#just.. what

[forestlesbo]

Christans always complain about gay people having too many labels for sexualities that "are basically all the same" but how many different forms of christianity are there?? Like the fuck?? How many dif forms of jesus can there be

[lonesometrails]

I had a student make an 11am appointment with me at 10:58am and they didn't show up.. like... bestie what happened...

[thatnicehatyousawonce]

what

[shitpost-universe-blog]

When you wake up and start reading the texts you sent and received while at a party the previous night

[cemeteryfun]

What the fuck is going on..

[eldritchandabominablethings]

( Why must cheese be tied to me? )

[scicchitano]

my introduction, bruce smith, graduation, today

S, CI, CC, HI, TANO. 3 C'S, ONE SHICK,

SCICCHITANO. All honor to her name.

Jessica was born in Syracuse, and shares the unacknowledged legislator of the world/poet laureateship with Chris Kennedy. Her mother thought she had birthed a poet, the legend goes, and she was right. By three she was reading the newspaper, which unfortunately was the Syracuse newspaper, the "Sub" Standard, which explains her mixture of gritty social realism and surrealism and social destruction. After years of spending her teen years listening to Tori Amos and Massive Attack on the boom box, Jessica has the revelation that words and poetry were the only route for her. She charted a course into the infinite, or at least into Onondaga County. She came to SU at 21 when her professor at OCC, an MFA graduate, told Jessica her essays "read like poetry." She spent seven years at SU, and this explains in her words, "where my incoherence comes from."

Where did she come from? She's hard to figure out by the terms of nurture or nature. Some say she's the creation of Lou Reed and Terri Zollo. She is authentic, aboriginal, bona fide, hip fashionista, Platonic demiurgic jukebox.

And she can write a lick or a shick

4 Summers in New York City Jessica spent interning for Women's Wear Daily, Bullett, and Vanity Fair where she lived between fashion and writing in a place that would accept her strange vernacular.

One of the formative memories for her was when Stephen Dunn said he didn't understand her work. Not understanding is the beginning of new survival strategies and sounds and meter making arguments and meaning making and sonnets.

She is a poet on whom nothing is lost, which is to say she can only use anything, everything. The new poems are emergencies not in the waging of taste only, nor the exercise of argument, but like love the experience of imminent revelation. Her poetry is a war between excess and conclusiveness. It pitches a tent somewhere between hysteria and haiku, or "panic attack and artifice." There is always a stylish attack, as the jazz musicians say, the manner in which the tone is articulated. There is beauty and style, always style, a Syracuse baroque, as a way to modify the exigencies of life. There are patterns and there are gaudy variations.

They are surprising and new and about to get all Scicchitano on you.