----
This Dark Apartment
by James Schuyler
Coming from the deli
a block away today I
saw the UN building
shine and in all the
months and years I’ve
lived in this apartment
I took so you and I
would have a place to
meet I never noticed
that it was in my view.
I remember very well
the morning I walked in
and found you in bed
with X. He dressed
and left. You dressed
too. I said, “Stay
five minutes.” You
did. You said, “That’s
the way it is.” It
was not much of a surprise.
Then X got on speed
and ripped off an
antique chest and an
air conditioner, etc.
After he was gone and
you had changed the
Segal lock, I asked
you on the phone, “Can’t
you be content with
your wife and me?” “I’m
not built that way,”
you said. No surprise.
Now, without saying
why, you’ve let me go.
You don’t return my
calls, who used to call
me almost every evening
when I lived in the coun-
try. “Hasn’t he told you
why?” “No, and I doubt he
ever will.” Goodbye. It’s
mysterious and frustrating.
How I wish you would come
back! I could tell
you how, when I lived
on East 49th, first
with Frank and then with John,
we had a lovely view of
the UN building and the
Beekman Towers. They were
not my lovers, though.
You were. You said so.
Teaching the Ape to Write Poems
by James Tate
They didn't have much trouble
teaching the ape to write poems:
first they strapped him into the chair,
then tied the pencil around his hand
(the paper had already been nailed down).
Then Dr. Bluespire leaned over his shoulder
and whispered into his ear:
"You look like a god sitting there.
Why don't you try writing something?"
First Grade
by Ron Koertge
Until then, every forest
had wolves in it, we thought
it would be fun to wear snowshoes
all the time, and we could talk to water.
So who is this woman with the gray
breath calling out names and pointing
to the little desks we will occupy
for the rest of our lives?
Dear Superman
by Ron Koertge
I know you think that things
will always be the same: I'll rinse
out your tights, kiss you good-bye
at the window, and every few weeks
get kidnapped by some stellar goons.
But I'm not getting any younger,
and you're not getting any older.
Pretty soon I'll be too frail
to take aloft, and with all those
nick-of-time rescues, you're bound
to pick up somebody more tender
and just as ga-ga as I used to be.
I'd hate her for being 17 and you
for being… what, 700?
I can see your sweet face as you read
this, and I know you'd like to siphon
off some strength for me, even if it
meant you could only leap small buildings
at a single bound. But you can't,
and, anyway, would I want to
just stand there while everything
else rushed past?
Take care of yourself and of the world
which is your own true love. One day
soon, as you patrol the curved earth,
that'll be me down there tucked in
for good, being what you'll never be
but still
Your friend,
Lois Lane
Fault
by Ron Koertge
In the airport bar, I tell my mother not to worry.
No one ever tripped and fell into the San Andreas
Fault. But as she dabs at her dry eyes, I remember
those old movies where the earth does open.
There's always one blonde entomologist, four
deceitful explorers, and a pilot who's good-looking
but not smart enough to take off his leather jacket
in the jungle.
Still, he and Dr. Cutie Bug are the only ones
who survive the spectacular quake because
they spent their time making plans to go back
to the Mid-West and live near his parents
while the others wanted to steal the gold and ivory
then move to Los Angeles where they would rarely
call their mothers and almost never fly home
and when they did for only a few days at a time.
Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota
by James Wright
Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.
A Poem for Vipers
by John Wieners
I sit in Lees. At 11:40 PM with
Jimmy the pusher. He teaches me
Ju Ju. Hot on the table before us
shrimp foo yong, rice and mushroom
chow yuke. Up the street under the wheels
of a strange car is his stash--The ritual.
We make it. And have made it.
For months now together after midnight.
Soon I know the fuzz will
interrupt, will arrest Jimmy and
I shall be placed on probation. The poem
does not lie to us. We lie under
its law, alive in the glamour of this hour
able to enter into the sacred places
of his dark people, who carry secrets
glassed in their eyes and hide words
under the coats of their tongue.
A Red Wheelbarrow
by Jack Spicer
Rest and look at this goddamned wheelbarrow. Whatever
It is. Dogs and crocodiles, sunlamps. Not
For their significance.
For their significant. For being human
The signs escape you. You, who aren't very bright
Are a signal for them. Not,
I mean, the dogs and crocodiles, sunlamps. Not
Their significance.
What Is Poetry
by John Ashbery
The medieval town, with frieze
Of boy scouts from Nagoya? The snow
That came when we wanted it to snow?
