My breasts on your lathe

That’d be funny if the guy who said to you “that’d be funny if” in the cafe naked next to your workshirt in San Francisco, the dairy caffeine cafe with the watercolor timestamp art on sale for the wall next to the Green Giant, the jolly fellow near the bathrooms at Ritual Coffee Roasters had a handbill in his pocket that said Remember That Time? And his smile would resemble (in the poems by the coffeeshop poets of the neighborhood) a Trademark Symbol, and in his pocket a kangaroo-shaped playbill would reveal an idea like wouldn’t it be funny you know how when you work from home you invariably inhale sheets of graham crackers (apologies to Kevin Moffett, and or baby carrots,) over the sink, fuck it there’s nothing left in the fridge boiling veggie dogs just because you’re at home and the only stress outlet is to turn your face into a compostable sink disposal, well the funny wouldn’t it be if watch there’s a hip coffee shop like Roasters, but it’s got a fridge and a microwave and a bunch of free food that when you get stressed out you just go up and eat? Plus a separate normal pastry display with normal pastries for sale that all the people with dignity still pay money for and get on ceramic plates, but in a separate part of the cafe there’s a dirty fridge with leftover Thai food and frozen veggie pups and cantaloupe beans and whatever else that people who get a terrifying work-email at 4 p.m. just go hose-happy on blasting the babka till it’s gone.

Trundling up the path, snowy silence, bullshit poems alight on branches like proper ravens. Fatman lost in the zendo can’t even feel the stringcheese in his fleece’s breast pocket. An elipsis travels up and down the length of your cock, why the fuck are your daughters reating my erotc poetry blog… scratch that… nyc pastries + flowers

feeling free in the zendo a professional lifeguard reads the blurbs on the back of your self-published book at the self-funded book release party craftily, hilariously putting his empty plastic wine glass in his breast pocket. Mallarme reference TK, he reads aloud, having flipped to a page at random. “Oh fuck,” you say, “is that actually in there?” Taking the book to look, you see that your placeholder text has accidentally made it into print, you’d meant to insert a Mallarme reference here but I guess you never got around to it… “Fuck,” you say again, handing the book back to the guest, who wears an eyepatch and has a fake parrot sewn to his shoulder and teeters as if wearing a pegleg though looking down it’s true he has two sturdy legs overhung with slate chinos. “Pity the placeholder,” no-one says. The next song comes on shuffle and it begins with an accellerated secular church bell, the kind that bongs the time in stately patient bongs but the clever electronic musician has accellerated the bongs so it seems to be chiming 4,000 o’clock and it’s driving you wild with pleasure, to hear this now, and the embarrassing Mallarme TK gaffe feels decades old and already celebrated as a hilarious and ultimately instructive gaffe. A mewling toddler does not say, “Gaffe Giraffe,” but she does do something specific revealing that there are toddlers at the book event TK TK. A breast presses against the window, begging to be let inside the gallery. A red-breasted titmouse flutters its paws next to the tiny DVD console. A duste mote reveals itself to be hilariously in tune with the matter at hand, I mean with the Remains of the Day, I mean with the Remains of the DVD, I mean with the reina, the queen, my darling. Hate and hope in equal measure suffuse the air above the plate of sandwiches, sandwiches which have tried so hard to be here and succeed, mostly, except looking again at them they seem mostly gone, where do sandwiches go at parties like this? I saw people eating sandwiches but that seems unconnected to the absent, devastated, crumb-strewn plaza near the greasy checkboard mom flannel plane that is what some once called That Table. My nephew is here, his name is Aristotle said an obese cartoon calico cat. I got string cheese in my pockets, Aristotle said. He moved his elbows and knees like he was composing a filigree’d poem for his aunts. He had spent most of the party in the basement behind a piano participating in a jam session with Needles, the drummer, who performed using eggbeaters instead of drumsticks; Palimpsest, on bass, who didn’t know what any of the knobs on the amp were for beyond the main volume control, but still managed to fiddle with them between every song, giving him a different sound each time, playing literally hundreds of different notes throughout the course of the evening, but in which order he played the notes I’m sure you had to be there to know, and of course P. Raichport, tenure-track professor of fiction at Lathe University at Kansas City, who is so clearly based on a real person that even the dimples in her cellulite seem to spell a constellation of ciphers that you can rearrange and glyph and  wait what who is that based on no one actually OK nevermind

