New Age Amazon
I am a girl who does things. Here there be geekery, writing, feminism, photography, geeky feminism and sometimes ponies. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone that you're only here for the ponies.
OTHER PLACES TO FIND ME:
IHO Geek
Nerds on the Rocks podcast
A Girl's Guide to Being Friends With Girls
Photoshelter
DOOM! Magazine
DOOM! Blog
Our Exquisite Corpse
Like what you saw or read here? Interested in getting rid of some of that pesky extra money you've got just sitting under your mattress? Well, consider throwing a few bucks in my tip jar!
you wanted me
to
kill
the snake in
my
head
that sacrifice
woke
the
demon.
in desperate times
auction off your
empathy
desperate boys
without redeeming traits
will pay a fortune for any
new trick
that will get
sad girls
into their bed.
When i
detonate
the experts will
assume that
i only did it for
the attention
who am i
to contradict
everyone blames
the atomic bomb.
Exciting news! I’m going to be appearing once again with Pittsburgh’s Beat Cabaret later this month!
re-arranging the spice cabinet
it cannot do the dishes right
it doesn’t get them clean enough.
My third hand stays out of your bedroom
it’s not that inconsiderate
it hovers in the hallway
it wouldn’t enter if you invited it.
My third hand passes the collection plate
without adding any offerings.
I’ve only beads and trinkets
and your God has no use for them.
My third hand is awkward on the sidewalk
and even worse when we get intimate.
It is always grabbing for some small mercy
holding on, desperate to stay relevant.
My third hand is just a phantom limb
that you seem to feel, but then forget about.
In a world that lives to pair things off
it is an unwelcome anomaly.
What does it connect to?
And how does it continue?
It’s just making you uncomfortable.
So you cut if off,
for you it’s painless.
The Interstitial Arts Foundation (IAF) is going online with their Interfictions series, and will open up for submissions starting February 1st! We’re looking for all KINDS of stuff that blurs the lines drawn in literary circles and challenges and changes the perception of what is possible in writing.
So, if you have something, please consider submitting it! And if nothing else, PLEASE pass this link along to your other writer-ly type friends. This is only the first issue, there’s plans for the future, and we need your help!
When I die
do me a favor:
bury me until you are sure
I am dead.
Then, dig me up
and put my body
on a public bus,
so that it may
for once
Ride In Peace.
It will not object to
jostling
elbowing
poking
or prodding.
It will not endure
over-hearing
someone else’s conversation.
It will not care.
Because it is fucking dead.
And hopefully,
someday,
some well-meaning
(or perhaps not)
passenger
will approach
and, attempting to
start a conversation,
will ask
“You have any kids?”
At that moment,
may my bloated abdomen
split open
spilling gore and worms
into my lap,
forcing my new acquaintance
to smile
and say
“They must take after their father.”
You have to face
the awful truth:
one day
the shambling
zombie hordes will
descend upon us
ripping your friends
and family
limb from limb
or worse,
infecting them with the
zombie virus
(created by an
unchecked multinational
corporation
who placed profits
above human life
while working on a
secret
government
contract)
meaning you might
be forced to shoot
them in the head.
But enough about that.
This is the
awful truth:
on that day
there will only be
so many
malls
to go around.
Call dibs on the one
with the best stores
while there is still time.
Then we found the old place, with all its corners intact.
Those times were silly, those kisses and caresses.
She had an unusual presence about her.
The sky opened up and showed there was nothing above, except
a burden to bear, my burdens laid bare.
If you are cold, burn your books.
But oh, Father Joseph, stop touching me there!
I wish it wasn’t happened, and I wouldn’t cry.
This can’t be reality.
If you run too far away, the thunderstorms will bring you home.
Truth is a matter of perception.
Silent as scorched tulips
in honor of my friend.
Don’t wait for the scars to fade when the wounds haven’t yet healed.
I’ve renounced poetry. This is not a line in a poem. C’est ne pas une line in a poem.
I understand less than half of what I pretend to.
Judgement feels like a slow, harrowing death without relief.
You must learn to open your heart.
