(no subject)

2009 has thus far not been a year I want to post about.  But, tonight, old school (actually, it's more of a middle school thing) Insafemode people, is going to be a fun night of poetry show.  Why?  It's the Champion of Champions Slam at The Cantab Lounge, and, for the first time ever, I'm defending my title against Ben, aka the user formerly known as Unsafeload, aka my ex roommate who own(ed?)(s??) a fanny pack, aka some guy I totally didn't at all have a thing for and can't imagine why you would have thought that based on reading this journal.

There will be theme rounds, a general mocking atmosphere, and $100 at stake for the winner.  There's also a strong possibility that Sora, Steggy,  and  CSB (and that really is an old school reference, haven't talked about him in about five years) are going to show up, as well.  I think that's the highest volume of people I've mentioned in my journal being in one place, like, ever.   I should totally invite Mr. Hot Positive Load to give the night extreme awkardness, but my masochistic tolerance index is low today.

But, really, you should just come to see me take out four years of frustration out on Ben (who, admittedly, hasn' been frustrating me in any way whatsoever for over two years).  And for good poetry.  And drinks. 

More info at Slam News Dot Com, as well as directions and stuff.

Hope to see you there.

How To Make Black Friends And Influence People

A group of poets were discussing ways to be on the cutting edge of new fiction, when one of them came up with the idea of rewriting classics word for word, but inserting the word black into them, thus COMPLETELY changing the tone/perspective of the book. His original idea: Do Black Androids Dream of Electric Black Sheep.

So, Jim and I have been spending the evening coming up with other books that would be forever change by the addition of that one word:

Mein Black Kampf
Their Black Eyes Were Watching God
Something Wicked Black This Way Comes
Skinny Black Legs And All
Even Black Cowgirls Get The Blues
Little Black Women
The Black Things The Carried
The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Black Galaxy
So Long, And Thanks For All The Black Fish
I Know Why The Black Caged Bird Sings
Heart Of Darkness
The Autobiography of Black Malcolm X
Dreams Of My Black Father
To Kill A Black Mockingbird
A Series Of Unfortunate Black Events
I Did It Black : OJ Confesses
The Jungle Book
Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Black Secrets
Harry Potter And The Half Blood Black Prince
Men Are From Mars, Black Women Are From Venus
His Dark Materials
The Illustrated Black Man
The Five Black People You Meet In Heaven
The Black Great Gatsby
The Complete Black Idiot's Guide To Slam Poetry
The Dark Tower
Uncle Tom's Black Cabin
A Black Child's Christmas In Wales
Yes, Virginia, There Is A Black Santa Claus
Come On Black People: On The Path From Victims To Victors
A Black American Werewolf In London
Twelve Angry Black Men
The Black Communist Manifesto
Black On The Road
Lord Of the Black Flies
Black Beauty
The Black Cat In The Hat
Choose Your Own Black Adventure
Are You There Black God, It's Me Margaret
Black Like Me

While some of these titles are just amusing, I think some of these books would be very, very interesting. In particular, I'd like to see a scottwoods poem called "Do Black Androids Dream Of Electric Black Sheep?" I mean, I haven't heard a bad Scott Woods poem yet (which doesn't mean they're not out there, just that he, wisely, only shares the good ones more than once), and think he'd come up with something pretty amazing with this title.

edited/added from lj users' comments:

Moby Black Dick
Black Generation X
Hope For The Black Flowers
Lady Chatterley's Black Lover
The Black Bible
The Good Black Earth
A Black People's History Of The United States
Chicago Manual Of Black Style

Posibly Rejected Names For My Cat

Bugz (she has them in her brain)
Shut The Fuck Up (self-explanatory)
Molly (From The Haunting of Molly Hartney)
Rosemary (the one with the baby)
Regan (Mcneil from The Exorcist)
Tupac (suggested as an alternative to a name to appear later)
Afeni (which would make her kitten, Tupac)
Mia (what they called her in the pet store)
For The Love of God Shut The Fuck Up, It' Three O'Clock In The Morning
Emily Rose
I Want A Refund
Selina (as in Kyle, this is the one I'm leaning to at the moment)
Are You Seriously Still Maiowing At Me?
Sniffy (aka MADcat from Inspector Gadget)
Delia (I had a Koosa named Delia when I was a kid))

