snapshots of the tour so far.

well, this whole “blogging regularly” project hasn’t worked out too terribly well. call it activity, apathy or just a short attention span — and I don’t even have a camera. here are some random anecdotes about the things I have been doing:

— take the train cross-country if you can. the delay in Chicago, the random men hitting on me, the fever, the crusty tights, the neck cramps: all were worth the sight of the country gradually getting snowier, the frosted auto graveyards in the desert, being woken up by the sunrise, a surprise layover in Albuquerque that allowed for an awesome breakfast with my old and dearly missed friend Christian.

— Dover, NH in the winter is so beautiful it looks staged.

— April Ranger and her housemates have a tiny, mangy, screaming cat with a withered ear. Her name is Edith Piaf. it was love at first sight. (same goes for the house, April’s lovely family and roommates, the entirety of Jamaica Plain — not to get too sappy in a public place)

— one lovely and surprising highlight of the trip so far: the record release performance of Molly Allis’ ridiculously beautiful album Pilgrim. check it out.

— Manhattan can suck it. Times Square is human ingenuity taken to its grossest excess. my retinas are still shell-shocked.

— another lovely and surprising highlight: I’ve seen so much family on this trip that I haven’t seen in years and years. People I haven’t seen in so long that I forgot I missed them.

— Portland, Maine is like a larger and colder Santa Cruz, without the surfers. that’s both a compliment and a slight. Ryan, Wil, Heidi, Jen and their enormous crowd of reptiles were all lovely and welcoming to me, though I didn’t find out that there was a cryptozoology museum until 12 hours before I left. blast, blast.

— Portland also saw fit to send me a lovely reminder that I am not, in fact, a lone freak in the world. for that, it will always occupy a special place in my heart.

— if you didn’t already know, Alex Charlambides is an amazing human and a friend to dizzy travelers. without him ferrying me around and generally being cool and calm, I’d’ve never made it through my four tornado days. same goes for Greg McKillop (for the sugar bombs and general rocking), Nick “Biebs” Davis (for the dances, the warmth and the electricity in the face of sleep deprivation), the McMillan family (except for Biscuit), Peter and James at one of the coolest high schools I’ve ever seen, and probably a hundred other people that have escaped my sleep-addled little brain.

— in fact, the enormity of how good Worcester was to me will not fit in a blog post, so I’ll summarize the best way I know how: Miss America 1976 is jealous as fuck.

— and Providence, you aren’t so bad yourself.

— Shortly before my Cantab feature, I began feeling a little sick and chalked up the puking to jitters. did some poems, hung out a little, drank a little bourbon, got some lentil soup, and then spent most of the slam going full-on Linda Blair in the bathroom. it was by far the sickest I have ever been, and I am brimming with gratitude to Simone Beaubien for nursing me back to health and wellness and allowing me to sleep in her home for 40 hours.

…which brings us to today, still in Boston with Simone. I was supposed to be in Jersey City yesterday, but had to cancel due to the aforementioned stomach virus/food poisoning/nastiness. Sorry, Jersey City. I’ll catch you next time.


that was fast.

as promised, the store is up.

for your trouble, here is my favorite sandwich recipe:

throw a dash of olive oil into a skillet, placed over medium heat
lay a slice of bread down in the oil. i like 7-grain, or whole wheat, or squaw bread, but whatever floats your boat.
pour some balsamic vinegar onto the bread, til it’s reasonably wet
cover the bread with a few slices of fresh mozzarella. thickness depends on taste. I like ’em on the medium-thin side.
cover the mozzarella with basil leaves.
cover the basil with sliced strawberries, the riper the better. this would probably also be good with other fruits: mangos, apples, blackberries, cantaloupe…
cover the sliced strawberries with another layer of mozzarella.
sprinkle some salt and pepper on top of the cheese.
spread a second slice of bread with dijon mustard, preferably “country dijon” — the kind with the grainy mustard seeds.
press that sucker on top of the sandwich (mustard side down, preferably).
drizzle a little bit of olive oil on top.
press down with a spatula, and flip the whole thing.
the vinegar slice should be crunchy to the edge of burnt.
fry the other side til it’s crispy and the cheese is melted.


non-empty promises

Here are some things I am working on for this website:

a place where you can buy things
interesting blog entries


that’s it.

is anyone out there reading this? if so, what do you want to read? recipes? I might put sandwich recipes on here. everybody likes sandwiches.


okay, so now you can “like” me on Facebook, but I don’t know how to put a little widget here for that. I TRIED.

total bullshit and other pleasures of the flesh

First, hello! Welcome to the first real blog entry on this site. I’ll spare you the introductions and promises, except to say: when my life is interesting, I’ll write about it. This is, after all, a site about a poetry tour. When it isn’t (I do, after all, live in a suburb), I will write about other things. To wit:

Last night, I went to see the seventh film in the Saw series, creatively entitled Saw 3D: The Final Chapter. If you are unfamiliar with this fine series of films, they are about a fellow named John who abducts minor sinners and puts them in hellish and difficult-to-escape traps (like this one). John has successors, and there are bumbling detectives and there is moralizing about the hypocrisy of ordinary people, but Saw is like Playboy: even if you like the articles, you still stare at Miss November’s tits for a good long while. You still listen to the screaming and cheer when the viscera flies in shoddy 3D.

I have a love-hate relationship with total bullshit. I’ve been known to turn to Tool Academy in the middle of bad relationships. I follow Glee. And I can’t help but recognize Saw for what it is: a morality play that pokes at the mind’s dirtiest parts while lecturing its audience about living a less-than-virtuous life. It is like scat porn with Scriptures being sung to the bow-chicka-bow-wow music, and it is endlessly and unironically compelling to me. Even enjoyable. And I don’t feel like a terrible person for that.


Anyway, I didn’t really have a huge, awesome point, I just wanted to express a preference for Miss November’s guts over her tits. Also, when I talked to David Perez (if you know me, you probably know him — if not, click the link that says “The Pincushion Orchestra” over there to your right) about this, he compared Jigsaw to the white activists who go into some mostly-non-white community, gentrify the shit out of it and make everything shitty. Jigsaw talks about them like forcible rehab: live or die, make your choice.

Further reading: Hacksaw, by my academic soulmate Trevor Liam Byrne-Smith. We met when I got trashed and tried to tell him how good the Saw movies are. However, everything he says in this poem is true.

hello for real, this time.

welcome to a website with stuff on it.