YOU CAN HATE ME now ::::: this document is called “smart things I say that I should be paid for but won’ t be”

listen up boys

this document is called “smart things I say that I should be paid for but won’t be”

&

the folder is entitled pragmatically          :::::

but not totally accurately :::::

“journalism 2015”

some smart people

just ignore

talking

about  anything

that

depends on

really ugly

white capitalist dudes :::::

the best people do that.

i want to be the best.

i am not the best.

:::::

god & jesus help me.

+++++

(((((they, god & jezus,  don’t seem to like helping ladies.  especially the super fertile ladies like me with all the kids.)))))

+++++

plus

plus

plus

plus

plus

so many things I should be doing.  Folding clothes into my kids’ drawers for school tomorrow. griddling some hamburgers for dinner.  Heating up yesterday’s mashed potatoes for dinner.

grading poor :::::

hungry & hungry & very hungry papers written by poor hungry students.

+++++

babies.

baby.

i know.

i seriously know.

it’s hard to know.

+++++

what we should pay attention to.

i like beck, beyonce, & kanye.

i mean, there are some things I like.

AS

there are things I like about d’angleo, hildegard, machaut, marina abramovich.

kanye  had a point.

none of which.

baby

:::::

i can’t be owned

:::::

even if I want

here and now.

(((((yeezus is my shepherd/not my shepherd & i shall/shall not want)))))

cn b dvrcd frm sck cptlstic stm.

if you can read that baby

<3

i don’t hate you as much

a  system with no vowels, no mothers, no wymn.

++++++

but fuck.

what’s the fkn difference?

people.

you need to go deeper.

beck resorted to a singer songwriter schtick &

he resorted.

he did.

he forsook harmonic & rhythmic interest

& he got money for it

mormons call that preistcraft

julie told me I would get bored of yeezus

& I did

&

\/ venice (LA) sunsets.

never disagree that LA doesn’t control the world.

i’m sorry that

i don’t hate it

it reminds me of my (white) childhood

like sstrada & shit (((((ponch)))))

+++++

carole king or james whats-his-name. the brill building heroin (white) guy. 

W (((((hite)))))

white guys pissing scared.

i’m not going to parse.

white guys R skeered.

i heard yesterday

(((((again)))))

that I am not good at parsing.

i’m sorry that you

 ((((( I )))))

have to do better, baby.

thought for a second there was

a

u & i ,

baby

i’m sorry.

i probably never will be.

should I keep

be sorry like always?

yeah

i          know

you say yeah

like always baby

like five babies, baby

+++++

i was lying in bed.

thinking

that

+++++

(((((fck)))))

there’s so much more :::::

baby yeez

++++++

cook-crastination & other forms of delay

a suggested tight to wear to the opening of BLACK LACE BBQ

eva came up with a brilliant term for a phenomenon i've been undergoing for years, but didn't have a name for:

cook-crastination.

it's when you have a pressing deadline, so you decide

instead of working on, say, a job application, a grant proposal, a paper, or the laundry,

to plan and cook an elaborate meal.

today i decided to work on creating a barbecue sauce recipe. i don't know why, because i don't even like bbq that much.  it involved dark chocolate.  the sauce would be called:

L's  Sweet Silky Smoky Spice Sauce

and i planned in my head that i would bottle it up for holiday gifts

and wrap a black lace garter around the top.

because it would TOTALLY go with my new restaurant concept (also conceived today):

Black Lace BBQ

The sauces would involve dark chocolate and smoked chiles, kind of mole-esque, and the rubs would be made with cocoa and chile.

The mac n' cheese would be sexy.  Silky Golden Orr Mac.  The mashed potatoes rich and creamy.  Of course there would be lava cakes.

The servers would be sexy.  Of all shapes, ages, sizes and orientations.  In tight jeans and sexy aprons. Black lace.

As if in New Yorker's fantasy about eating BBQ in the country, lickin' sauce off a hot person's fingers.

Maybe in Texas.

Probably Texas.

And when they show up at Black Lace BBQ, they're like:

this is way better than my fantasy. 

Everyone's hot!  And wearing Black!  And sexy boots.

