greatest hits vol. 2 (for susan)

once again i'm scraping the bottom of the barrel!

i'm at a starbucks, but instead of writing another dope-as-soap post about the writing life or my ingrown toenails, i've dug up some of my greatest hits. what do i mean? duh. i'm reposting some of the stupid, silly and the sometimes funny things i've said on this blog. enjoy. don't sue me.

Brent reminds us of the 2007 Hey-Look-Isn't-That-A-Great-Looking-Dune-Buggy! Chapbook contest. Oops. I mean, the 2007 Frank O’Hara Award Chapbook contest.

Lube! Isn't that a great word?

Okay, why do some young poets plaster their first books with blurbs? Insecurity? Or do they believe their own hype? Take Alex Lemon's Mosquito. On the back there are three blurbs, which I think is a good number of blurbs. But there's also a handjob of an introduction by Mark Doty. And a little blurb by the lovely Rick Barot on the cover. Way too much! But the king of overblurbification (is that a word?) has to be Ricardo Blanco. His Directions to the Beach of the Dead has an inside page full of blurbs. I think that book must flaunt more than ten blurbs! What's up with that

Sometimes when I flip through my manuscript I want to kick it in the balls. Sometimes I want to get on my knees and unzip its..

I'm sick of hearing about rejections. My collection was rejected again! The Kenyon Review told me to suck it! These kinds of posts tell me one thing: publication man-hos can't get enough.

Patrick Phillips is hot. Can I get a witness??

The Latino/a Writers Issue of the Indiana Review is out. Someone emailed me and asked why I wasn't in the issue. Why? BECAUSE THEY REJECTED MY SUBMISSION. Why do people ask stupid questions??

And look: G.C. Waldrep has a poem in the latest issue of Post Road. The new Virgil Suarez strikes again!

Each time I kissed my girlfriend in high school, I closed my eyes and pretended she was Harrison Ford.

Yesterday, I dreamt I was kissing Richard Hugo on a park bench. And last week, I had a dream in which I was shucking corn at the feet of Fidel Castro. WTF?

Yes, I went to school with Spencer Short. But guess what? Even Spencer Short doesn't like Spenser Short.

I'm lonely. The tumbleweeds don't talk back.

Last night, I dreamt I was Mark Doty's leather pants. Correction: last night I had a nightmare...

Something happened to me at MacDowell. Something unexpected and troubling. I developed crushes on white men. Really white men. White as mayo.