I ate the baby with the wettest neck you've ever sniffed I'm going to tell you this one more time some other time from now ok

Help defeat the fucking tornado by buying BRIAN FOLEY's The Tornado is not a Surrealist. It's true, they really aren't.

In related news, my loft is supposedly going to be ready for me to move back into finally on July 4th. It's been 4 months now. We'll see if that date holds true.

KIM CHINQUEE gave props to Publishing Genius and my chapbook. Thank you Kim!

Recently, JEREMY JAMES THOMPSON asked me to annotate a poem by CHARLES BERNSTEIN for a broadside of his poem 'Every True Religion is Bound to Fail,' which was then presented at a reading by Bernstein for the Center for Book Arts Broadside Reading Series. It was also annotated by William Moor, Walter K. Lew, Dillon Westbrook & J.D. Mitchell-Lumsden, and Jeremy hand created a series of 150 numbered, autographed and absolutely beautiful broadsides, in which I appear printed in hot pink.

LOOK:



In the annotations I managed to discuss Orel Hershiser's productive pregnancy-making, Three Six Mafia pancake breakfasts, jacking off in the Georgia Tech library bathroom and other ridiculousness. Thank you Jeremy for inviting me in to such an awesome project.

I want to learn to hand-print things now but I imagine I feel lazy.

Right now reading ATMOSPHERIC DISTURBANCES by Rivka Galchen and I think enjoying it and also reading IT WAS LIKE MY TRYING TO HAVE A TENDER-HEARTED NATURE by Diane Williams and feeling in a melting room or something, which is awesome.

I am going to continue creating this thing to entertain my hard drive now.

This 'novella' or maybe 'novel' thing I am working on, maybe titled HOW MANY FLOORS DOES THE NIGHTMARE HAVE?, it is becoming maybe ridiculous.

Here is a part of a random graph:

The woman had a long black metal chain that ran out from her vulva. The chain led somewhere beyond the bathroom door. The woman continued with her fingers curling hair until her whole head was encased--her cheek skin slumped and slathered with bright white oil that clung to light underneath. Her tits had been removed. In the tub the father burped and nattered, trying to stand up. The nude woman’s neck was stacked with hickeys. Her spinal column seemed disrupted. Her ass, though--her ass had been on sticky paper, replicated through the years. The father nodded. He felt his back arch, his fat toes cracking as they cricked.