Megan Falley's Blog, page 143

INTERVIEW ME

hi follovers!

for a recent publication in a literary journal, i need to write a self-interview. i'm required to ask myself & answer ten questions. the thing is - i spend my life asking and answering questions to and about myself (aka existential/feminist anxiety). i'm far more interested in what other people want to know - what ways YOU can challenge my intrsopectiveness and ask things i haven't considered before. so go ahead, ask something you'd like to see me answer. i'll publish the best ones.

meg.

me doing poems in the snow.

me doing poems in the snow.

I loved your "What the Hour Hand Said to the Minute Hand" poem! Glad you liked my post so I could stumble across your tumblr-- excited to read more of your stuff!

thank you so much for the love! i can feel it all the way over here in this little new york coffee shop, can you believe it? for more work— i'm published in a party of literary journals that you can check out on www.meganfalley.com, but i have a full length collection of poems coming out in april. it's on amazon and everything. i'm brimming with giddy. hearts to you.

"It's exhausting loving someone who is constantly running away."

"It's exhausting loving someone

who is constantly running away."

-

Megan Falley, from "What the Hour Hand Said to the Minute Hand" (via fleurishes)

yo, do you know that you can currently pre-order the book that this quote comes from on amazon for probably cheaper than it will ever be right here? do you know that you can book the author of it (that's me, guys) at your school, college, venue, reading, and poetic slumber party by sending a little email to meganfalley@gmail.com? whoa, you didn't?! now you do. the more you know.

MEGAN FALLEY [ON ICE!]: WHAT THE HOUR HAND SAID TO THE MINUTE HAND

MEGAN FALLEY [ON ICE!]: WHAT THE HOUR HAND SAID TO THE MINUTE HAND:

exia:

WHAT THE HOUR HAND SAID TO THE MINUTE HAND

At 7:35 A.M, you lay your tired body on mine

before peeling off, like a slow band-aid. 

At 8:40 you sprint home and make instant coffee. 

At 9:45 we finally drink it, cold.

I finish your leftover half. 

By 10:50 you are already breathless.

I live for every time we overlap. 

When 11:55 comes I spend the entire minute convincing you to stay.

You never do. 

By noon I put my hands on your shoulders and say, "Baby,

you're getting thin.   All this running in circles and barely sitting down to eat."

At 1:05 you tell me that while you were gone,

15,300 babies were born. 

At 2:10 you don't say a word,

just come in and kiss me for sixty seconds straight. 

At 3:15 we sit quiet, listening to rain falling everywhere

in the world at once: all 15,000 tons. 

At 4:20 we pull a little from the tight joint I keep behind your ear.

You do not inhale. 

At 5:25 you meet me for happy hour.

My neck already salted, a lime wedged in my teeth,

a shot of tequila sitting on the bar. 

At 6:30 I hear the ticking.

I count your heartbeat like seconds between thunderclaps. 

By 7:35 I can see you in the distance,

each second a tease until you drape over me. 

We always love quick and you never let me hold you.

I dream of drinking you through a straw.    

At 8:40 you watch my beard grow 0.00027 of an inch. 

At 9:45 we do not speak.

Too many people have died since we last met. 

At 10:50 we pray for a meteor,

at least a clumsy kid to spill sugar in our gears.

11:55 is my favorite.

We're only apart for mere minutes. 

But at midnight you'll apologize sixty times

because it will always be like this. 

At 1:04 AM I am already sleeping.

It's exhausting loving someone

who is constantly running away.

A newer, shinier, awesome-r version of this poem will be in my upcoming book, After the Witch Hunt, available on Write Bloody Publishing Press. You can pre-order that shit on amazon HERE.

"You were last seen walking through a field of pianos. No. A museum of mouths. In the kitchen of a..."

"You were last seen walking through a field of pianos. No. A museum of mouths. In the kitchen of a bustling restaurant, cracking eggs and releasing doves. No. Eating glow worms and waltzing past my bedroom. Last seen riding the subway, literally, straddling its metal back, clutching electrical cables as reins. You were wearing a dress made out of envelopes and stamps, this was how you travelled. I was the mannequin in the storefront window you could have sworn moved. The library card in the book you were reading until that dog trotted up and licked your face. The cookie with two fortunes. The one jamming herself through the paper shredder, afraid to talk to you. The beggar. Hat outstretched bumming for more minutes. The phone number on the bathroom stall with no agenda other than a good time. The good time is a picnic on water, or a movie theatre that only plays your childhood home videos and no one hushes when you talk through them. When you play my videos I throw milk duds at the screen during the scenes I watch myself letting you go — lost to the other side of an elevator — your face switching to someone else's with the swish of a geisha's fan. My father could have been a travelling salesman. I could have been born on any doorstep. There are 2,469,501 cities in this world, and a lot of doorsteps. Meet me on the boardwalk. I'll be sure to wear my eyes. Do not forget your face. I could never."

-

"new york craigslist > personals > missed connections," Megan Falley (via shinjimoon)

whoa. this popped up in my tags with over 2,000 notes and now i'm wondering if i should regret not putting it in my upcoming book? but alas! every poem in the new book is better. you can pre-order your copy here.

"yo, don't take this the wrong way, but before you started on the mic i didn't expect you to be good." -shit audience members say

This has happened to me a few times, most often when I am the only woman competing in a poetry slam. I've never known exactly how to respond to this misogynistic insult masquerading as a compliment, but I've always sort of internalized it to mean this: "wow. i wasn't expecting you to command a room. i wasn't expecting your voice to have power. wasn't expecting you to speak with authority, to say anything smart. i was fooled by your flower dress. by your gender. by the existence of your vagina. i thought only men got to assert their opinions to an entire room with confidence?… WHO ARE YOU?"

sometimes i tweet

@megan_falley

Shit Stevie Likes: WRITE BLOODY OPEN SUBMISSIONS PERIOD - DEADLINE TOMORROW

Shit Stevie Likes: WRITE BLOODY OPEN SUBMISSIONS PERIOD - DEADLINE TOMORROW:

stevietheclumsy:

Write Bloody's annual Open Submissions Contest closes tomorrow! This is the contest that I won last year and landed me my first boo and two of my best friends (Benjamin Clark and and Laura Yes Yes) won the year before. Write Bloody is a really lovely family that has been incredibly supportive of…

"Megan Falley writes with uncommon bravery. Playful, sensual, raucous—and unrelenting as an assault..."

"Megan Falley writes with uncommon bravery. Playful, sensual, raucous—and unrelenting as an assault rifle. Unafraid to confront the most sinister, to flirt and shimmy, to argue, riot, and disembowel, these poems lure you coyly into the melee with language so rich and surprising, you can't help but test them in your own mouth. They traverse real-world struggle, and triumph. After the Witch Hunt is more than a song of survival, it is a battle cry. A stunning debut."

-

-Jeanann Verlee, author of Racing Hummingbirds, winner of the Independent Publisher Book Award Silver Medal for poetry.

After the Witch Hunt is receiving some stunning reviews. You can pre-order your copy of my Write Bloody Book here.