You Know Its Time We Grow Old & Do Some Shit (Broken Social Scene & Not Prince Po Just In Case You Don't Know)

Wow, I'm tired. This is going to be a hectic week. I'm listening to Prince Po and sipping on some Knob Creek (courstey of Deep Disco).
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I received my contributor copy(ies) of Eleven Eleven- it's quite good & it has some Spicer poems in it. I'll blog about it more later. I'm also reading another beautiful journal, Taiga. I'll attempt to photograph them soon.
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Have you ever wonder what was going through an editors mind? Read here.
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How about a poem I read on the train this morning? Yeah? Awesome!

Islands In The Black Night

My conversation with the axe-murderer at the Jenkins'
party was really quite awkward. I made excuses for my
unchecked curiosity, asked about her victims and her
preference for the axe. She wouldn't talk. She was missing
an entire arm. With some remaining important fingers she
rolled the stem on her glass of wine. It soon felt like an
interrogation and she returned to the couch with the other
axe-murderers. They laughed it up.

By the indoor hot tub was a group of scantily clad Chinese
water torturers reminiscing. Some suicide bombers walked
to the bathroom together. They talked about later maybe
getting together for a game of volleyball.

I went to the kitchen and got a handful of party mix,
pretzel sticks and peanuts mostly, and stood there by
myself in the center of the room and discreetly transformed
into my impression of Frankenstein. Everyone got a real
kick out of that and their laughter grew steadily, fed off of
itself, then closed in from all sides and swallowed me
whole.

from The Man Suit by Zachary Schomburg