Everyone's feeding each other ribs and licking sauce off each other's fingers!

lemon ricotta crepes

***

and rather than finish my reading of romantic poets today (why are there so many romantic poets, and why do i have to read so many defences of poetry written by them? and why do they tire and annoy me so?  and fill me with such dread?  i've decided it's because they're so damned anxious about their reveries, reputations, and readers.)

i also:

-online shop-crastinated

-blog-crastinated

-wiki-crastinated

-envied-other-poets-by-checking-out-their-bios-and-websites-crastinated

-onlinechat-crastinated-with-julie

-plan-crastinated (this is my worst habit:  i thought about:: my new puppet opera, various grants i should write, a hand-made book series i want to write, starting a restaurant, a new screen play, and a radio show i would produce, create and host.  that's just for starters.)

now i'm off to cook-crastinate by making dessert crepes with lemon ricotta filling and fresh peaches. because it's the end of peach season.

so i have to do things with peaches now.

legwear:

my legwear of choice for fall '13

i only have one viable pair of tights from last season.  heather belnap jensen gave me a beautiful pair of sky blue tights i was saving to wear when it got cold enough, but they were kidnapped by lula.  i haven't seen them since.

it's time to find some fall tights.

i'm wondering if tights will even be a thing this year.

and dreading the day when, as in the early zeroes, bare legs, even in winter, were your only possible option.

also, i'm wearing a pair of wine-colored velvet cords from the gap a lot lately.  they're stretchy, skinny, and tights-esque.

p.s.  i'm so glad it's october.  my favorite month:

Autumn

by T.E. Hulme

A touch of cold in the Autumn night—
I walked abroad,
And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge
Like a red-faced farmer.
I did not stop to speak, but nodded,
And round about were the wistful stars
With white faces like town children.

a flower so crooked & obscure?

i was gonna write something about last week, a list or movie review, but everything seems so trivial compared to what julie turley has been through.

i'm so glad she's okay & blogging again.  i hope she'll share some of the journal she kept during that epic time.

one thing that didn't feel trivial to me this week was "the yellow flower" by william carlos williams.  more and more i realize he's my poetic ancestor, and i owe a lot to his influence.  this is a later poem, and sounds broken--it is broken, actually--look at the lines.  he was a little bit broken

as we all are.

so, in honor of the broken

but still breathing,

a poem:


The Yellow Flower

by William Carlos Williams

What shall I say, because talk I must?

                        That I have found a cure

                                                for the sick?

I have found no cure

                        for the sick       .

                                                but this crooked flower

which only to look upon

                        all men

                                                are cured.  This

is that flower

                        for which all men

                                                sing secretly their hymns

of praise.  This

                        is that sacred

                                                flower!

Can this be so?

                        A flower so crooked

                                                and obscure?  It is

a mustard flower

                        and not a mustard flower,

                                                a single spray

topping the deformed stem

                        of fleshy leaves

                                                in this freezing weather

under glass.

An ungainly flower and

                        an unnatural one,

                                                in this climate;  what

can be the reason

                        that it has picked me out

                                                to hold me, openmouthed,

rooted before this window

                        in the cold,

                                                my will

drained from me

                        so that I have only eyes

                                                for these yellow,

twisted petals   .           ?

That the sight,

                        though strange to me,

                                                must be a common one,

is clear:  there are such flowers

                        with such leaves

                                                native to some climate

which they can call

                        their own.

But why the torture

                        and the escape through

                                                the flower?  It is

as if Michelangelo

                        had conceived the subject

                                                of his Slaves from this

-- or might have done so.

                        And did he not make

                                                the marble bloom?  I

am sad

                        as he was sad

                                                in his heroic mood.

But also

                        I have eyes

                                                that are made to see and if

they see ruin for myself

                        and all that I hold

                                                dear, they see

also

                        through the eyes

                                                and through the lips

and tongue the power

                        to free myself

                                                and speak of it, as

Michelangelo through his hands

            `           had the same, if greater,

                                                power.

Which leaves, to account for,

                        the tortured bodies

                                                of

the slaves themselves

                        and

                                                the tortured body of my flower

which is not a mustard flower at all

                        but some unrecognized

                                                and unearthly flower

for me to naturalize

                        and acclimate

                                                and choose it for my own.

raise me a dais of silk and down

i would be bringing you this if i could, julie.

here's a poem in honor of julie turley's birthday.

rosetti knows how to lay it on thick, and that's what i wish for julie's next year:  layers of silk & down, carvings of peacocks and feathered nests, golden grapes and thickly fruited trees--all things good and beautiful.

unthinkable abundance.

& i know she's not looking for the kind of love rosetti talks about here, but i wish that she will find that love of her inner artist she's been searching for.

i'm lucky to have her as a friend and a co-blogger, and i laugh and cry every time i read one of her soulful stories.  take some time to read what she's written this week in a fount of creativity.

A Birthday

BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

My heart is like a singing bird

                  Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;

My heart is like an apple-tree

                  Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;

My heart is like a rainbow shell

                  That paddles in a halcyon sea;

My heart is gladder than all these

                  Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down;

                  Hang it with vair and purple dyes;

Carve it in doves and pomegranates,

                  And peacocks with a hundred eyes;

Work it in gold and silver grapes,

                  In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;

Because the birthday of my life

                  Is come, my love is come to me