Call for Submissions: Ppigpenn

Send raw wild words & art to Catfish at Mcdar3(at)aol[dot]com

We want poems & flash & art. Imagine extreme hunger & you had only one fish hook & a tiny bullhead swallowed your bait & you had to jerk out all the guts & heart. These innards are what we want.

http://ppigpenn.blogspot.com

In the year 2012

in the interest of transparency...

DONATIONS AND CHAPBOOK SALES
$1632.38

these motherfuckers are funding the revolution
gold frickin star level – over $300
Victor Schwartzman, Brian Fugett

bronze statue level - $100+
James Babbs

when you stick 5 bucks in an envelope or paypal a quarter of a hundred... it helps
round of applause, goddammit level – $5 or more
J. Claudius Cloyd, RC Edrington, John Swain, Nathan Moore, Lynn Alexander, Frank Reardon, Frankie Metro, Clay Phillips, Carl Miller Daniels, Catfish McDaris

doesn't want to know how fast she's going broke
idiot level - ???
Michele McDannold

let's also not forget all those people that traveled to the events on their own dime. believe it or not, all poets will NOT do this. in all honesty, if we had that kind of money- those guys aren't the ones we'd be paying. so for the broke-ass motherfuckers who make it happen, somehow, you guys rock...

EXPENSES
here's the thing about me and receipts. From the time I started this list to the time I finished, I found a pile of receipts under some other stuff on my desk of stuff and lots of other stuff. Dig? Looks like I started keeping them around the month of may.
Here's what I had on hand anyway--

blogtalk
468

usps
186.37

ink
137.26

web hosting/registrations
136.28

paper, tape and shit
80.89

venues/tables
75 (just what LU paid)
480 (Fugett paid)

ads, music, other fees
59.95

other stuff.. bought a toner printer, sent some adopt-a-poet money out, gave away a bunch of free lit, mailed out a shit ton of mailers.
if i forgot someone or something, i'm sorry. it's a lot to keep track of.

luvluvluv
and MANY THANKS!

Call for Submissions: Grandpa Shit His Pants

Catfish McDaris in partnership with Ben John Smith is starting a heavy duty enterprise in conjunction with Horror Sleaze Trash called Grandpa Shit His Pants (or Pigpen Gets The Blues, you choose)

They're looking for poems or flash that will bring you to your knees grinning. E-mail Catfish at Mcdar3@aol.com.

Review of Expired Nickel Valentine

Expired Nickel Valentine

By Misti Rainwater-Lites
182 pages ISBN 978-0-9824669-4-0
From Goldfish Press
1620 W. Line Street
Leesburg, FL 34748
http://goldfishpress.com

Misti attacks the page/canvas fiendishly like Remedios Varo and Frida Kahlo. Her words are fiery smoke delving deep into her ocean. She fears nothing and is brave and courageous in her own sometimes highly erotic exposure. I can not recommend this book enough. Being born in Albuquerque, like her first son I felt we were on the same wavelength. “Blood and love, boots stomping guts, Satan and Jesus riding in a Chevrolet, God might be a termite, firetango wolverineskin” were just a few descriptions from the first 28 pages and it just gets better. I also, “smell electra in her green then blue then storm cloud eyes.”

Catfish McDaris

Review of Dancing Naked on Bukowski's Grave

DANCING NAKED ON BUKOWSKI’S GRAVE
by Ben John Smith & Catfish McDaris
135 page Hardcover at Lulu.com

All night I dreamed of the poems of Ben John Smith and Catfish McDaris in their new book Dancing Naked on Bukowski’s Grave. I read non-stop the Catfish section which comprises the second half of the book, tore through it like the sex-crazed maniac I’ve always been, running down the street after that guilt-ridden fantasy bus headlined real life. Afterward on the bus, and in my tortured sleep, I began to understand the meaning of the ritual phrase that’s what I’m talking about. I formed words in my dreams to explain to Catfish how reading his amazing output was like looking into his soul, if anyone has such a thing, because oddly, he approaches soulful material through an outrage of the senses, because he talks about boogers and shit and glorious cunt-holes that most people lack the courage to discuss, yet isn’t that where we all live?

Take for instance “Even Rats Party in Hell’s Kitchen”, a fantastical portrait of the toilet at Dangerfield’s Comedy Club, the cooking up of a poetic recipe that starts out with some possibly true measurements. 1) toilets in NYC and Paris are in “dim decrepit basements, swampy funk-ridden holes”; 2) “the stairway is rancid”; 3) “a cloud of maryjane fumes engulfed me”; 4) “I heard female laughter and an Asian language coming from the Men’s Room”; the rest could be called imagination, or not, when it introduces “a talking rat” with “a tiny hard-on”. With these ingredients Catfish leaves the kitchen and enters the inner rooms of the soul, a mystical journey to jolt the jaded and wise-up the weary.

“While Bogart Played with Rock Hudson’s Balls” is another myth-buster. We knew Rock was gay but what about Bogart? I always suspected he was a real pussy with his various wives in spite of his tough guy image. I could imagine Lauren putting him to bed with a glass of warm milk. Sure, he smoked, but that only began as a way to show what a regular guy he was. Then he became addicted to sucking butts. Maybe Rock was the one with the real balls; gay, and enjoying his lifestyle to the hilt. Like the cops in stanza three. What’s this tough guy bullshit all about, anyway? Think about it with help from Catfish.
—Patricia Hickerson

Dancing Naked On Bukowski’s Grave.

The joint collaborative of Catfish McDaris and Ben John Smith is on the shelves and ready to rock ya jocks.  Featuring flash fictions, poetry, rare photographs and zine scans, this bad bitch should make a nun cum.  Hard cover, 130 pages, split right in the guts – half BJS and the other CD, as cheap as it could possibly be made for, or download the PDF file for a buck or so.

via Dancing Naked On Bukowski’s Grave..