I've also been taking care of one of her kittens at the store, an adorable little martiany thing that I have named Yoda Vader, as she has a huge Yoda head and ears (complete with big tufts growing out of them), but a respiratory infection that makes her sound like His Darthness.  The repiratory thing is apparently genetic, and thus, came from her as yet unnamed mother, who now breathes like a normal cat. 

Because You Like Voting For People Who Win

If I ever get my computer back from Best Buy, I"ll have time to do a proper update.  But, right now, I'm sneaking in an update at work, because I've decided to go out for the 2008 Individual World Poetry Slam championship, and that means I need your help.  Please click here and scroll down to my video (Drunken Conversations at Hampshire College), and vote for me.  You don't need to watch the video.  It's the same one I used for Famecast.

Remember, a vote for me is a vote for change.  Because in the four year history of the iWPS, a gay male has only won it twice.  And that's downright homophibic.  And racist.  And toally biassexual.  Yes we can get me to North Carolina.  Really, it's in your benefit.  Do you know who still lives in North Carolina?  Elvis.  Don't you want me to win $1000, a book deal, a trip to France, AND a chance to see (and possibly maim) Elvis?

Also, don't forget, I've got a mess of upcoming shows listed in the last entry.  The two big ones being at More Than Words Bookstore in Waltham, MA this Friday night, and the night befor Thanksgiving, I'm doing an entirely different set at The Cantab Lounge in Cambridge, MA.
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Bros Before 'Mos...Apparently

Yesterday, I received an e-mail requesting that I be a part of one of the nationwide rallies to let the world know how upset we are that Americans were open-minded enough to elect a partially African-American president, but not open-minded enough to let gay people marry.  While I would certainly love to support the event, I have to work. 

Upon learning that I was skipping the event to sell comics, I received an e-mail from Well-Dressed Steve, calling me out for being a bad homo (it should be pointed out that Well-Dressed Steve, though a very dapper dresser, is 100% non-cock sucker):


If California had voted to outlaw comic book stores, I'll bet you the gays would have come to the rally to support you. Fairweather friend.

Gay people rarely support comic books, literature in general, their friends getting married, and me.  Granted, the same goes for straight people.  Having worked in seven different comic book stores (all part of the same chain) for the last year and a halfish, I can tell you, there aren't a lot of gay comic book readers in New England.  And I know why.  There are very few gay male characters in comic books.  Plenty of lesbians, and bisexual women (even if you don't count porno comics), but, with the exception of yaoi, not a lot of gay men.

I don't read yaoi.  It's mostly two-dimensional, black-and-white cheesefests about older men "mentoring" then seducing and fucking younger men.  And, being Japanese, these stories often involve giant squids, sentient vibrators, and thirty-seven kilometer cocks.  Why would I want to read such drivel?  I mean, I already live this kind of drivel.

Mainstream American comics, however, don't have a lot of gay characters.  In the Marvel Universe (the one I obsessively read/collect) the few gay characters are all drama, no plot.  Northstar, a member of the little read/respected Canadian super team, Alpha Flight, infamously came out in issue 106 (1992) while rescuing an HIV positive baby, which may sound like a good story, but it wasn't.  Ultimate Colossus's coming out was handled a little better.  As opposed to Northstar's homosexuality coming out of left-field, there were many hints an innuendos in the sixty-four issued before he decloseted.  I won't even mention the fact that two of the three male gay teens in the Marvel Universe were originally named Anole (hasn't changed), and Assgardian (renamed Wiccan) {I've got no beef with Hulkling as a name).

