Self Diagnosed Lactose Intolerance 2008, Baobob Tree Press
A mixture of erotically entangled poetry impregnated by humor and risk with a spoken word CD attached.
Before you take a step closer, think: how bad you want to be.
This will come down to your level of commitment.
Pledge of hours spent.
Dire need for touching without clarification of softness or stroked location.
How far in do you want to go?
My measurements are inconsistent. How long is your ruler? Show me how you bend.
How much gasoline is in your car and are you willing to drive toward empty?
I like deepness without concern.
I am not asking for a phone call after this.
Nor do I believe in sleepovers.
Or open mouth kissing.
Should I leave my light on? I can show you where my outlet is.
I lie about my weight age numerical partners mole count thread count bank account.
I pretend I’m interested in your neckline when it is the mileage I’m looking for in your cleavage.
Sometimes I masturbate using other people’s fingers.
I smell like fuel because I move a lot.
I waste no time searching for beds when pulled lever allows for longer backseat.
I taste like pills crushed on the rocks straight up.
I do not like labels, though occasionally wear one to rip off and count the hairs pulled.
My tongue is a plague and I do not use protection.
My body is a box of accidental gatherings. Break your teeth on my latch.
I am turned on by calluses, red lipstick, perforated teeth, and women who can hold me down.
Are you in?
Raw and straight from the heart with no apologies, this fresh collection of poems is riveting in its language of sexually charged sensuality. Aimee Herman’s writing illuminates limits of addressing the body we didn’t know we had and sanctifies them in rapturous poesy. –Maureen Owen, author of Erosion’s Pull
This slim volume is succulent and excessive, as it is dangerous and vulnerable. Fueled by desire, lust, and a bit of resentment, Aimee Herman unabashedly celebrates her imagination and leaves her reader jonesin’ on the sidewalk, twitchy, and somewhat bewildered. –Anthony Guilbert, author of This Longing
This text opens itself again and again in dizzying spillage, creating through splitting a new grammar of incorporation. Here in this erotic, theatrical work, poem and body meet and press multiply, suggesting new patterns of contact. A split self longing after its other, both more and less than the language that makes it. Self Diagnosed Lactose Intolerance ultimately embraces the concept of possibility (both inside and outside of language), seeing in it the ultimate activism, chanting: “Too many seeds exist to eat them. But they are kept. For their scent.” –Melissa Buzzeo, author of What Began Us
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