I briefly studied poetry with William “Bill” Matthews eons ago. I liked him very much. I was a bad poet. He made us write sonnets. I wrote one that narrates a mother teaching her daughter how to masturbate in the shower. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like much of my work, and yet, we liked each other. After the jump is my sonnet. Feel free to share your bad sonnets in the comment section.
Steven Trull and Just Sayin– the only two people who entered the villanelle contest- are the winners!!! I will send them both packages of books! Thanks, you two, for writing a villanelle and entering the contest. Email me your addresses at firstname.lastname@example.org.
I accidentally ordered two copies of Amelia Gray’s AM/PM from Featherproof . Write a vilanelle about your htmlgiant contributor of choice and I’ll send my extra copy and some other books to my favorite entry. Post your entries in the comments section.
I feel like a piece of shit today. Self hatred is an interesting thing in that it allows oneself to feel a sort of disproportionate amount of self importance and partake in self involvement, albeit one of loathing. From this thought, I’ll segue into the issue of liking or not liking, hating or loving, characters in stories. Continue reading “Cover to Cover: The Atlantic, Part 2”
I fucking hate the Atlantic because of articles like this one linked here and the many other similiar, hyperbolic crap they publish with far too great regularity. I truly think they try to find the most mentally disturbed, prozacked, never-properly -fucked-in-their-entire-liives journalists they can and ask them to write the most insensible social commentary they can muster. Indeed, I rarely read them anymore because it’s bad for my gallbladder. But, I bought their fiction issue that comes out yearly. And I read all of the fiction in it. Here’s a brief discussion of the first four of seven stories: Continue reading “Cover to Cover: The Atlantic”
I’m still in the Dominican Republic, recuperating after climbing Pico Duarte, with a giddy love of modern plumbing dominating my emotional core. Earlier last week, I read the entire Electric Literature, No. 1 which consists of only five short stories. At first, the green smoke of envy blew out my nostrils because every single one of the f ive authors- EVERY SINGLE ONE- has had multiple books published. I mean, couldn’t they publish just one up and comer? Pretend they care about new talent? Hm. Guess not.
Anyway, the cover of Electric Literature is a tripped out, fantastic portrait of a woman with multiple eyes and ears, blood dripping on her face, muscle tissue showing and weird space-age shit going on, done by Fred Tomaselli. So, I expect something unconventional inside, from both the coverart and the title, something truly “electric”. What instead I found, were five, solidly good short stories. And this is no small feat. In fact, it was one of the most satisfying journal reading experiences I’ve had in a while. Continue reading “Cover to Cover: Electric Literature, No. 1”
I’m leaving at 4:30 am tomorrow for the Dominican Republic. I’ll be gone for two weeks and although I will not be reading much while climbing Pico Duarte, I will be spending some of that time sitting around and reading. Here is a list of the books I am contemplating bringing:
I’m going to see if I can start a book club with Early Man. You know, go to their house, talk about books we read. That’s right! My own book club, with Early Man! Because those bitches from the PTA wouldn’t talk to me because I wasn’t “PTA” enough and wouldn’t invite me to their book club! (It was cool- I hung out with this Jamaican drug dealer named Ray whilst picking up our kids. Much more pleasant than talking to Cynthia/Satan, PTA President from the Devil’s Anus.) And you know what? After we talk about books, we’re gonna get really fucked up and screw! Wait, that just slipped out. Anyway, here’s some excellent recommendations from Early Man- The 12th Planet by Zecharia Sitchin, anyone?