Beautiful images? Trying to avoid
Ideas, as in this poem? But we
Go back to them as to a wife, leaving
The mistress we desire? Now they
Will have to believe it
As we believed it. In school
All the thought got combed out:
What was left was like a field.
Shut your eyes, and you can feel it for miles around.
Now open them on a thin vertical path.
It might give us--what?--some flowers soon?
Paradoxes and Oxymorons
by John Ashbery
This poem is concerned with language on a very plain level.
Look at it talking to you. You look out a window
Or pretend to fidget. You have it but you don't have it.
You miss it, it misses you. You miss each other.
This poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot.
What's a plain level? It is that and other things,
Bringing a system of them into play. Play?
Well, actually, yes, but I consider play to be
A deeper outside thing, a dreamed role-pattern,
As in the division of grace these long August days
Without proof. Open-ended. And before you know
It gets lost in the steam and chatter of typewriters.
It has been played once more. I think you exist only
To tease me into doing it, on your level, and then you aren't there.
Or have adopted a different attitude. And the poem
Has set me softely down beside you. The poem is you.
Red Shift
by Ted Berrigan
Here I am at 8:08 p.m. indefinable ample rhythmic frame
The air is biting, February, fierce arabesques
----on the way to tree in winter streetscape
I drink some American poison liquid air which bubbles
----and smoke to have character and to lean
In. The streets look for Allen, Frank, or me, Allen
----is a movie, Frank disappearing in the air, it's
Heavy with that lightness, heavy on me, I heave
----through it, them, as
The Calvados is being sipped on Long island now
----twenty years almost ago, and the man smoking
Is looking at the smilingly attentive woman, & telling.
Who would have thought that I'd be here, nothing
----wrapped up, nothing buried, everything
Love, children, hundreds of them, money, marriage-
----ethics, a politics of grace,
Up in the air, swirling, burning even or still, now
----more than ever before?
Not that practically a boy, serious in corduroy car coat
----eyes penetrating the winter twilight at 6th
& Bowery in 1961. Not that pretty girl, nineteen, who was
----going to have to go, careening into middle-age so,
To burn, & to burn more fiercely than even she could imagine
----so to go. Not that painter who from very first meeting
I would never & never will leave alone until we both vanish
----into the thin air we signed up for & so demanded
To breathe & who will never leave me, not for sex, nor politics
----nor even for stupid permanent estrangement which is
Only our human lot & means nothing. No, not him.
There's a song, "California Dreaming", but no, I won't do that
I am 43. When will I die? I will never die, I will live
To be 110, & I will never go away, & you will never escape from me
----who am always & only a ghost, despite this frame, Spirit
Who lives only to nag.
I'm only pronouns, & I am all of them, & I didn't ask for this
----You did
I came into your life to change it & it did so & now nothing
----will ever change
That, and that's that.
Alone & crowded, unhappy fate, nevertheless
----I slip softly into the air
The world's furious song flows through my costume.
Routine Disruption
by Kenward Elmslie
going way back to dusty road
before cars, silent walkers
come to junction
avoidance of junction
run towards woods
green field gives way
hole, plummet into it,
new universe
exciting freshness and strangeness
the strains don’t apply here
accidentally reborn
head home
Abortion
by Ai
Coming home, I find you still in bed,
but when I pull back the blanket,
I see your stomach is flat as an iron.
You've done it, as you warned me you would
and left the fetus wrapped in wax paper
for me to look at. My son.
Woman, loving you no matter what you do,
what can I say, except that I've heard
the poor have no children, just small people
and there is room only for one man in this house.
Song
by Frank O'Hara
I am stuck in traffic in a taxicab
which is typical
and not just of modern life
mud clambers up the trellis of my nerves
must lovers of Eros end up with Venus
muss es sein? es muss nicht sein, I tell you
how I hate disease, it's like worrying
that comes true
and it simply must not be able to happen
in a world where you are possible
my love
nothing can go wrong for us, tell me
Meditations In An Emergency
by Frank O'Hara
Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde? Or religious
as if I were French?
Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous
(and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable
list!), but one of these days there'll be nothing left with
which to venture forth.
Why should I share you? Why don't you get rid of someone else
for a change?
I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.
Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too,
don't I? I'm just like a pile of leaves.
