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Notes from Publishing Genius and information on The Chris Toll Prize.
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justinmarkspoetrythings:

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There’s something really contrary about the poems in Scarecrone, Melissa Broder’s third book. They’re completely selfish, but incredibly giving and generous; they’re hopeless but find a way to see hope; they are godless but filled with “god”; they are scary but comforting; they tell you…

Thanks Justin Marks.

believermag:

Drawings by Ria Brodell

FOOD FACES: MELISSA BRODER

In this series, Shane Jones looks at the diet of some of our favorite writers. In this installment he talks to Melissa Broder, whose most recent book is Scarecrone.

I. THE DESIRE TO FILL INSATIABLE HOLES

THE BELIEVER: I’ve been staring at what you eat for a while now and it seems extremely conscious of calories. Are you “counting” what you put in your body? I imagine numbers entering your system. 

MELISSA BRODER: Yes. I am eating numbers. And I prefer packaged foods, foods with a bar code, because they make the math simpler and that gives me a sense of peace. Maybe not peace exactly, but an illusion of control—a stillness in my mind—which lends itself to feeling safe. 

BLVR: But you’re eating a lot of processed foods that give an illusion of health (Subway, Lean Cuisine, protein bars, Starbucks, Coke Zero). You’re not on some raw organic shit; rather, it’s more about just getting stuff in your body and moving forward while controlling the calories. Health seems secondary. I just thought of this line I really love, from your new book of poems, SCARECRONE: “Dinner is cardboard.”

MB: Right, I didn’t say health. I would not call myself a healthy eater. I am a vanity eater, a machinelike-eater, a suppresser-of-feels-eater. I save the bulk of my calories for the end of the day so that I have something sweet and seemingly unlimited to look forward to. I am an eater who doesn’t trust herself, a bad mommy to myself, a poor steward of my body, an eater of rituals and a ritualistic eater, an eater who knows better but sees no impetus to get better because this kind of works and I like how my body looks at this weight. I am a terrible feminist probably, but a good one in some ways, maybe. I am an eater who is playing a game that mostly exists in my head but has also been curated by various social cues, including my mother (who is probably Jesus in the poem you are referring to in which the speaker is fed cardboard and Jesus is a man). I am an eater who knows that ultimately you are responsible for yourself, an eater who doesn’t want to take responsibility for herself other than to feel safe, a very superficial woman of depth, a disordered eater, and an eater who is scared to be so honest here.

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ancientparty:

Wet, they murmur

 

The apples, wet, they murmur

Moving in stalks

The faucet water ran like a whisper

“Oh indeed it was lovely,” she said, fumbling with the

 latch

grisly, silent, buttered

deteriorating Hungarian

 

Italian? Or Hungarian?

Scratched a knee and murmured

Acclaim for the buttered

During summer solstice the dog stalks

A hair got caught in the latch

Zephyr whisper

 

Flex spend drizzle whisper

It’s time for your Hungarian

My arm dropped red and meaty as I backed against the

  barndoor latch

In the hour, the hands pick up murmurs

A probably sign, stalks

Beaches as if buttered                         

 

If parents were only buttered

Zipper caught on a whisper

There shyness stalks

You march like a Hungarian

Timid it murmurs

For hours I sat puddling by the latch 

 

We tripped the lock but there was a rusted latch

Precedent set, angrily buttered

An older man had a rash in the shape of Michigan’s

  mitten, and a heart murmur

The head a wrinkled melon, protuberant on the

 pillow, emitted a whisper

Slogging through the Hungarian

On closer inspection the stalks

 

Hair lines the bathtub in stalks

Pressing rubber submarine submerged latch

A lady like a broth, Hungarian

Struck Marty all buttered

Gas leak hissing whisper

Uneven surface like a murmur

 

Small hands murmur in cornstalks

When her lip latch gave it loosed a raspy whisper

Instead of Mary, a buttered Hungarian.

 

Sestina by Bonnie Jones, Megan McShea, Rupert Wondolowski

I’m very excited to be part of this new book of writing games, put together by Megan McShea.

At VICE, Blake Butler reviewed Melissa Broder’s “spell book.” It’s all great but my favorite line is “I don’t know what a book is if not a latch to elsewhere, and Scarecrone has pressed its skull against the hidden door. It is neither drunk nor ecstatic to be here—it is a state unto itself.” 

Melissa Broder reading at her book release party for SCARECRONE at Mellow Pages. (Photo courtesy of Mellow Pages.)

Tomorrow night, 8:30 184 Kent St c705 in Brooklyn
Poetry Genius meets Publishing Genius, with
Gabby BessMelissa BroderJordan CastroTao LinSpencer MadsenAdam Robinson
You can annotate my poem if you don’t mind

Tomorrow night, 8:30 184 Kent St c705 in Brooklyn

Poetry Genius meets Publishing Genius, with

Gabby Bess
Melissa Broder
Jordan Castro
Tao Lin
Spencer Madsen
Adam Robinson

You can annotate my poem if you don’t mind

sarahjeanalex:

Publishing Genius and Rap Genius are having a Poetry Genius reading & party this Saturday night at the Rap Genius HQ in Williamsburg. Everyone is invited and you can RSVP here.

sarahjeanalex:

Publishing Genius and Rap Genius are having a Poetry Genius reading & party this Saturday night at the Rap Genius HQ in Williamsburg. Everyone is invited and you can RSVP here.

(via adamtrobinson)