down in me

i am not allowed to come here any more

because i am trying not to see

because all these fingers are good for
is masturbation

Makes me think of ‘stamen’ which makes me think of sex.

I know what you’re thinking. One day I will become diseased because I am too obvious.

Pastel Comedown is a tiny little stamen from my ovaries to yours.

If you listen closely you can hear me ovulating, dopamine-depleted, humming still.

One day I will grow big as Manhattan.

And eat you all with kisses. Specially Roxane Gay and the other nice Bluestemmers whom I do not know on twitter.

Stamens. Apparently the plural form is also stamina. Esta mina. La loca malparida. Mariposeando.

What’s a pistil, is that a part of a flower, too? La pistola.

Google seems nice.

Oh I forgot to tell you: that’s the last story in the trilogy. I’m fairly sure.

The Indie Lit Community Survey 2011 was created by > kill author and posted by Marcus Speh on his blog, Nothing to Flawnt. My answers are below. I was going to post this on WWAATD (which is why it looks sort of official) but then I felt like it was too personal.

1. When did you last read – gen­uinely read, rather than just quickly skim through – a lit­er­ary mag­a­zine from begin­ning to end?
   This answer is going to look kiss-assy, but honestly it was issue eleven of > kill author, probably not all the way through, though, I pick around based on what interests. I rarely skim, I’m not a good skimmer. Always feel like I will miss something important when I skim because I am obsessive.
2. When did you last read a lit­er­ary mag­a­zine for a sec­ond time, a few days later, to really get under the skin of the sto­ries and/or poems you enjoyed the first time round?
   I rarely re-read, it has to be really close to me in some way. I have re-read certain stories from certain journals many times. I go back to Sam Pink’s I AM THE DICTATOR from Clone a lot. A recent one that keeps ringing in my head is For Good by Melissa Goodrich. I still listen to her reading sometimes, I find it beautiful, I sometimes hear her say, ‘I like our bodies together’ in my head.
3. When did you last sub­mit work to a lit­er­ary mag­a­zine only after read­ing at least two issues from begin­ning to end, so that you could really get into the minds of the edi­tors and get a feel for what they’re look­ing for?
   I really only submit online and then only to places I read regularly.
4. When did you last write a blog entry, tweet or social net­work sta­tus about a new issue of a lit­er­ary mag­a­zine only after you’d read it from begin­ning to end and thought it was gen­uinely worth publicizing?
   I guess this sounds like bullshit but I only ever publicize shit that is worth something to me. Which is why I can’t keep up with everything and am usually late talking about shit. I feel like this question is antagonizing, which is why my answer says ‘shit’ a lot. I know there are some people that publicize only their friends, or things they want to get into or whatever. I cannot control what people do, I sometimes cannot even control myself. I try to minimize the impact of ‘those people’ in my life, but I understand why they do things. I feel alone too.
5. When did you last look at a new issue of a lit­er­ary mag­a­zine and choose to first read the pieces by writ­ers whose names were new to you, rather than imme­di­ately go to the more famil­iar and/or high pro­file contributors?
   Probably never. In a party you would naturally drift towards people you know. Seems normal. But also, after you talk to your friends, you would be introduced to people you don’t know, and that is how you get to know them.
6. When did you last dis­cover a writer who was new to you, thanks to read­ing one of their pieces in a lit­er­ary mag­a­zine and being excited/deeply affected by it, and imme­di­ately try to seek out more of their work?
   I am still trying to find more of Melissa Goodrich’s work. Most of the writers I love right now were in some way introduced to me by ‘the scene’. I think I just mean that I am grateful, not that I think it is what everyone should do.
7. When did you last per­son­ally email a writer whose work was new to you, to con­grat­u­late them on what you’d read and explain why you enjoyed it?
   A few days ago I emailed someone because I felt a great kinship with her after reading something she wrote. But it is rare that I will email someone because it is rare that the email is taken as just a thing, and not as a ‘demand’. Kind of like loving someone. You can unconditionally love, maybe, but once you say to someone ‘I love you’, there is an expectation, suddenly the other person is saddled with this love and has to figure out where to put it and sometimes the love is unwieldy and hard to store neatly, it won’t fit in cupboards, it attracts insects, collects dust, it’s a terrible inconvenience.
8. When did you last write a blog entry, tweet or social net­work sta­tus about a new issue of a lit­er­ary mag­a­zine and men­tion an unfa­mil­iar writer (or even writ­ers), instead of friends and the names of more notable contributors?
   Again, seems antagonizing. I do this all the time, if I liked the piece, I will mention the writer, doesn’t matter to me who they are. However, I do mention people I already know because I like them and I want everyone to know about them. Seems normal to do so.
9. When did you last pause to think about a writer who used to appear in many lit­er­ary magazines/published a num­ber of chapbooks/was a famil­iar name on the indie lit scene, who seems to have since dis­ap­peared, and won­der what hap­pened to them?
   I think about people that have touched me every so often. I always wonder where Daniel Spinks is. I had the thought, ‘Cami hasn’t tweeted lately’ a few days before I learned that very sadly, she’d died. I often wish Sam would write more online like he used to but I guess I understand why he doesn’t.
10. When did you last read a blog entry, tweet or social net­work sta­tus by a noted indie lit writer – which men­tioned either how many words they had writ­ten that day, the lat­est lit­er­ary mag­a­zine fea­tur­ing their work, their newest chap­book or the date of their lat­est pub­lic read­ing – and think “Why don’t you ever just say you spent a night sit­ting in front of the TV, eat­ing pizza and watch­ing a bunch of trashy movies, like nor­mal people?”
    Before I follow someone on Twitter, I try to gauge whether they are acting like a robot, so I don’t have that problem so often. It’s sort of different on Facebook, but I don’t spend so much time there, so it’s okay. Sometimes I think the ‘robots’ are just being ‘professional’ or something, and I wonder whether I am being too out with all my insecurities and emotional problems. But, usually I think, ‘fuck it’.
11. When did you last think some­thing less than favor­able about a lit­er­ary mag­a­zine or a new indie lit book/chapbook, but not men­tion your opin­ion online because you didn’t want to appear neg­a­tive or disrespectful?