However, I have never clogged myself with the praises of
pastoral life, nor with nostalgia for an innocent past of
perverted acts in pastures. No. One need never leave the
confines of New York to get all the greenery one wishes--I can't
even enjoy a blade of grass unless i know there's a subway
handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not
totally _regret_ life. It is more important to affirm the
least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and
even they continue to pass. Do they know what they're missing?
Uh huh.
My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time;
they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and
disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away.
Or again at something after it has given me up. It makes me
restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them
still. If only i had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I
would stay at home and do something. It's not that I'm
curious. On the contrary, I am bored but it's my duty to be
attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the
earth. And lately, so great has _their_ anxiety become, I can
spare myself little sleep.
Now there is only one man I like to kiss when he is unshaven.
Heterosexuality! you are inexorably approaching. (How best
discourage her?)
St. Serapion, I wrap myself in the robes of your whiteness
which is like midnight in Dostoevsky. How I am to become a
legend, my dear? I've tried love, but that holds you in the
bosom of another and I'm always springing forth from it like
the lotus--the ecstasy of always bursting forth! (but one must
not be distracted by it!) or like a hyacinth, "to keep the
filth of life away," yes, even in the heart, where the filth is
pumped in and slanders and pollutes and determines. I will my
will, though I may become famous for a mysterious vacancy in
that department, that greenhouse.
Destroy yourself, if you don't know!
It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I
admire you, beloved, for the trap you've set. It's like a
final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.
"Fanny Brown is run away--scampered off with a Cornet of Horse;
I do love that little Minx, & hope She may be happy, tho' She
has vexed me by this exploit a little too.--Poor silly
Cecchina! or F:B: as we used to call her.--I wish She had a
good Whipping and 10,000 pounds."--Mrs. Thrale
I've got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shawl and my
dirtiest suntans. I'll be back, I'll re-emerge, defeated, from
the valley; you don't want me to go where you go, so I go where
you don't want me to. It's only afternoon, there's a lot
ahead. There won't be any mail downstairs. Turning, I spit in
the lock and the knob turns.
----
*
p.s. Hey. Due either to my current bout of impetigo or something else, I've got swollen glands today and feel kind of crappy, so this p.s. isn't going to be all that hot, sorry. ** Oscar B, It looks like the yays have won the day re: the photo. It's a good one, I swear. Yury got you, him, and me tickets for the Gilbert Peyre thing tomorrow night. And, oh yeah, on the 'Plein Air' thing. Nice schedule. Let's make a plan. ** Scunnard, The upskirt shot seems to be the hit. How about this one? And then there's this one. ** Misanthrope, There were too many orgies going on during the hippie era, and I've always been a sexual rebel. Shit, well, I hope the test actually happened and went well yesterday. Please report. ** Changeling, Hey, man. We're the same re: our respective novels, it sounds like. The most useful drug tool for me used to be ephedrine, which was mildish and didn't eat you out that much, and you could it buy at any 7-11, but now it's harder to come by than the serious stimulants. Summer doesn't help, yeah, although I thought you said you liked the heat/ humidity combo. I'm really sorry to hear about the lyme disease. Even the relatively minor screwed up-ness of my immune system aka my swollen glands is a hell, so, yeah, I hope the doctors find some substance or something that'll make you feel more soothed and solid. Thanks about my dad. He's doing a little better the last two days. We'll see. Oh, yeah, I'm really sorry to take so long to read and respond to your piece. I didn't anticipate this weird malaise or whatever. I'll do my best to get over there today and give myself the pleasure. ** Bollo, Painting, cool. Like acrylic or watercolor or oil or ... ? If I was in the UK, I'd go to Dickens World. It's in my top 8 or whatever theme parks to be conquered. ** David Ehrenstein, Hm, maybe it's the same Albee boyfriend. I don't know what happened to the one I knew. Maybe he was a fling. Thanks about the film stuff. Rowling would be a fool not to green light that Harry/Alain film you propose. Not to go all Ed Norton, but if I do agree to accept the role of Maldemort, Radcliffe's out, nice fella though he is. ** Empty Frame, Hey! Welcome back! I'm sorry to hear you've been down. I've been in kind of a funk or something too. Maybe it was the theater stuff or the fucking insane heat in Avignon. I keep thinking that cooked too many brain cells or