Tengo sueño, yo soy dueño

Hola. No he practicaba mi español. Fui a Londres. Fui a San Francisco. Ví mis amigos Californianos. Hice nuevos. Mi esposa esta embarazada. No quiero decir eso en “Facebook”, pero en español en mi blog, pienso que es OK. Anoche no pude dormir. Esta mañana me levanté a las seis para viajar a la granja. Que granja, Andres? Mi CSA. Que es un “CSA”, andres? Es mi fucking Community Supported Agriculture. Agricultura con Apoyo de la Comunidad: AAC? Sin embargo, me gustaría mucho. Las personas, las verduras. La tierra. Pero mucho trabajo. Después regresé a mi casa nuevo — nuevo, Andres? Si, mi esposa embarazada y yo acabamos de comprar UNA FUCKING CASA. Una casa viejo y stucco. Una hipoteca. La tasa de interés es muy bajo ahorita, pendejos. En Missouri, es posible comprar una casa si no tienes nalgas de oro. Mi esposa tiene un feto — un bebe creciendo — en su cuerpo. ¡Milagro! ¡Ciencia! ¡Amor!

Entonces despues de regresar de la granja de CSA fui a mi casa nuevo con mi esposa embarazada y su padre. Su padre es un dueño real — un maestro de casas y madera. Madera madura, si? Me entiendes, pendejo? LOL. Mi suegro me enseñó como usar instrumentos basicos de construcción — taladros, sierras, etc. Despues, compramos una cama! Y por fin, fuimos a fucking Buckingham Smokehouse para BBQ. Despues fuimos a Andy’s Frozen Custard. Fue 91 grados a las 9 por la noche! Una dia Missourieño, sin dudo. Para un hombre — un esclavo de ordenador como yo, esta dia de manos y masculinidad fue agradable. No hablo español. Te amo.

Mi Entrada Primera en Español

Hola. Me llamo Andrew Lelando. Bienvenidos a mi blog.

Estudiaba español casi todo mi vida, me parece — empezaba en la escuela media, y después en escuela secundaria… también un semestre triste en colegio. Pero nunca avancé más allá de un nivel bajo. Como se puede mirar, tengo muchos problemas gramaticales.

Ahora, después de una pausa de casi diez años, estoy terminando mi carrera universitaria, y estoy tomando una clase de español que he tomado dos o tres veces en el pasado: español intermedio. Siento como Sísifo. Pero nunca dejé de creer que hablar, escuchar, y leer una idioma extraña es importante para una persona que cree in la importancia de literatura, o una persona con interés en cultura hispana. Estoy uno de esos personas. Tengo 31 años. Quiero mover esta piedra unos metres mas.

El proximo semestre es mi último. Voy a tomar español otra vez — la  clase final antes de mi objetivo: la clase avanzada, que enfoque totalmente en ficción.

Un hombre sincero—traductor profesional de textos literarios en español—me dijo que es imposible aprender español “realmente” sin vivir en un país hispanohablante. Pero, él continuó, estudiar es buen pratica para este posibilidad. En mi opinion, es posible para mi leer novelas con éxito muy temprano. ¡Ahora!

Anoche leí mi blog viejo, buscando por escritos que podría salvar o improver. Era deprimente. Para ahora, quiero escribir en Ingles en mi disco duro. En el internet, quiero practicar mi español. Google Translate es una animal totalmente diferente hasta lo usé antes, en colegio. Mucho mejor.

Entonces: Si lees español y quieres corregir mi gramatica en los comentarios: por favor. Si quieres leer una novela (o un ensayo, o qualquier cosa) conmigo: digame. ¡Especialmente después de Diciembre, cuando estoy terminado de escuela por siempre! Y este verano.

En ingles yo estaría muy avergonzado escribir sobre los detalles de mi vida sin oscurarlos. En español, no me importa. Este puede ser un blog tradicional en español. En ingles, me escondo detrás de “arte.”

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Interview with Walter Carlos, 1/15/12

You have the same name as the famous

Yes. It’s haunted me my whole life. I didn’t invent the Moog.

OK. What did you invent?

I studied computer science in college and tried to write my own word processor. A vegan alternative to MS-Word.

Were you successful?

More successful than I’d hoped, in fact. I made a functioning program. But I never released it. It was the kind of experimental creation you might use yourself, but you wouldn’t want to force on someone else.