    When I decide to spend time with a longer reading, I most of the time have thought about it enough to know that I will most likely enjoy reading it or get something out of it, so this doesn’t seem like a problem to me. I have sometimes done what I think of as a realistic review, where some things were negative but I still felt like the message was that this thing was worth reading, I am glad this thing exists, even if it made me angry or sad or whatever, because I am only expressing how it made me feel, not presuming to comment on its worth or judging its merit universally.
    Feels like a lot of the problems posed by these questions are more problems of lack of personal filters. Like, obviously there is loads of shit online and everywhere in the world; it’s up to me to sift through it and find what will be the shiny lumps in my eyes. But I can’t stop everyone from taking a dump. Shit’s natural. (Sorry for all the shitty metaphors and puns, everyone.)
12. When did you last read a lengthy, dis­cur­sive post about a neg­a­tive aspect of the indie lit scene, even join­ing in with the many com­ments speak­ing up in favor of its right­eously indig­nant crit­i­cism, but then not do any­thing about it your­self or change your behav­ior because of it?
    Change is hard for people. I don’t usually join in on comments of this nature, if I have something to say about something, I make a post of it or I write it and just show it to one friend and then decide not to post it. I am not good at talking, I need the space of writing and editing in which to think clearly.
13. When did you last read an over­en­thu­si­as­tic, cheer­lead­ing review of a book, chap­book or lit­er­ary mag­a­zine, which claimed that it was “life-changing” and “seis­mic” and was going to “turn the lit­er­ary world upside-down,” and think “What? Again? Really? Didn’t you say the same thing last week about a dif­fer­ent publication?”
    Actually I can’t remember. I do often wonder whether others think that about my reviews or writing, because I do get so excited about things and am prone to hyperbole. I am trying to accept that if you don’t think I’m genuine, there’s nothing I can do to change your mind. I want people near me that are going to be as excited about things as I am. I need that energy, I feel happy around it. The energy of ‘I’ve seen this before’ and ‘this is lame’ drains me, makes me remember that life is pointless, I don’t need that, life does that for me everyday, don’t pile it on, if a book makes you happy, yell, rub it on your boobs and wiggle, express.
14. When did you last feel unpleas­ant and dirty, rather than nur­tur­ing an over­whelm­ing sense of achieve­ment, after spend­ing a whole evening fir­ing off as many sub­mis­sions as pos­si­ble to a long list of lit­er­ary magazines?
    I’ve never done this. I am too lazy. I did submit to things when I was newer at this that I later thought, ‘I really just submitted that to ‘see my name in lights’ didn’t I?’ It’s cool. I have way more things to beat up myself over.
15. When did you last have a piece of writ­ing in a lit­er­ary mag­a­zine and think “I hope [influ­en­tial indie lit per­son] reads it” instead of “I hope some peo­ple out there in the big wide world, beyond the indie lit com­mu­nity, read it”?
    I try not to think about it. I get scared when I think of who might read something I wrote. I think the most I have thought is, ‘I hope [Giancarlo DiTrapano or other hot indie-lit boy] reads it and feels like fucking me.’ I am not being funny. Most of what I do is motivated by sex.
16. When did you last read a lit­er­ary mag­a­zine that, although writ­ten in Eng­lish, wasn’t pro­duced in your own coun­try? (Bonus marks will be given for read­ing non-English lan­guage publications.)
    I speak Spanish but I don’t feel comfortable reading in Spanish most of the time so no points for me. I read UK and Canadian stuff like My Name is Mud, Clueless Collective and Metazen. There doesn’t seem to be as much of what I like here (I’m in London) as in the US is all.
17. When did you last read a main­stream book (i.e. not an indie lit pub­li­ca­tion or a cru­cial and often praised work among indie lit scenesters)?
    Is Cormac McCarthy considered mainstream I guess? I have read three of his and am now on Blood Meridian, but I feel like this is not what you’re getting at because it was recommended to me by people you might call ‘scenesters’ who are friends whose opinion I value over the mainstream.
18. When did you last read a main­stream book, but decide not to men­tion it on your blog, Twit­ter, Face­book or Goodreads page because you were wor­ried it might not carry the right level of indie credibility?
    Okay I get it, but like, seems like mainstream books don’t need the mentions anyway, right? Plus sometimes the other way happens too, where people are just like, ‘I love Harry Potter and I don’t care who knows it because I am zany but anti-hipster!’ I just talk about what makes me feel like talking.
19. When did you last say to your­self, in the whiny voice of everyone’s inner teenager: “I wish [cool indie lit writer] was my friend”?
    Two seconds ago. And now. And again now. My inner teenager dominates most of my internal dialogue. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be loved/accepted.
20. When did you last claim to love the work of [cool indie lit writer] even though (a) you’ve never read any­thing by them, or (b) you don’t really much like what you’ve read by them?
    People who are not genuine exist everywhere, not just in the indie lit world and everyone has insecurities. I wouldn’t do this one though, because I’d have to read it first to make sure that it really is cool enough for me to attach my street cred to.
21. When did you last gen­uinely notice and/or feel con­cerned about the dis­pro­por­tion­ately male gen­der bias among con­trib­u­tors to lit­er­ary mag­a­zines – with­out first being prompted to do so by a blog entry on the subject?
    I am a woman so obviously I am interested in and an expert on anything having to do with vaginas.
22. When did you last look at the mast­head of a small or mid-scale lit­er­ary mag­a­zine which lists more than five names on its edi­to­r­ial team, and think “Do they really need so many peo­ple? And if so, what do they all DO?”
    Haha. Okay, you caught me, I have thought that. Really, what the fuck do they all do and can they pay me to do it too.
23. When did you last lis­ten to your own nag­ging con­science and with­draw a sub­mis­sion from a lit­er­ary mag­a­zine because it had been sit­ting in their queue for an insult­ingly long time, rather than leav­ing it there because “hey, you never know, I might get lucky, and I’m sure they’re very busy…”?
    I never submit to people who have insane response times. Maybe because I mostly submit online and to lovely places.
24. Go on, be hon­est – when did you last take a day off from “being indie lit”?
    Don’t really feel ‘indie lit’. I always feel like an outsider in situations with groups. I’ve mostly stopped trying to be things and just decided to like what I like and do what I like and try not to worry whether my hair looks funny and just to make sure I am not making myself unnecessarily extra unhappy because sometimes it is hard work enough just to be a person waking up in the morning.
25. How do you feel about your­self right now?
    Honestly? I’m feeling pretty sexy, yo.

