muffy bolding

And THIS, my not-so-gentle readers, is supposed to be the very best of the best that we got to offer. Like I’ve been saying for the past 15 years or so — and believe me, as a poet and an absolute WORSHIPPER and SHAMELESS FANGIRL of guys like WS Merwin, Bobby Lowell, Ted Hughes, and TS Eliot…and broads like Anne Sexton, Sivvy Plath, Elizabeth Bishop, and Maggie Atwood — it breaks my heart into a million tiny fucking pieces to even utter it aloud:

Poetry, as an actual art form, IS DEAD. I’m talking DEADER THAN MY HUSBAND’S DICK WHILST LOOKING AT NUDE PHOTOS OF MISS SARAH JESSICA PARKER AND HER FRIGID EQUINE VISAGE AND JIMMY CHOO HORSESHOES. I’m talking NOT ALIVE here, folks.

What is passing as poetry today is 99% SWILL — absolute self-indulgent, navel-gazing, meathookian rubbish. The problem — and I’ve been bellowing this for years at anyone who would listen — is that no one is actually READING poetry…they are only WRITING poetry. Ask the editors of all the most influential poetry and lit journals in this country and they will verify what I am telling you. Readership and subscriptions are fucking VAPOR, baby — NADA. Ah! But the increase in the numbers of poetry submissions they receive every year is actually mindboggling. Tens of thousands of no-talent meathooks with computers…pouring out their poetic smegma for all the world to see — all the while having ABSOLUTELY NO MOTHERFUCKING IDEA WHAT POETRY EVEN IS. Yes, ladies and gentlemen — GARBAGE IN…GARBAGE OUT. You heard it here first:

THE POETRY MEATHOOKS AIN’T WEARIN’ ANY CLOTHES.

From the review:

“What I’d like to focus on is the aesthetic that seems strewn all over this particular anthology: poetry as a mechanical art. Walter Benjamin talked about the lost aura of the work of art in an age of mechanical reproduction. What we have here is poetry that is so seeped in the mechanics of mechanical reproduction that it seems to be looking beyond its status as a work of art, and reaching toward something of populist gnosis. It is poetry as facsimile, poetry as self-imitation, poetry as garbage in, garbage out.”

“Remember one thing: Talent always rises.” — Joan Rivers

Muffy Formspring Question: “What’s the best thing about your job?”

Not having to change out of my pajamas or wash my vagina before work. SO CHOICE.

Interrogate a Hooker. Don’t cost nothin’.

Muffy Formspring Question: Is the clam bald, Hitler or 70’s porn?

You know, I trim that shit up as best I can considering MY GUNT IS AN OUTRAGE.

Interrogate a Hooker. Don’t cost nothin’.

Muffy Formspring Question: “Do you go to garage sales?”

Funny you should axe this question, as, next to knitting, schtupping, reading, writing, traveling, and making movies, going to garage sales and thrift stores is just about my favorite thing in the world to do. Now that I’m old and married to My One True Love, for me, the thrill of the chase is focused on AWESOME finds at AmVets. A satanic Santa Claus from 1962? Some old wooden Fisher-Price Little People from 1964? Some old AVON Small World brooches from 1970? BETTER THAN DICK, my friends.

Interrogate a Hooker. Don’t cost nothin’.

Muffy Formspring Question: “What is the one thing your mother taught you that you actually still use to this day?”

My mother taught me how to properly fold the shit out of a bath towel. There’s actually both an art and a science to it, which I learned at the feet of the tiny, hair-pulling, face-slapping, cranberry-juice-hurling, valium-gobbling, slave-driving, Filipina master. God bless her!

Interrogate a Hooker. Don’t cost nothin’.

Language is constantly being morphed and created just to keep up with the rapid advancement of technology with which we live, i.e., we now have objects and experiences that didn’t exist even 20 years ago.

To wit…when you are in a roomful of people and someone’s cell phone vibrates or rings, and every single person immediately reaches into their pocket or purse and checks their screen…that mass motion — that very specific collective call to action? There needs to be a word for that, gottdamnit. Bring me that word.

Can someone please, please help me dig up David Foster Wallace’s brain? ‘Cause I REALLY wanna make out with it. I’d like to hacksaw the top off his brilliant, adorable skullcap and eat his goddamned brains like Cap’n Crunch with Crunchberries. I am literally in love with the head of a dead man.

THE VERY ESSENCE OF ON TRACK.

When I was a little girl, I thought the first line of this song was, “Oh, Nimbus…” — which begs not only the question of why I thought this song was about a saint — but HOW IN THE FUCK I KNEW THE MEANING OF NIMBUS AT THE AGE OF FIVE, IN THE FIRST GODDAMNED PLACE.

That aside…christ on a cupcake, Mike Nesmith is a BRILLIANT songwriter.

Oh, and to this day, I still sometimes make out with my official Davy Jones pillowcase — but of that, I shall speak no more.