I feel that way about cooking sometimes — I’ll make some experimental goulash that I force down myself, but I wouldn’t dare serve to others.

That’s fascinating. Tell me more about your home cooking.

You’re being sarcastic. 

I’m sorry. Marijuana gives me insomnia, and sleep deprivation makes me hostile.

Where do you write your poems?

In a web-based blog-post text editor.

Why?

Because / of the Internet

Have you ever had sex with enjambment?

You mean have I ever had sex with a poetic technique? With a formal element of verse?

Answer the question

Brooding on bloodless bosoms, I wince into tears.

Have you ever read Brodsky?

Nope.

Have you ever read Mouthsky?

You made that up.

When I read a typo in any published text, even if it’s published online, I think of it as an excuse to stop reading.

I love hearing about your preferences. What other preferences do you have?

I was making my way to a question.

I’m so sorry for stopping you. Please, continue. Listening to you speak is exhilirating. Your mind is crystalline, adamantine, lush, tropical, gorgeous. Your face is a Jean Rhys novel.

Looks like that’s all the time we have. Thank you for “granting” me this interview.

No, come on, let’s keep going. I didn’t mean to bristle so hard. Remember the sleep-deprivation. I’ll unbridle in a sec.

“Remember the Neediest!”

Those little blurbs from the  New York Times? Yes, I love those, too. It’s an odd thing, isn’t it, to say I “love” the NYT’s space-filling public-service exhortations? Ones, I should add, that I, and I assume you, never actually act upon?

I like to think that I remember the neediest.

Do you merely remember them, or, having remembered them, do you act on your memory of the neediest—and help them?

I help them by remembering them.

How does your memory help them?

No publicity is bad publicity.

I don’t see your point.

“Remember the neediest” is an advertising campaign to get you to contribute to the charities the Times chooses. And the whole point of any ad campaign is consciousness-raising. Or consciousness-penetration. So if I remember the neediest, the campaign is successful.

You’re right that the cognitive or cultural part of advertising is essential, but you’re forgetting about the part where they want your money.

I know about that part.

“Remember the Neediest!” only works if your memory extends to a donation.

How is giving money to one of their charities “remembering”?

It’s a different sense of the word remember. It’s like, “Remember me well, / down at the old Jesuit wardrobe.”

What’s that a quote from?

It’s a famous line from a famous poem you’re pretty dense not to have heard of.

Oh. What poem?

Look it up.

The only thing that comes up is this blog post.

You got me: I made it up. Alls I mean is you can “remember” someone in more ways than just by holding them in your thoughts.

Can I “remember” someone by having sex with them?

Yes.

Can I “remember” someone by having lunch with them?

Yes.

Can I “remember” someone by taking a remedial Spanish class from them?

Yes.

Can I “remember” someone by hurting their feelings?

Yes.

Can I “remember” someone by sending them a thoughtful note?

Yes.

You know, I think it’s actually “Do not forget the neediest!” Not “Remember the neediest!”

Crap, you’re right. They might run both versions, actually.

My College Radio Application

Dear mom and dad,

I went to college from 1999-2003, where I lived, ate, breathed, and smoked college radio (WOBC-FM) all day every day. Then, with a year left, I dropped out to move to CA to work for a magazine. I worked there for the next eight years. Then I fell in love with a beautiful woman and she got a job in town, so I decided to follow her here and finish my B.A. To my intense delight and surprise, this makes me eligible for a show on [yr station]. When I dropped out of college, I cryogenically froze my radio show and now, eight years later, [cue music bed: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9_tVZFZ5PR4] my beloved show is going into the industrial microwave on MEDIUM for 6-8 minutes and dragging itself through the halls of the academy once again!

My show (TITLE TK: “WEIRD OLD GUY?”) will be freeform radio at its finest, pushing into the red w/r/t innovation and FUN. Fun must never be sacrificed to innovation. And vice versa.

Music is the bedrock of the show, and I plan to make the most of [yr station]’s rock library, in addition to my extensive personal vinyl/CD/MPEG collection. The best rock — from oddities, novelties, classics, forgotten b-sides, to brand-new singles and previews of bands coming through town. But sprinkled throughout the music will be the true jewels of the show, the multiple talk-based segments. Possibilities include:

• “Walking the Line”
Each week, a different writer (from creative writing profs, to visiting poets, to MU poetry/fiction PhDs and even undergrads) brings in one line — a line of their own poetry, or their favorite poet’s, or a sentence from a novel, or from a piece of journalism, anything — just has to be one line of “literature” for us to discuss.