i just sat on the toilet and cried this ‘eeeee’ sound. it sounded like a dolphin but less nasally, more choked. the toilet and the crying are unrelated. i mean, sometimes you sit on the toilet and you cry because you are constipated and your butt hurts or you have the runs and your butt hurts, and sometimes you sit on the toilet because you have to pee and as the stream gushes out of you you remember what a fuckup you are and do a noise like a dolphin but sadder. my life is like if you turn a bunch of esses on their stomachs and link them together like an s centipede. that didn’t work. up and down is what i mean. up and down. my grandfather is dying but i can only think about not being invited to someone’s party because as i always say, we are all dying. what’s the word for always thinking about dying but never actually dying. well, not never. i didn’t even call him because i didn’t want to listen to him say how tired he is and not get to say how tired i am back because he’s lived almost three times as long and that just seems unfair but motherfucker, i am tired too. i am so fucking tired. i haven’t done a thing but i just want to curl up fetal and have someone kick the shit out of me for at least five minutes. hi, this is a blog post that aims to get your attention. hi, this blog post says, PITY ME. hi, this blog post says, hello, i am a human, how are you. crazy girls are attractive until they wile out about you, this blog post says. this blog post says, i don’t care that you know i am fucked up. this is the kind of blog post that people delete their blogs after, i think. don’t worry, all five of you. i am not going to do that because i am short on self-esteem. that ‘all five of you’ sounded bitter. i promise you it is not. after just one of you came here, my shitty life was validated. they paid my mom in karma points for carrying me all those nine months. next time, she might get to be rich, she’s already been beautiful. i continue to do ‘unapologetic personal blog’ because i am stubborn and a masochist. and i don’t have ‘healthy channels’ for my stupid feelings. and the one person who moved for me found religion. and i am always dying. and i always have to write when my hands and arms feel empty anxious inside and i’m sober. but it’s no longer just enough to write, you gotta hit ‘publish’ or you never exist.

