A Tedious Delusion

Kate Clinton Closes a Chapter of CNW
For our very last author event of this CNW era, we couldn't have asked for a better, smarter, funnier woman than the iconic Kate Clinton.

Clinton's new book, I Told You So, spans refreshingly disparate topics: sexual hypocrisy and gay marriage; 9/11 and its aftermath; girls gone wild and boys gone to war; Hillary Clinton and U.S. politics; baptism and waterboarding; intelligent design and body shows; P-town and families of choice; and even bee colony and other collapses. What unites the essays is a Mobius strip of humor intended not to dissipate outrage but rather to motivate action.
FREE! Wednesday, May 27 @ 6:00PM - Brattle Theater, 40 Brattle Street, Cambridge. Co-presented with Harvard Book Store.

COME TO THIS - I'm going to make a facebook invite.

Last CNW author reading ever!

xoxo
etana
 

TranScriptions
featuring Raven Kaldera
Thursday, May 14; doors @ 7:15
Spontaneous Celebrations, 45 Danforth St, JP
$5-10 at the door, cash only please!

TranScriptions is Boston's newest queer-themed open mic night.
Featuring poets, writers, musicians, performers, activists, and YOUR
creative expression of all kinds, TranScriptions is a radically
inclusive space and always welcomes allies.

Our May feature, Raven Kaldera, is a shaman, FTM intersex activist,
homesteader, astrologer, author, pervert, and general
boundary-crosser. He is a founding member of the First Kingdom Church
of Asphodel, and the author of too many books to list here, including
Hermaphrodeities: The Transgender Spirituality Workbook and Dark Moon
Rising: Pagan BDSM and the Ordeal Path. He is the co-editor of Best
Transgender Erotica. 'Tis an ill wind that blows no minds.

Don't miss our pride event June 11 featuring the Femme Show!

Some Satisfied, others outraged with verdict for immigrant's death.
article here

It wasn't the smell necessarily, the cured meat steaming
or the beans melting on tongue twisted into
words fell onto pavement like jalapeno
my eyes watering, it was all I could do
first fists balled tight, then feet steel toed
pounding down upon you
until red, the color of my flag
flowing
covering
smearing
the stain of you on my arms glistening
until panting I reached down and squeezed -
your neck now like bread braiding
properly, I'm
reforming
reshaping
reconstituting
you walked easily, too comfortable
like gaucamole I preferred you smashed and covered
my mouth now smiling, my belly full
I've consumed and conquered
I've paid a small fee
to exit satiated

 

I'm stealing this from onceupon who stole it from someone else.


OMG WTF BBQ AMAZON HATES TEH GAYZ LETS ALL SHOUT ABOUT IT SO THAT EVERYONE KNOWS AND MAYBE HAVE SOME CHICKEN CUZ IT LOVES THE GAYS. OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG !!!!

txt lj might work!

You are smoke on the island
and I'm a fishing boat broken but staying
just above water while you hover above me
I am bobbing faster as the waves take me
harder now you're getting further from me
but I can still taste you in my throat
and feel your sting in my eyes, you are smoke
and the island is a distant bit of land under the same sky
you are clinging to the splinters of what's left of me
here, take the oars and be done with what you couldn't keep
bobbing slower as the waves settle around me you are not destiny
but feel just as unavoidable, so steady you are in memory
while I float along now patiently you are dissipating
as I remember you now, love and rolling above to where the sun
can sting your eyes and bring relief to my water-clogged joints
you are smoke wafting above and I am the survivor of this
a hapless island fire

A few weeks ago, my two little white cousins asked me about "that black guy who hit his girlfriend, Rihanna." While their uncle and father reminded them about the innocence-until-proven-guilty clause in the penal code. I wanted to start by naming the two people, using facts instead of watered down or racially charged language, taping their' uncle's mouth to avoid teaching him about what happens when men with too much white male privilege talk to me.

I'm not sure they got much out of the conversation but I started reading more about what the media was teaching them. I can't say I was shocked that the situation played out the way it did, but I can say that the following article (behind the cut) is exactly what needs to be said. I wish this were on tv instead of Extra! and perezhilton.com.

( Read more... )

Puppy Bowl V: 3pm Feb 1, 2009 on Animal Planet.

Attendees? Possible gathering I am attending perhaps.

Beuller? Comment.

There's the quickening
then this double-over in your gut
as veins pop and blood starts to boil
three second later you're catching air
gulps gag past shocked muscles
and your ears begin to ring

tick...tock...

Now five seconds have passed
and you're back
control in your' grasp
and the hold of something keenly incorrect
not mysterious, no - not likely
the smell of carbon and blood mingling
you can't remember why
you'd rather be crying or
this day was just as normal as any other
and the blue pills of solitude not offered
like sacrifice to the gods of paler faces
white coats and IV needles
you felt like sanity rolling for fourty five hours

tick...tock...