Now, there are some specifically gay, all-gay, oh-so-gay comics out there.  The problem is, I haven't found any that I've liked.  Someone recommended Stuck Rubber Baby to me about a year ago, and I picked it up, and just didn't care.   I find it really difficult to get into biopic comics, unless they're really well-written, like Maus and Persepolis.  Which got me thinking that I only really like biopics about people surviving genocide.

Two weeks ago, I was reading Dave Eggers's non-comic novel, What Is The What, as well as a new anthology of illustrated journals of real-life refugees (mixed in with a few fictional ones) called I Live Here.  I was getting incredibly depressed, and not just because of the quality of Eggers's writing.  Too.  Much.  Suffering.  Luckily, right next to I Live Here on the new arrival shelf was Bottoms In Love, an anthology of gay comics by gay writers.

Man, that comic needed more genocide.  The art was cool, but the writing was hideous.  Awful.  Bad.  Gay.  Like the books you find in the LGBTA secton of Borders.  Too trite for the literature shelf.  If I want to see vapid, shallow, attractive men whining about how hard it is to find another vapid, shallow, attractive man, or how hard it is to be faithful to their vapid, shallow, attractive boyfriends, I'll get a gym membership.  Stay the hell out of my comic books.

Ummm...way sidetracked.  What I meant to say was Penguin Lust..  

So, I don't see gay people flocking to my rescue, should they vote to ban comic book stores. But being gay hasn't been banned either, just gays being married.  And while I certainly support gay marriage rights (and gay divorce rights), and while I  have already petitioned the IRS to remove the Church Of Latter Day Saints from their religious exemption status, since those M-holes have spent 14 million dollars influencing the government, ignoring the whole "separation of church and state" thing, which reminds me that hey, marriage is a religious institution, anyway, why is the government involved to begin with?  Ahem, Penguin Lust.

I will, unfortunately, not be present at any of the rallies this Saturday.  But Asterisk will be one of the speakers at the Boston rally.  And, I suspect, Ben will be speaking in Northhampton.  These are just two of the rallies taking place in Massachusetts.  I would now like to devolve myself to toilet humor, and let you know that one of the other MA rallies is taking place at *giggle* The Old *snerk* Creamery in *snort* Cummington, MA.  Thanks to Well-Dressed Steve for the heads up on that one.   

I'm Missing Eleven Months Of My Life

So, I thought I had pretty much all of my journal entries located somewhere on The Internet.  I'd moved all of my non-meme entries up until December 2005 onto Blogspot, and had several hundred entries on Google Reader.  As it turns out, though, I am missing Christmas 2005 until Thanksgiving 2006 (for real, holiday to holiday to the day).  I don't suppose anyone has that in their Google Reader, or somewhere else handy.  Most of the entries are about getting over Ben, and the first six months of my relationship with Sora.  I'll be so happy to have not lost these entires, that I won't even ask how you still have them.


Break Up Letters To The Damned

I'm backdate/posting all the entries I can find, and am currently iin October 2004. Woohoo? Anyhow, I was worried that all remnants of this particular post would have been destroyed by the Russian ass-hacker, but, apparently, I backed up my favorite responses. Basically, I posted a meme asking people to break up with me. In response, I would send them a break-up letter back. These are the breakup letters I'm most proud of:


This may be the wrong time for a blender. Too soon for the microwave and cappuccino machine, as well. I think if we call Wal-Mart now, and let them know that the wedding is off, all our relatives will be able to return our wedding gifts for a refund.

I'm truly sorry things didn't work out between us. Maybe next time you'll remember there is no u in matrimony, though there is a y and an o, but without the u, those letters spell yo; as in yo, Chris, I can't believe you cheated on me with Dick Cheney. You're so dumped.



You're right. It isn't me. It is you.

It's the way you crush entire cans of Pringles, and scatter the crumbs on my waterbed. It's the way you melt candles into my ear while I sleep. It's the way you always drink all the Sunny D, leaving me with a fridge full of OJ and Purple Stuff.

I can't take the way you mispronounce my name. It's not Bitchtits Macfuckyourself, it's Trent. They don't sound anything alike. I don't want to even get into the names you call me in bed. Who can keep track?