i was going to write a blog post but instead i have decided to go out and get a bottle of vodka so maybe later yeah

i am reading at adam j maynard’s my name is mud book launch thing in oxford on saturday. but they are doing fun things, like performances and dancing or something and a film reel i heard. come say hi and see me ‘live’ so you can tell your internet friends how i am not as pretty as you thought i would be.

pretty sure i had those same shoes.

i’ve been doing things like becoming a ‘co-editor’ at we who are about to die and wondering whether that means i have to start writing ‘serious literary analysis’ (pahahaha!) and stop talking in public about how much semen i eat (i am going with: ‘fuck your sexual repression’).

i started reviewing books for j. a. tyler, reviews editor at red fez. i say for j. a. because he is the nicest. one day a kid said ‘submit to mlp’ and i did and i have been a happy farmer since, cultivating a kind of working relationship in which things are done for the love of the soil and the rain and the sun.

the first review i did is stories ii by scott mcclanahan that if you don’t know yet you are a bird falling from the sky for no apparent reason.

in the smoke outside pubs i have been yelling at third-world chauvinist fucks about how i am lucky to sit on the curb in this city in this country in the world in this space at six a.m. in this day in this year of our own and my vagina doesn’t make anything impossible, for my vagina when i choose it to can be lifebringing not lifedestroying so shut the fuck up.

i have been reading cormac mccarthy again and thinking i can crib his word compounding thing but i can’t.

i have been loving him.

i have been practicing that i am someone else so i can show up to this and read some nice things for everyone. if you are close by and you come i might be able to give you a present that comes straight from the united states of america in the form of some words on paper in a lovely type. thanks again to sugarface j. a. tyler and his sweeeeeet mud luscious press.

i have been doing things like thinking about this year ahead of us and making plans for our future.

j/k, yo. plans. haha. i’ve really just been drinking and smoking and fucking. :)

clearly you
have missed
the point
of my poetry

is that a ‘statement of irrefutable fact’? is it possible that there is someone in the world right now whom someone did not love however briefly? even as a baby? even if a baby’s mother did not love him, is it possible that not even a hospital nurse cared for him? is it possibly for someone to grow up completely unloved, however wrongly loved?

People getting soft and maudlin. People lining the streets with linoleum. The terrace full and wanting of people. Back when women were strange, their dewy limbs, their warm freckled faces. Women were statuesque, their fine burlesque, their hips caressing the gauzy insides of their flowing dresses.

You didn’t see them back then, those people. Those people queueing for their just deserts. You didn’t see the gushing rivers, the women scrubbing themselves in their long underwear in the current.

People freely kissing on the porch, their eyes upturned, their mouths pressed together, their hands held. Your friends all smiling. Your wild weathered insides, nose breathing gentle, a newborn fawn wet with placenta and bleating on new life.

one. i am three years old and there is a big party with loads of people and my grandmother and my mother love dancing so they are dancing and laughing and happy. maybe it is a family party. lots of people and i am too little. all i see is legs. i look for my mother literally to hide in her skirts and she’s wearing this blinding gold and diamond bracelet and a gold seventies dress and i remember everything about the fabric of the dress. it’s not bright gold, it’s gold like shiny dijon mustard, a muted, elegant gold, the tiniest sparkles woven through giving it its polished sheen. my mother’s warm flowery perfume, like blooming yellow roses is all i smell and her dress all i see and i feel safe and happy and beautiful and loved.

two. i don’t know if i remember this so much or more because it’s a yellowing photograph in one of my grandmother’s many albums, but i must be again three or maybe two, my hair is a bowl of golden brown ringlets someone poured atop my head and my eyes are honey wide and glittering and my lips are wetpink and i am sitting with my feet on the bed next to my dad’s big, sunspotty hand and i am chubby in that lovely baby way and i am wearing a soft onesie the color of a babychick, the kind of onesie with the snap buttons and the feet attached with the white vinyl for soles, and the cotton fabric is so warm against me and my dad is looking down at me and he is smiling condescendingly and i feel safe and happy and beautiful and loved.