something. Maybe I'll try your reading cure. An itchy red hand sucks. I don't recommend it. Hope we both feel significantly better by ... mm, what seems realistic ... tomorrow? ** Bernard Welt, I have to admit that 'et Dennis Cooper' gave me a little thrill. Back when the film was supposed to be a short, I basically got paid car fare to do it, but now that it's a feature, I'm getting paid 352 euros! Whoo-hoo! I'm thinking that playing Gandalf in the Hobbit movies is next for me. That's what I'm thinking. ** Killer Luka, Back when I was meeting with the students in Avignon, there was a boy in one of the groups who was bedazzingly pretty, and I guess he must have spotted the bedazzlement in my eyes whenever they were looking in his vicinity, and, after the meeting was over, he came up, stood uncomfortably close to me, and said, 'I think you are a very provocative man' and then walked away. ** Alan, Ritalin, hm. Interesting. Maybe, if it's around here. I think I might have woken up just a little bit when I was trying to work this morning, but I don't want to jinx it like I hopefully didn't jinx your novel. ** Tristam, Sorely, madam. ** Jax, Two years?! I'm going to forget you said that. Anyway, maybe my concentration has started easing back into play, or the very slight improvement was just some temporary side effect of my swollen glands. I eat pretty okay, and Yury hands me a pile of supplements and a smoothie every morning on his way out the door, so I guess I'm fighting back. Yeah, I think there's a premiere and everything. I'll take pix if I'm allowed to and don't feel too dorky. Harlequin-related or any Jax news always does my heart good. ** Oscar, Oh, hey. Nooneisfun, sure, excellent, welcome back. Let's see ... Hm, very interesting project, the Laura Palmer. Sure, I'm game to participate, and I'm pretty sure I'll be here when you're planning to be here. Keep me informed. I'll send you my cell number or, if I forget -- kind of under the weather today -- remind me. So, yeah, cool. See you ere long, I hope. ** Little foal, Hey. There was only one upside down ride. Well, there was also one that created the illusion of being upside down. A bunch of them got one pretty wet. But then you'd get dried out by the summer sun. It was almost kind of vaguely sensual. Having people close to you die really sucks in this really complicated way that's kind of indescribable the way acid trips are. You'll see someday, I guess. It's really weird. Nice about your friend, and I bet he'll understand your whys better than he does now. Oh, new poems, great. I'll have to read them later due to the p.s. concentration stuff and also feeling a little too crappy at the moment. Everyone, speaking of poems, new poems by the amazing little foal are at our very lucky fingertips. Love to you, Darren. ** JW Veldhoen, You've escaped before. And now you have a ticket. A magic ticket. And tall trees aren't prison bars. And the no drugs thing will be okay. Breaks are good for drugs. I feel strangely peaceful when I think about your visit to that place north and west of where you belong. That's usually a good sign. ** Steevee, New members ... that's odd, isn't it? Oh, it's a collective kind of thing, right? I was think members 'of an audience'. ** Ken Baumann, Mr, Ken! Dude, it won't be too long before our names are sharing the marquees. Buddy movies, here we come. We can be like Harrison Ford and Shia LaBeouf only a million billion times better, and I'll even play the LaBeouf part. Don't you think? I saw Robert Patrick pogo and mosh like fucking crazy in the pit at a Germs show. He's way cool. ** Catachrestic, Hey. Email, okay, I'll go find it shortly. That post-graduation stuff probably sounds a lot more colorful and hence not as bad as it felt. Words are weird that way. The spooky house at Asterix was pretty weak, yeah, at least when you know what a spooky house can be, and I don't think the French, who don't even celebrate Halloween, for Christ's sake, have a clue, and yet they make decent, nasty horror films sometimes, hm. Speaking of which, might you be in LA by October 'cos I'll be there at some point, and I'm always looking for spooky house-going buddies? ** Creative Massacre, Yeah, you sound better and better. Really awesome, pal. ** Inthemostpeculiarway, My internet is shitty again. Mornings used to be the speediest time. I think some new internet hog moved into the Recollets who's a morning person like me. Using the internet here is like being the scraggly runt in a nest full of healthy baby birds. Her name is pronounced like the hot drink or like that little thing that holds golf balls. No, a novel break isn't good idea unless I'm forced to. Anyway, I might be very slightly better this morning on that front maybe just maybe. You probably saw pix of impetigo when it's really bad. I get really mild cases. It looks a circle of inflamed pimples without heads, which is bad enough, I guess. I'm pretty sure I'm invited to the premiere. I'll probably get blinded by flashbulbs and stuff even. The bigger question is how many of my pals I can get into the premiere, if any. I just googled Magic Bullet. It's