(Each of these segments will have its own musical intro. Maybe Grandmaster Flash’s “White Lines” for this first one? Or Johnny Cash, sure)

• “Comics Digest”

A weekly verbal recap of what happened this week in the comics page of the Missourian

ex: “It’s been a tough week for Lois of ‘Hi & Lois’; she’s been home with the measles and her little brother won’t leave her alone!” etc etc

• “Vibin’ with the City Council”

Each week I get a Columbia city councilperson on the phone (pre-recorded, most likely; I have a ZOOM H4N I can produce several of these segs in advance, but I’ll always cue and introduce them live) and ask: what’s the vibe of the city council like this week?

• deranged/brief Self-interviews; fake interviews with pre-recorded interlocutors

• I might try a recurring feature about being a 30 year old dude taking computer science with freshman; I will probably rip lots of samples from my DVD of Rodney Dangerfield’s Back to School for this (maybe rent Happy Madison, too…). Find other old undergrads and ask them about their lives, what it’s like here for them

• I have an MU football-related idea that I’ll only tell you if you give me a show with a legit timeslot

• Reviews (with field recordings) of frat party bands (!!!!!)

• as many opportunities for live call-in segments as possible (TBD)

• Guest singles (a guest — anyone from the dean of grad studies to that girl who works at Sparky’s brings in 5 singles and we play them and talk about them)

• tiny, hilarious 5-minute radio dramas

• even tinier, even more hilarious 2-minute radio dramas in foreign languages feat. students in various MU language departments

• Much, much more

• Seriously, so much more you have no idea

• And, as I mentioned above, all of these segs, some of which may happen every week, some once a month or so, will all be sprinkled like cherries and chopped nuts over the wide swath of whipped-creamy dark-chocolate sets of top-shelf weird/funky/great music. Wire, the Fall, Olivia Tremor Control, Pixies b-sides, Unrest, Big Dipper, Deerhoof, Beefheart, Squeeze, Elvis Costello, Sonic Youth, Truman the Tiger’s Drug-Hell Singers, Is That a Real Band?, That Would Be Amazing If So, Go Betweens, Soft Boys, Soft Machine, Soft Cell, Soft Bulletin, Don Cherry, Destroyer, Cluster, Tyvek, Essential Logic, Glasser, Wreckless Eric, Nick Lowe, Sparks, Magazine, Melvins, Cardigans, Acrylics, Pterodactl, Fela Kuti, R. Stevie Moore, et al!!!!

Please let me know if you have any questions. I love you.

Passive Mouse

Derelict passive mouse blog on the weekend has several jobs: primarily to make sure she makes sense. The second is bloggier: I make sure any pregnant children get health-care of the highest quality. The best cheeses at the corporate supermarket (Safeway) are fine if they’re already in your fridge, but when it comes time to replace them, the best cheeses, why not go to the worker-owned grocery store (Rainbow) and buy that Leftist cheddar. Once everyone’s sure they make sense — in the sense that the language pour is robust or solid, making sure the iPod is charging, don’t telegraph anything, — break open a Thought Experiment Set Piece: the adult stoner’s choiceless afternoon (multiplex).

If it’s on my blog, you can be sure it’s vegan AND kosher, so sup.

Language classes:
the false choice of the breastless necktie.

Preemptive salad:
Not a snack, precisely,
and prime.

Lame basalt cup on a hooded truck’s best rodeo gear:
If sense is your master, then this is one holiday potluck
where you won’t have much luck
finding food

The horniest llama at the petting zoo,
Sarah.

If it’s important for fiction to advertise itself as socially conscious and that some of the proceeds will go toward buying the author’s daughters farmer’s cheese, please, please, revise, revise. Salad like typos cranberries itself up into a defecit — My deficit. A blinded salad’s cranberries flare out (“like jeans”–Cricket Pete). If a college salad freezes on a plate, it’ll be imperative that your reading end quickly. And begin again just as soon.

I’ll not make a plate of sense for you, Imperativa. And a beautiful name, totally — Imperativa. Your purple Honda conceals many curves — I’d love to ride shotgun and change the CDs for you. Let’s meet back here later; “Continue the Story.”  I’ve got a Nintendo DS full of stories for you. Knowing, winking, awful self-conscious stories about children of privilege ruining themselves against backdrops of total suffering.