okra made of to-fu!

Sorry (or you're welcome) for my string of promotions and now extended silence. I've been in Humboldt County, California, hanging out with my sister and guzzling fog. Met up with the lovely and gracious Joe Massey yesterday afternoon. We talked about all kinds of shit. Weird super-Christian outsider folk, how certain fellows do or don't listen to Public Enemy, rich people, families, fist fights, and .. um .. oh! Poetry! He showed me a book by Graham Foust and a Jack Spicer biography. Also gave me a MS copy of his next book: Areas of Fog. Which r0x0rs, is rich, gives me something to read -- I finished all my "vacation books" the first day out and have been subsisting on the magazines in trailer park laundromats.

And his cottage has a trapdoor.

Absolutely kickass dude.

This has been a Traditional Autonarrative Blog.

P.S. Siskiyou County poet Merita Stewart's poem from NOÖ was featured on Riley Dog. Yum!


looking for how to spend $3?

Observable Readings, a free reading series which in October will host the impeccably dressed and usually beer-clad François Luong, needs yr good will. For every dollar you PayPal them, the St. Louis Regional Arts Commission will give them another dollar.


NOÖ Journal will soon print its super-hurrah fifth issue -- sometime in early September, prolly -- and we're free too, giving away 32 honey soaked pages of goodness to rural readers throughout Northern California and Southern Oregon*. Funds come from our pockets and a thimble full of beautiful donations. If you want to support us, donate a paltry $2 and get a bad poem, so we can keep printing good poetry for free.

If you don't believe in "bad" and "good," relax: neither do we. Think of it as a giant joke, think of it as you giving us $2 pweese.

If you don't believe in money: shit. Shit. I guess we're up a creek.

K. Silem Mohammad, Tao Lin and Bryan Coffelt are all on deck to write you some deliberately awful poems.

Pluck $3 from yr July paychecks? Pweese?

*They aren't actually slathered with honey. That would be kind of combative.


this situation has universal symbolism and stuff like elephants having tea with ghosts

I was bicycling down the street the other day, and a car -- some kind of white sedan -- honked at me. The driver made the "please call me" motion with pinky and thumb.

But I could not see the driver.

The driver was vague.

I don't know who the driver was.

I don't know the driver's phone number.

I have so far denied the driver's request, owing to all these problems.

If you were the driver, please let me know your phone number. Then I will call you. As you asked. With your hand.


new elimae

If you're hot, you're on elimae. Not that I'm a facist or anything.

The new July elimae has poems from my friends Bryan Coffelt and Paul Madore, and a story from Nick Antosca (who I think is my friend, though he has yet to submit something new to NOÖ *hint hint, Nick, after you see this through checking your blog stats*)

It also has work from fine folks like Brian Beatty, Matt Bell, Claudia Smith, Tomi Shaw, Antonio Maltezos and Toshiya Kamei (translating Fernando Iwasaki). And everyone else too. Elimae is so lovely it makes your hands smell better.


an astronaut / could've seen / the hunger in / my eyes from space

Maybe Adorno would say that a turn to the testimony of interior feelings in a time of global conflict is immoral. Nonetheless, these new Mountain Goats songs end any need to ever sing about death ever again.

Or maybe they make it okay.

I don't know.

This is not emo, because emo would never say: "I was cold. // So I put on a sweater. // And I turned up the heat. // ... // I practically ran. // From the living room. // Out into the street."

It's not really in the text, so listen:

Woke up New.
Find other Mountain Goats songs from their new album Get Lonely.


michael that is a long poem the food channel is on your face is like a great big poop of face poop

Trying to move with breath (see: Charles) and stupid bric-a-brac (see: Kenneth) toward clarity (see: sand-dune Frank) and inflate (not with nothingness, but like tires don't run if they're not inflated) relevance (see: Allen).

Lordie, but what a paragraph of white men!

Now .. poem.

P.S. Please tell me especially about any technical inconsistencies in the poem. Oh ha ha ha. I'm serious about wanting to make sure the technical things are consistent, but yeah, ha ha ha. Read the poem.

P.P.S. If you post a comment saying 'i scrolled to the bottom // the poem is too long' then I will roll my eyes seventeen billion times.

Airplane Hangar Pancakes

okay: pancakes in an airplane hangar
and i worry about the men from oklahoma
with their cancer shoes and terminator reruns
like standing beside the motorhome two hours
just to watch me hook up the sewer line and
to tell me now you're shitting in cotton
and the old aunts! their millennium bunkers!
yeah those? with cheerios and applesauce?
evaporated milk and astronaut food? like after the
blackout a trucker will picnic with cockroaches
(out of work, both) saying well, them fucking
computers replaced prayer in the schools

and well, i worry about the mill towns
living off the photographs of old floods
stapled above the beaver heads in coffeeshops --—

i had a seven minute argument with my father
on how he said 'diners' were really 'coffeeshops'
and Starbucks didn't 'exist' and i got mad
then i thought of how i don't know a single
pop star from the 1850s and now i think
will litany shaped piffery save anything?
is salvation staring at the earwig in the tissue
before you step into the shower -- but okay:

pancakes in an airplane hangar, some years
later the tourist trap between humboldt
and southern oregon: back room with platoons
of old junk: kayaks, paul newman posters,
neon pool tables and pool table riffraff
of sambo dolls and styrofoam rc cars,
like stuff from the redemption of
a megagillion cereal tops or radio passwords
they drafted in longhand (radio!!!)
and the owner's blender was broken for
milkshakes so we had strawberry ice cream,
which tasted of strawberry ice cream --
then the yuppies, toddler, digicam and
since when did the word 'cute' come to mean
look at this thing that i own! and since when
did the word 'quaint' come to mean
how lovely that this smells like death
and we don't
or has it always meant that?
please write to me: mike@noojournal.com
to tell me if 'quaint' got invented by assholes

and the owner's blender was broken for
milkshakes so i thought of airplane
hanger pancakes from box mix, like oh
when boxed food was new! and now i'm saying
organic, like, you grow it in the ground?
and they are saying look at these jiffy boxes!
and i am saying those fonts need bedpans!
and my hair, then wrists, then knees glop up
from their sludge of dead rocketships and
cantor oil for baseball gloves, which melts
and sighs like a showtune through a glass tuba
and then i say a thing like that and feel like
bugs bunny's in a green hospital slip
but don't make him 3D just do all you can

just write him a card and staple a lily to it
like in second grade the lunch lady had a disease
that cards wouldn't fix but the teacher said
do cards anyway and we didn't understand
'anyway' we just understood 'cards' we did cards
and to third grade we went and to fourth grade
we went she died and to fifth grade we went
and to sixth grade we went and to eigth grade
we went and to eleventh grade and some of
us had babies on meth and took to sundown cigarettes
and everyone died and i have no idea if god
propped a nice carnival up somewhere in space
if we'll build another shuttle and sprinkle it
with gongs and vodka and bluegrass and think
like star trek: oh what silly days were those of war!
or if hope falls out with every tooth -- i have no idea
if you and i will ever fall in love on mars



I want a little Kasey Mohammad doll whose string I can pull, whereupon he would deliver quotes like this (gleefully out of context):

"... the language, however 'poetically' elevated it is or isn’t, is carefully calibrated to accommodate that reality ..."

Yep. With the dangling "that" and everything.

Just to assauge fears that I am sucking up to Kasey: his breath smells. His breath smells like dead penguins on a bus.


oh it's a funny little world

Sometimes it is better to let the mirror neurons have sex with the eyes.

Leave out sentences and words.

Go here: http://peoplecollector.blogspot.com/.