cheap Trader Joe's champagne I brought all the way with me from the North and yeah, I know that's against the law and oh boy, what a badass I gddamned am and yeah, I'm just too damn lazy to find images on the Internets and that's why I'm going all metaphysical and shit and torturing you with the bared bones of a 1970 Dodge Challenger minus the chartreuse exterior minus the engine minus me looking cool at the wheel or hell I'll even take the passenger seat if you can look cool at the wheel and by cool I mean serious hand tatts that don't say love and hate and if they do say love and hate they do it in such a way as to bring attention to the cliched nature of the message and of hand tatts themselves, in such a cliched way that the cliches become cool because we all know irony we all celebrate irony there is nothing but irony left in this world and that is why I'm so earnest and that is why I like steampunk accessories and that is why I'm stuck here in Alabama and that is why I'm writing to you, dear bloggy.

I've come full circle already. My nose tickles cause I gots to drink this champagne quick before it gets warm. I'm waiting to hear from an agent cause like I told you, I'm earnest and I never gives up. There are no correlations to be found in any of this and that's what makes it all so goddamned linear and rational.

I was driving down a main thoroughfare somewheres in the Alabamas and I saw a neon sign that said, Glock. Is that the springtime equivalent of the robin for gunheads? Is it the equivalent of spring fashions, the soft pastels, for the NRA? Why was this sign spelling out Glock and should I go get one?

When the shit goes down, I do not want to be stuck in the Alabamas without a gun.

Before the shit goes down, check out more of my stuff on the Internets: http://dogzplot.blogspot.com/.

Babies + guns = extreme, sublime about to meet some kind of fucking maker terror,
Ry

BNG is the one who speaks to you through bathroom stalls...

New work here:

http://shadysidereview.com/the-third-installment/

I have a white purse; I could be a nemesis.

I will leave you with this chassis:

I will leave you with this classic:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=glxY-WJ-fwg

Soon,
Ry

CPAC inspiration lovely consumerist infestation

Just got a great story idea from watching news coverage on CPAC. Thanks, teabaggers and friends.

Am reading Sam Pink's I Am Going to Clone Myself then Kill the Clone and Eat It, which I just got in the mail. Thanks Sam Pink and friendly mailperson!

The MAN at work: http://www.slate.com/id/2245188/

A man at work:

Nothing to do with men at work: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3OaBAbBVQEA

That's all I gots,

Ry

Oh, wait...just got a story accepted by Monkeybicycle! It has nothing to do with CPAC at all, I promise.

Hunter S. Thompson's ghost drops acid on hipsters

It's the fifth anniversary of HST's death; not that I'm keeping count, because that would be kinda morbid and weird. He's an authorial presence that's missed, though. When I first read Fear and Loathing, I was like, you can do that? I wanted to write like him; I wanted to live like him.

When Bush et al were running the country, I started losing hope in America. I wondered where were the writers like Thompson who would point out the corruption in our government, the corporate takeover of democracy, the war for oil and money, the squashing of civil liberties.

I wrote a short story about a traveling Word festival (kinda like Lollapalooza except for writers). Dave E. and Dave F.W. (rip DFW, as well = another sad, sad day for bibliogeeks) are the headliners of the show; Chuck P and Chuck D break in backstage and tie Billy C (the poet laureate) up so they can steal his spot. Lots of mayhem...but in the end, it is the ghost of HST who tells it like it really is...who keeps it real...for reals.

Here's HST's part (my homage to a great writer):

Fear and loathing incorporates “[T]he flying object maneuver” (okay, not really, but H.S.T. does fly, can fly). Coda:

I was somewhere around Baltimore when I realized I’d been left out. I remember thinking something like “I feel a bit incorporeal, but that could be all the smoke I inhaled when I was shot out of a cannon . . .” And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around me and I realized it was coming from down below, so I swooped in like a bat to check out what was going on (and wished I had access to some hardcore drugs of some kind, some MDMA or even some DMT, although I wonder what a near-death experience would feel like when you’re really dead and I think that’s what my problem is, well, one of the lesser ones, anyways). I was dead and watching an audience I didn’t and couldn’t understand. I mean, this audience was eating this shit up. This audience had barely even heard of me. This audience didn’t know what it meant to never feel/be ironic.

Yeah, they were always depressed and didn’t know it; but, worse, I was somewhat depressed. And I was dead. I thought that shit went away after a while.

But, looking for the American Dream, after all these years, can make you feel that way. Still.

There were these two Okies onstage. Okay, they weren’t really Okies and they weren’t really lizards (as if the world, besides me and mine, were really split into such a simplistic dichotomy), but they definitely weren’t me. They definitely didn’t care. Or, okay, maybe it just seemed that way to me. I mean, I suffered through the death of the 60s, the death of idealism, and then I suffered through the 70s, through disco and John Denver and cocaine and all that, and the 80s and I can’t even get into that, and the 90s and politics and then, it just got worse. I always thought it’d break, like a storm or something, a Midwest tornado or a horrible monsoon (and I’d witnessed firsthand the corruption and greed and pure evil that couldn’t put New Orleans back together again or maybe I would witness, when you’re dead time travels all ways, around and through and in and out). I’d thought 1971 was a foul year, fuck.

I guess I don’t blame these two guys. The Daves. Unlike me, they’ve known all along the truth about the Dream. Their audience, too, I guess (there are very few Okies left in this world, in fact they’re near-extinct).

So, it wasn’t personal when I let the fireworks go. And it wasn’t personal when I dropped liquid Acid on the audience. It wasn’t personal when I blasted “White Rabbit” over the sound system. And it definitely wasn’t personal when I shadow-puppeted lizards everywhere. Lizards lounging. Lizards flicking their tongues. Lizards hunting. Lizards hotwiring cars then wrecking them. That was just Act One. Then I got real: Bible-thumping lizards, lizards draped in the American flag, torturous lizards, lizards stealing land and abolishing civil liberties, corporate lizards who own foreign rain forchrist’ssake, lizards wiping their ass with the Geneva Conventions, lizards bathing in oil and eating frozen embryos, lizards sitting in judgment over all, pretending to have a direct line to God. Lizards, yeah, lizards and fireworks and a crackly, popping sound system and maybe my attorney will pop up soon to throw them all out with the bathwater.

Someone’s gotta show them what’s going on, go Gonzo on them, cause it seems like no one’s paying attention. Habeas Corpus’s as dead as me; the borders are closing in.

“God’s mercy on you swine,” I shouted as I flew off to score some amyls or something. It never hurts to try, I guess, even now.


Look out for the lizards,
Ry

P.S. The story, in its entirety, was first published in Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens.

peoples bore me

but new publications do not. I get a little high every time I get a piece accepted.

I'm reeling now. I'm swaddled in Special K cotton puffs.

Chapter from Little pink babies here: http://www.bloodlotus.org/

Tell me what you think. Or not. I may still be reeling. I may be incandescent. I may be raving in  Bo Jackson's old four car garage at the end of a dead end street across from the sheriff's compound. Best place to rave in all of AL...

Don't know why anyone would bother making a "creepy" kewpie. They give me the screaming fantods just fine now.

Yours in heebie-jeebies,
Ry

And a song to march you out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tCT23V7C9GU