ABOUT

CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

901. I feel "sorry not for myself/but for my body." (Katha Pollitt)

902. I feel the heels of my feet which are cracking and dry.

903. I feel my love handle, my spare tire, my kangaroo pouch.

904. I feel that my curriculum vitae is at issue with my spider veins.

905. I feel that zebra-prints only make things worse.

906. I feel as though I can identify more with feelings 201 through 300, than 701-800.

907. I feel as though the feelings in 201 through 300, although admittedly generic, are more universal.

908. I feel as though specifics usually help universality, but not necessarily in the case of feelings 701-800.

909. I feel nostaligic when I think about S&H Green Stamps.

910. I feel "blue death lives in my fingernails." (Diane Wakoski)

911. I feel like eating red meat again.

912. I feel like becoming a vegan.

913. I feel like it doesn't matter that much, what we eat.

914. I feel like consulting the leaders of each country--what are their diets like?

915. I feel good after steamed broccoli.

916. I feel bad after fried chicken or pizza.

917. I feel just the opposite.

918. I feel heterosexual, to a fault.

919. I feel that I've known I was a lesbian since I was two and a half.

920. I feel "it's only fair for a woman to come more." (Bernadette Mayer)

921. I feel my orgasm twirling towards me in its pink parachute.

922. I feel my orgasm spreading out like the ocellated rings on a peacock feather.

923. I feel my orgasm coming to a close like red wine spiraling towards a sink's drain.

924. I feel that every third sexual encounter, only women should be allowed to have orgasms. Then, just as the satiated women are about to nod off, they should ask their male partners, "Did you come too?"

925. I feel like the author's photo on the back of each book should be a picture of the writer's genitals.

926. I feel like a foot or hand would also do nicely.

927. I feel like faces betray us.

928. I feel like we recognize each other by our genitals anyway, don't you?

929. I feel like belly dancing my way through Europe.

930. I feel "very fine very fine very fine." (Jayne Cortez)

931. I feel like it's harder than it looks to be happy.

932. I feel like my grandmother who refused to open her presents that Christmas.

933. I feel like sitting in the rocker and having my face go completely blank.

934. I feel like issuing another suicide threat.

935. I feel guilty that I wasn't nicer to him before he died.

936. I feel tortured by the memory of our last fight.

937. I feel like I'm a burden to my children.

938. I feel my children are selfish and no-good.

939. I feel even my grandchildren are too much, with all their boisterousness.

940. I feel "practically everyone is/a manic depressive of sorts With up and down movements/Unlike the baby who thinks he's a Trolley singing Gong/Gong Gong." (Maureen Owen)

941. I feel like throwing my baby out of the window.

942. I feel relieved when I read almost every mother has this fantasy.

943. I feel like I'm not even a real person anymore, never mind the sex or the time to read the newspaper.

944. I feel my baby's eyes watching every move I make.

945. I feel that I can't screw up, even for a second.

946. I feel that my baby is a better dresser than I am, that I have siphoned off all my style into the baby's wardrobe.

947. I feel my baby's diaper to see if it's wet.

948. I feel terror when I dream of the tiger eating my baby.

949. I feel guilty when I wake up, for having had the dream in the first place.

950. I feel as though "I just removed/a child from my womb. Well, someone else did it/and it was not a child but some small scar." (Judith Baumel)

951. I feel like I'm missing some important part of me.

952. I feel like I want my toenail clippings back and all the hair from all the haircuts.

953. I feel like a witch has made another me somewhere.

954. I feel like someone is wearing my milk teeth as a bracelet.

955. I feel the cow come back to life when I put on shoes made from its hide.

956. I feel the sheep's chill when I put on the coat.

957. I feel like the abortion will haunt me forever.

958. I feel like there's an identical boy-me inside me, jerking off or pumping up.

959. I feel like there is an identical boy-me across town, pumping gas or taking tap.

960. I feel "androgynous instinct is one kind of complexity, another is, for example, a group of men crowding into a bar while their umbrellas protect them against the neon light falling." (Rosmarie Waldrop)

961. I feel privilege comes naturally in this brawny body of mine.

962. I feel like it's a big responsibility, that it's up to me to take care of you.

963. I feel like my trench coat gives the wrong impression.

964. I feel afraid when I see a group of teenage boys coming towards me on a dark street.

965. I feel my testosterone punching up my crotch.

966. I feel blood trickling from my nose.

967. I feel like a real part of the gang.

968. I feel like the beating was for my own good.

969. I feel like a seahorse bobbing away--part "f," part "s"--quite through with narration, defeated.

970. I feel "chills. sing to me fever. sing to me. myalgia. sing to me." (Wanda Coleman)

971. I feel the the cold wash cloth you put on my temple.

972. I feel the coffin's silk pillow before I climb in.

973. I feel the skin, only 1/25th of an inch thick, under my eye.

974. I feel my greasy pigtails.

975. I feel like we've been driving forever. I thought you said the next exit was Shangrila.

976. I feel you can't feign a good painkiller, so why try.

977. I feel loyal to my toiletries.

978. I feel my keloids, small nubbins where the dog bit me so many years ago.

979. I feel the scab, small and hard like a tic on my belly.

980. I feel "good heat vibrations in 1st chakra area WHEW good idea maybe it will heal now." (Hannah Weiner)

981. I feel like a hologram spinning off from myself.

982. I feel like the wedding bouquet that boomeranged over the single women and zoomed right back into the hands of the bride.

983. I feel like a messenger pigeon reading my own foot.

984. I feel as though I have been shrink wrapped just in time.

985. I feel myself wiggling out of a bad situation as though it were a pair of loose- fitting pajamas.

986. I feel like an even keeled oddball.

987. I feel as though my eyes are in hiding.

989. I feel as though my lips are a launch pad.

990. I feel the "water's edge to say goodbye." (Susan Howe)

991. I feel like the sooty tern, sleeping while I fly.

992. I feel my palm approaching the outskirts of your hair, grazing static halo wisps.

993. I feel as though I weigh less than ten pennies.

994. I feel my ankle dissolve into a puddle.

995. I feel my fingerprint ridge for evidence of having been here.

996. I feel my sabaceous glands calling it quits.

997. I feel under my tongue for loose change.

998. I feel like even the doldrums have been worth it.

999. I feel as though I would have preferred to tell you a straightforward lawn mower story, full of grass lanes like corduroy, button tree trunks, zipper roots.

1000. I feel "I began as a drunkard & ended as a child." (Alice Notley)

1001. I feel the humming of my hummingbird-heart, the one they gave me by mistake during the transplant.