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Cat Along Dotted Line

May 30, 2010

Jesus damn it, I haven’t blogged in weeks. Fired out a gangsta throwdown at the beginning of the month and then disappeared. I’m just so friggin’ busy and overwhelmed these days. School and its associated spinoff projects have been nuts, in a good way, and meanwhile I’m trying to make some decisions. Every day I’m more convinced that writing is what the gods built me to do, and every day I’m more convinced that it’ll never be a reliable source of income no matter how competent I may become at putting words in a row. It is, and will continue to be, a source of respect and happiness and community, but none of that gets the rent paid. The part of me that I moved here to develop, the part of me that matters, writes poems and remodels my manuscript and volunteers for every school- or community-related project that arises and kicks ass at most of it, and the rest of me, the part of that’s 30 years old, intelligent, capable, and in no way okay with the idea of sponging off others and working mindless poverty-line jobs for the next ten years, hangs out in the background haunting my thoughts and orchestrating anxiety attacks.

The reality vs. the literary. Is there a way for a single woman with unpredictable brain chemistry to succeed at both? That’s really the question here. And if the answer is no, then I’m fucked.

This is obviously the perfect time to announce that I’m about to finish my chapbook, Cat Along Dotted Line. Get it? It’s a fucking hilarious pun. I thought of it while delirious on DayQuil and Neo Citran in Calgary last week. If you like cats, sarcasm, poems that rhyme, poems that don’t rhyme, crossword puzzles, cunts, and endearingly second-rate cartoons, then you should definitely pick up a copy for the low low price of $5 or a drink next time we hang out. I’m going to do a “print run” of 50 copies and see what happens. I have a lot of relatives, so maybe it’ll sell out…

Here’s a poem that was born from a Facebook status. I love it when that happens. Technological parthenogenesis.

Postmodern Chekhov

In Act I, the protagonist found a gun.

He shot the author
in Act II

and tossed her body
over the fourth wall.

After the show,
some audience members
complained about the blood,
but they had been told
when they purchased their tickets
that those seated in rows
one through five
might get wet.

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