Consumerism Is Bad, So Steal Things from Priests

I am back, from Christmas! These were my best ornaments this year, a cat holding a platter of volcanoes and a triceratops with Problems:


And these were my best presents! Elegant Choice gave me a little notebook with Totoro on the front:

And CATBUS on the back:

My mother gave me a phone that she stole from an elderly priest, who did not deserve it:

And Santa gave me the most mysterious picture of all time. Here is the front of it:

And this is the back:

This stone has been leaning more and more for some 25 years. If I had tragically died at the age of 25, I would have had that put on my monument. But I didn't, "luckily," so I am here to wish you a Happy New Year!

The Last in a Long Line of Cartoon Cats #3

For those who have forgotten: this cat is also a stick of dynamite. Obviously.

She Tires of Birth Metaphors

Why is it that whenever you have the terrible literary blue balls, like you are totally about to do it but then the teenager (inside you) buttons up its pants at the last minute and nobody gets to finish, that the day after that is always the most insanely productive day? All the thinking sperms come out then I guess, each with its own speech balloon.

Nice, Very Mature

The winter issue of The Cincinnati Review is up, and you can read my poem "The Shroud and the Anti-Knot" on their website! I wrote it a few years ago and had almost forgotten how it went, but rereading it now, it seems to be about, like, surgery maybe? Also death? Who knows. I had been locked up in my house for months at that point, cultivating a long white beard of insanity. Which reminds me, a while back, the editors actually asked me for a short statement to accompany my poems. Sure! I said. Here's an unsettling cow metaphor that I think will be really perfect. It went:

I spend my days in a tiny room, sitting perfectly still as a heifer in a field, occasionally lifting my front right hoof to write notes on small slips of paper. When I have a lot of these notes, I chew them until a literary "cud" forms, and then we kiss, and I pass the cud into your mouth.

I liked it because you often read contributors' comments that are boring, but how often do you read one that is disgusting? I personally would find it refreshing. Anyway, they patiently responded, "We actually meant, you know, a sober examination of your process?" They were so kind about it, and I had been such a bad animal, that a tear slipped down my bulging cheek. I sat down to write something serious, and my milk sang sadly into the pail of Explanation.