Wednesday, October 22, 2003
i wonder if the duke is not yet done with the belle lettres ii?schnozzle beak beezeer boko conk pecker proboscis smeller sneezer snitch snoot snout
they say i mope too much
but really i'm loudly dancing
i eat paper. it's good for my bones.
i play the piano pedal. i dance,
i am never quiet, i mean silent.
some day i'll love frank o'hara
i think i'll be alone for a little while.
here's what's on my informal not-for-class reading list and maybe you can read it and tell me what you think:
the infinite jest by david foster wallace
the fountainhead by ayn rand
selected poems by william carlos williams
poet in new york by federico garcia lorca
songs by federico garcia lorca
still life with oysters and lemon by mark doty
after the first glass of vodka
you can accept just about anything
of life even your own mysteriousness
you think it is nice that a box
of matches is purple and brown and is called
la ptite and comes from seden
for they are words that you know and that
is all you know words not their feelings
or what they mean and you write because
you know them not because you understand them
because you don't you are stupid and lazy
and will never be great but you do
what you know because what else is there?
i spew out words more than i would like to
lunches are my favorite meals
here's something special
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
posted by styrene at 9:35 PM-comment?