a blender. I expected something, I don't know, better given the name. Hm, I can't remember ever being addicted to the feeling of clothes sliding on and off, but I can totally imagine how that could happen. One of life's little pleasures, that gentle scraping, now that you mention it. I think I have, however, seen a desert scape in an ashtray. That sounds very familiar. My day: Uh, I put a Bandaid on my hand sores. Then I got kicked out by the room cleaners. I walked around, bought something, food, I guess. While I waiting to be allowed back into my room, the blog's Bill showed up, and Oscar showed up, and we went to see this Edvard Munch show at this private museum on Place Madeline. It was a very good show. What a clever guy that Munch was. He really knew his stuff. So, that was good. Then we had pastries and coffee at Fauchon 'cos it was practically next door. Lemon tart and double espresso, in my case. And we talked, visited, all that. Then Bill went off to enjoy Paris on his own, and O. and I went to our respective rooms, or I did at least. My hand itched and itched. I took off the Bandaid because I remembered that impetigo is supposed to get as much fresh air and sunlight as possible if you want it to go away. Tried to work on my novel, painful. Oh, I got this creepy email yesterday. Here, I'll show you. This is it in its entirety: 'I interviewed you once for Serpent's Tail. You remain a sick fuck who needs killing slowly and painfully. And you're easy to find. Once we take you you'll never see daylight again'. It was from some guy named Mark Ramsden. Creepy, no? Anyway, I thought I'd put that out there in case I get killed mysteriously and the cops are looking for leads. My pal Joel texted me to say he found his passport, so now this Paris trip is back on, so, cool. I found out I'm about to get paid for my work on 'TIHYWD', and I'm almost totally broke, so that was a relief. By the time I went to bed, the glands in my neck were kind of swollen and painful. Sleeping didn't help, but I did sleep when I wasn't lying there trying not to itch my hand. I think those were the day's highlights and/or low lights. And how was the combo of you and Thursday? ** Nb, I have motion sickness but roller coasters don't set it off because I think they're so short that motion sickness doesn't have time to totally kick in. But I never ever ever ride rides that turn in circles. Now I really really really want to go to that Swedish Old West theme park. I don't know how I lived this long, etc. Wow, thank you. LA is better Brooklyn, man, no matter what any brainwashed New Yorker tries to tell you. Oh, wow. A new and separate wow, I mean. Everyone, courtesy of nb, 'Soul Dracula'. I really think you should click that. ** Colin, Those 'you are there' roller coaster videos are really strange. I like them. They're so weirdly clinical and listless or something. Yeah, send the chapbook wider. You know all the stories of how, like, whatever great book was rejected by 277 publishers before ... etc. I think I've heard of 'Gutter'. Is that possible? Yeah, I mean, I'd love a copy if you're in it, and I'll be more than happy to order it, if you tell me where. Thanks! ** Bill, You're probably at CDG by now if not airborne. Anyway, yeah, it was really great to see you and hang out. Definitely. So, it's that Cadiot piece. I might go anyway, 'cos I want to check out IRCAM for sure. William Breuker: RIP, yeah, ugh. Oh, that sucks, Well, I hope you're home soundly, and let me know. ** 曹初帆張武茜, You should redesign your site. It's very late '90s. ** Postitbreakup, Hey, man. The new therapist sounds like he's really paying attention and working with you in a really good way so far, and that's a huge plus. Actually, when I talked about the misconstruing thing, I wasn't thinking or talking about you. Or not consciously, certainly. I was talking about others whom I don't really want to talk about. Anyway, I know you sometimes say you think I hate you, and of course that's absolutely not true, and it's even really rare that you've ever annoyed me, and I wouldn't even call it annoyance. Frustrated is more accurate. Anyway, don't worry re: me or this place. We're old friends, and friendship is a strong motherfucker, in my book at least. ** Marcus Whale, Hey. Writing more will do, man. Considering all the work you're up to, more is a lot in any case. I'm just glad to hear it. My novel ... in my dreams, I'll have it finished by maybe the end of October, but I think that might be way optimistic. That's my current goal. The end of the summer was my previous goal. I think Michael is still editing 'Godland'. I think he made some rather drastic decision that it needed to be totally restructured. I'm waiting to have a look at the new version. Ha ha, my non-recommendation had a strange, subversive power, it seems. Then how about this: Whatever you do, don't send me a million dollars. Best to you, man. ** Okay, that's it for today, I think. Post-wise, I'm just throwing out some poems that shook my world back in the '70s today for whatever that's worth. See you tomorrow.
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