The earth rotates around the sun and
you're still here and
you're still popping from that plastic bottle
didn't think you'd let go so fast
or did you?
Spin the dial, darling...heart pounding
fingers flailing
'cause it feels good to remember your feet
planted firmly on the ground

Dear Victor Reader Stream Friends:

The launch of the new Bookshare.org site has prevented playback of the DAISY version of Bookshare books on the Stream. In preparing the new site Bookshare needed to reprocess their books to accomodate new external book sources to support their expanded services. This reprocessing caused a problem with the DAISY version of their books which they have now corrected. If you re-download your book from Bookshare.org it should now play on your Stream.

Also, with the new zip format for the Bookshare.org book many of you have noticed some new files that are present in the DAISY version of the book. These include files ending in .css, xsl, and DTD. You have asked if these files are required by the Stream. The answer is no but they require such a small amount of space that you do not need to remove them from your SD card. It is ok to unzip all the files of the Bookshare.org DAISY zip file into a sub-folder of $VRDTB. These new files will not affect the Stream.


Thank you,
The HumanWare Team

Enjoy the breakfast line-up.

Petsi Pies: http://www.petsipies.com best pies in Somerville.

You have to love KD!

RE: guide dogs article - what a shame!
Heidi Jury Parker <heidij@peta.org> Mon, Jan 12, 2009 at 4:22 PM
To: bealjk@gmail.com

Dear Ms. Beal,

Thank you for your e-mail. Please allow me to respond on behalf of Ms. Nachminovitch.
( Read more... )

My mother is not a blight but is not something pleasant to listen to
on repeat, seemingly succinct and in conjunction with the Golden Globes
'worlds' best mom' never written on her coffee cup.

It's sad inside to know any connection we have is delirium and her brain holding on to brief synapse enough
to tell me she's dating an African American and it doesn't matter to her, that she's filing bankruptcy like all her friends are and she's having a good time in a church with 2,000+ attendees.

May we never grow up to be our mothers static on the phone always switching channels and arms length to find a better way to listen less...harder.

HAPPY NEW YEAR! HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Yay 2009! We met via dogs and doggie kisses.

Did I remind you of him?
Face thrown back and eyes glazed
half-crazed with the kind of smile it would take
to make you turn around and pay attention
then knowingly frown and walk away -
did you think to say my name or was it pointless
that day I laid down and refused to move
unable to speak except the monosyllabic escaping
lips parted and drool too familiar, perhaps
or it was the sound escaping from my room
though the door was closed and curtains drawn tight
while you strolled through the archway of memories
not though fervently wished forgotten,
did the smell of bread baking bring you back?

I'm folding arms and legs into a swan half-born
half-owned, half-broken, half-torn
made out of cardboard and tape with markers etching in
the smile lines these days
and I wish I had your sense of humor to kick back
and watch the show instead of fighting every downhill coast
like it was uphill and I was without rope
again, an unfamiliar sound like my heart unbroken
mistaken for complacency - surely wearing my sleeves too short
meant I was asking for the searing of serrated blades
so she's tucked in tighter and back in bed
with the covers pulled up higher and blood kept from overflowing
or getting to her head - a crumpled swan more akin to anatomy than a Valentine
did the discarded notebook teach her anything?

So it snowed a bit last night. We got maybe half an inch which then turned into sleet as sleet slushed from the dreary sky. This is of course awesome because the Boston area in particular is getting no winter love.
This also means the Drum gets to wear his boots. Here are some glamor shots;


image description: Drum is laying on my bed w/ the purple bedspread under him. His eyes are flashing into the camera because I can't take pictures to save my life. On his paws are the red Ruffwear boots. He has no idea how lucky he is...yet.



image description: Drum is standing on a street corner facing away from the camera. He has his harness and leash on and is wearing the red Ruffwear boots.

Yay!

All these rules we gave to one another like it was living
that prepared us for the fall of one another like
it was breathing that was difficult on a Saturday afternoon
and not the sound of feet on pavement pounding
and the hot breath on the back of our necks
that tick tick in the back of his throat and the hands closing
my arm an alien to the rest of my body pulling away
carving a place inside where the dark things are
or where the child of me is, hiding
never forgetting the hiss of her lips as she scowls
he's just a baby and my body is to be played with
the extension is your play thing
and her memory is of me, the she-thing unforgiving.
We gave each other over to memories like it was sleeping
that saved us from the pain of this morning when
his burden was my becoming, when he lifted up onto me
and grunted, face shining with sweat and softly
baby you were meant for me and I don't know
what that means except I'm running , always running
into trees not made for me but more welcoming
than the gates to the train platform holding me back
like a wave of angry hockey fans clamoring
walking towards the edge with desire for anonymity
in my gut and the blade sharpened on a rock you held for me
held up to the back of my head, reminding me
it's not insanity when....

Sometimes you don't.