I'm sorry you never loved me enough to make eye contact. It's over.


I should have left you at hello. When you told me you wanted to plug me in like an improper fraction in an equation, I hoped you were merely being derivative. But the day I came home to find you'd screamed the glass out of my windows, I shuddered.

I'm not sorry. Somehow I knew you'd lick the creme out of my Oreos and replace it with strychnine. I had the feeling that when you offered to make me breakfast in bed, you'd intended to grind my up into sausages while I slept.

It's over Enola Rayne. I can't be with someone who can't kill me with kindness or a cutting remark. Call me the next time you're in Boston. We'll have coffee over for dinner, and spill beans across the desert that's formed between us, waiting for a stalk to rise to the sky.


Is that all I was to you? A Bea Arthur substitute?

Fine, you can have your Ben & Jerry. You always did have a thing for hippies with corporate expense accounts and an infinite amount of Chubby Hubby ice cream.

But while you're up there waiting for the license for a polyamorous civil union, I'll be laying out on a chaise lounge with Tom & Jerry. Tom, who scratched my back while you were guffawing at Rose's St. Olaf stories, and Jerry who starring in those American Express commercials way back when you were nothing but a tadpole in a whale's jumpsuit.

Goodbye Joshua, may your right hand twist around your heart, and your sweet sweet blood drip on to the cold tundra and disappear like a Branch Dividian's faith at the No Longer Pearly Gates. You were never Gallileo. You weren't even Mr. Wizard.


Last night, I thought of you while I was raking the house of leaves into a pile big enough for a bonfire. I'm burning all the love notes you forgot to write me. I hope their smoke will reach your nose as you inhale the cologne of your next lover. The smell will remind you of the barbecued potato chips I used to sneak out in the middle of the night to buy you when you were depressed. You'll cry. A tear will slip down your cheek, and solidify to at the touch of your marble floor. Over the years, the rotation of the Earth, and its changing orbit will lead the tear back to me. On the day it rolls from beneath my leather baggage, I'll accidentally crush it like an amethyst egg beneath my Hush Puppies, and release the sound your voice makes when he kisses you. I'll sigh without knowing quite why, and then go about my business.


Tonight, much to my dismay, I realized I am biassexual. I can love everyone except you. This may have something to do with all the times you've forwarded GW Bush's calls to my voicemail, or it could be the way you make like your flipping your hair when you're angry, even though you're as bald as Mr. Bigglesworth's baby after chemotherapy.

Whatever the reason, I can't get past it anymore. It's an SUV parked sideways in the middle of a highway.

You can call me if you ever find yourself with a quarter and no one to call. Just don't expect me to pick up.



I regret to inform you that upon reading your letter, I seem to have accidentally run over Ethyl with the lawn mower a few dozen times. Hildegard is mourning the loss by pissing in all of your fetish boots.

I wish I could say I was surprised by your sudden descent into BDSM, but I knew from the moment you asked me to puncture your cornea with a needle full of boric acid, that our love would be the Gigli of gay marriages.

I wish you the best of luck in your future career as a duct tape repairman.

--I see fandom



That isn't a dress I'm wearing, it's a garbage bag. It's raining outside and you jacked my raincoat.

Maybe we weren't meant to be together. You were always stealing zucchini out of my crisper to do God Knows What, and I haven't been able to find my furby since you discovered that he vibrated when he laughed.

Look, you're a nice girl (by which I mean fat) with a great personality (ugly as a bulldog with burn scars), and I'm sure you'll find someone who is right for you (if you start hanging out with coma patients). I just hope that after all this, we can still be friends (please don't ever call or e-mail me again).



Canth, you ignorant slut,

The word you were looking for isn't wimp, it's pussy. As in canthlian is such a pussy every three weeks he has to stick tampons up his nose to keep from bleeding on his shirts.

How dare you imply that I don't have the world's largest cock. You can see my phallus from space, bizznatch. I would tell you to fuck off and die, but that would entail you getting laid again, and I don't think anyone else should have to suffer through the shitdick that sex with you entails. (Yea, I used entails twice motherfucker, you want to make something of it? I'll skewer your entrails, if you get what that entails.)

Off and die,
--do me I fanse

p.s. Can I have your new boyfriend's number after you off yourself?



Somewhere beyond the prosaic desserts of Key Lime and Waterlemon Meringue, inbetween the Molehill Mountains and Buttermilk Sea, is a practically fractally challenged diva with test pattern vision and a plexiglass heart.

She is of no consequence to you.

You who would batter pancakes like mouthy wives, and hide your ample sausage in the freezers of bisexual women. You are a washcloth. You are an ampersand.

When The Mango Princess went pregnant with pauses, you swallowed her down like an "I love you."

I can't be with a man who swallows I love you hoarse pills but would proudly change me into Regie Cabico. How can I love a man with a fetish for diapers and burning firewood children for a mere spark of inspiration? How? I can not. I can not love a man who cracks jokes like Formica and pisses on the rugs of prematurely balding furries.

If I can not love you I must curse you. An inch of snow for every bunny-suited giggle. An uncomfortable couch for every frantic waving of hands. For your propensity for verbose moroscosity, I sentence you to four weeks of winter with an unplugged refrigerator full of cheese and only an unlucky dragon for company.

Is it not common knowledge that Goulash the Great climbed down from his pumpking patch hideaway and showered golden poetastiness on the formaldehidden corpse of Coyote the Bear? And when Coyote the Bear eased into the hot springs and made to steal Goulash's newspaper and picnic basket, did he not run thirty-seven miles to the nearest coffeeeshop where he stopped for a nice cup of chameleon tea? Lo, we shall never know for sure.

But it iswritten that Goulash, upon hearing your name, dropped trou like a charcoal briskette, and said unto thee, “pthththththththththth.”

You think you can stoat your way into my bedroom with your electrolyte play and French Fry manicured toenails? Well, pishaw to you, fruity. You were never the Tidus of my Final Fantasy XXX.



You're a pimple where genitalia should be, a troll on a bulletin board. When I woke up, after a night of huffing swampgas and kickboxing with sasquatches, I understood why people waterproof witticisms and bury ostriches upside down in sanddunes. You're biscotti in a breadbasket, an unavailable number on CallerID.


You fucken pussy-licking, dildo breathed, shit stain. How dare you think you could break up with me. Do you know who I am?

I'm the Simon to your Garfunkle. The Garfield to your Odie. The Odin to your raven. The rave to your hokey pokey.

Did you really think I would shatter like a Faberge egg on a concrete patio just because you decided my cock and vocabulary were too much for you? Well I'm made of stronger stuff. I am asphalt wrapped in Laffy Taffy with an admantium shell.

You couldn't dump me if you had a million friends. My ego is too heavy for you to even lift you pansy-assed, narcissistic, unfocused eyed sceintist! Trying to back out of this relationship now will slowly kill you. The long nights crying into your bedpan wondering why you ever gave up someone who could make you come just by whispering your name in someone else's ear. The endless days masturbating to the last grocery list I made out and ordered you to go shopping for. You'd miss me like you were a pie wielding liberal, and I was Ann Coultier.

Can't you see? I'm trying to save you from a life spent wishing you had just shut up and let me fuck you. So ziplock your windbag shut and bend over.

If you started reading this journal after the post, or would just like a refresher version, please, feel free to leave a break-up letter in the form of a comment, and I will reply with a break-up letter tailor-made to you, you cold hearted cuntwich.

Poem 24: Translation For Spell Me Let It Out For You

For every pickled scream there is a whisper
a throat singing in four notes at once
I would rather a sonata creaking with violins
flatulent tubas
a thousand off-key choirists
than the monotone dirge of your voice crying homophobia  at the end of every measure

You are not the ventriloquist for a million lonely mouths
And I keep my own knee bare of dummies

Should you ever raise an ear
when a tongue would carry you further
I pray the ear develops a shadow
carving a new dimension or two on the walls you've boxed around you