All of history in the voice.
Helen divides. But, H.D. reminds us,
Is it Helen of Troy or Helen of Egypt?
Helen on the tongue? Helen on the lips?
You say Helen, but do you mean Helen?
To act is a synonym,
And the vita activa is nothing
But the vita homocida. It’s code, and when,
Fist raised, we shout, act now!, we say kill.
Akilah, I’m thinking of you this morning
As I see the lights from the Q bouncing off the apartment walls,
The tracks’ rattling rattling the house.
You dead at fifty in Fort Greene, your punishment for trying to be in the world.
You spent so much of your life mourning that we don’t know how to mourn you.
How you living?
In 2006,
You asked me to write something about Oluchi,
I started but couldn’t write more,
So instead, I write about you.
How you living?
The injustice of your death
The injustice of your death is not only the injustice of a system
The injustice of your death is a cosmic injustice
I strain to wonder why your death did not bring down renovated apartments in Bushwick
Why it didn’t topple the highrises in DUMBO
Why it did not halt Wall Street and its speculations.
How you living?
On this, the thirtieth in the series, allow me to reflect:
I remember the Super Bowl XXX, Dallas versus Pittsburgh,
I remember Breathe Right Nasal Strips™ and Doritos™ and the spectators in the Phoenix stadium being enlisted in an ad campaign (for what, I don’t remember)
I remember Abe turning thirty and thinking to himself, Is this it?
I remember Maggie and Abe reflecting on being thirty in the bar in downtown Durham that no longer exists.
I am not yet thirty.
And Pound’s canto thirty, the explicit canto, Artemis agaynst pity.
Don’t waste pity on that sympathizer in the asylum, certainly,
Jackass from Idaho speaking in a fake brogue.
XXX is the universal sign for missed connection,
The betrayal of the image
Or the betrayal of language by the thing seen,
Larry Flint presents: It’s Not Reality XXX. But
Should it be? Are we surprised that the X marks not a tangible,
But an idea, a vague notion?
MCMXXX. Does anyone see the future? Certainly
Not Tiresias. Blind, doty fool. Nor Tafari Makonnen, for that matter.
But perhaps Mohandas on his march to the sea could smell a bit of the blood in the air around him,
The sheeps’ entrails and libations and whatnot. They called it the Empire. X
Marks the X spot where we imagine little tyrants, failed tyrants of the sea X
Buried their failed tyrant spoils. A Klimt picked off an evicted Jewish family.
And so, in February, I write the thirtieth in a series that will extend, and I pour one out for the loss of even the pretense of innocence.
It is universally acknowledged that you will fall in love just days before moving away from a place
And that a long-distance relationship begun on such a foundation never works.
And that one can never discount one’s own departure from the possible causes of the relationship.
And that the sex better be good.
And that putting a tree in a verse will salvage it.
And that romance isn’t dead, but it isn’t alive either.
And that you saw Django, but didn’t really like it.
And that you think Catherine Bigelow is overrated.
And that roaches cause a profound sense of dis-ease in a way that no other non-poisonous insect can really manage.
And that the sex better be good.
And that beer bottles scattered around an apartment are never a turn-on. Never.
And that the Internet increases procrastination.
And that a dog barking in the distance in a verse creates the effect of solitude and loneliness.
And that prostitutes are virtuous in nineteenth-century novels.
And that working at a bar, you see a lot of people.
And that you still do not cover the variety of human experience.
And that the sex better be good.
And that old people regard death in a different way from young people.
And that, barring accident, you’ve still got a long way to go, my friend. You’ve still got a long way to go.
Fuck It, You Win
[Standard blues riff:]
You came into my life like a battering ram, baby/
You came into my life ready to tear down the walls.
I read Baudelaire’s poems to Jeanne Duval. Est-il toi?
But this is post-3rd Wave, and to talk of cruelty is to ignore the bigger picture. But then, there’s cruelty, isn’t there?
You came into my life like a battering ram, baby.
You came into my life ready to tear down walls.
I take a Klonopin to sleep thinking of you.
You came into my life like a battering ram, baby.
You came into my life ready to tear down walls.
Ach, mein Gott, says Filipa, you need to get over your imagination, Alex.
You mistake it for reality.
But she came into my life…
You are very creative, Alex. You should put it into something less destructive.
Dear Dickhead,
My boyfriend recently told me that I should work out more. We’ve been having less sex lately, and I’m really worried about whether or not he still cares about me. I love my boyfriend a lot, and I try and make him happy, but the harder I try, the more distanced he becomes. I know that I shouldn’t try so hard, but I just obsess over him, night and day.
Sincerely,
Lovesick
Dear Lovesick,
To make of yourself an object is. Marina Abramaović steels herself on a metal chair. There is a point to Chris Burden’s Shoot: the pain of a bullet is nothing next to the pain of not knowing whether one is loved or of knowing one isn’t loved. God hates whiners. Cruelty is a peony in bloom. Sex in a club knows no colors. And at a certain point, He realized that He was fat and old, and that His creation was a monstrosity. Too easy to get it wrong. Boredom borders the edge of every tragedy. Better to love and lose. No. Better to love and hate. No. Not better at all. Better not to speak.
The funny thing about John the Baptist’s head on a plate: it’s grinning.
Sincerely,
Dickhead
Dear Lovesick,
The things your boyfriend tells you show that he’s not the guy for you. While I would always recommend exercise, because it is healthy, because it makes you happier and more energetic, do not do it for someone else; do it for yourself. If you are in a relationship that makes you doubt yourself constantly, it’s time to reassess your horizons. Don’t suffer simply because you feel self-doubt. In short, girlfriend, you can do better.
Sincerely,
Dickhead
In place of rags for clothes
Let a majestic robe
Trail in its bustling pleats
Down to your feet
One imagines her many ways, but most of all besieged; playing music, looking at her feet to avoid any gaze, knowing that, should she look up and meet an eye, she may inadvertently make an invitation. She covers up her beauty best she can, wears clogs and patchwork clothes to hide it. Still, it stalks her in the light and in the darkness, and when she retreats to her den at night, just outside the city, she has to look over her shoulders, just to make sure that none of the libertine poets have been following her with sonnets in their heads and an urge to fulfill. The walls she builds are never thick enough, no matter how much she camouflages the façade, makes it appear run-down, worn out, still the bandits and the poets who think they’re not bandits and the bandits who think they’re poets make their assaults. She’s given gifts, and sometimes she’s even grateful for the gifts, and her castellier soul appreciates occasionally being able to lay down its arms. But she waits eagerly for the day when her face is too haggard, too racked with age to be fodder for the brood of poets and artists. Then she’ll wear, even with pride, the gifts that they gave her when she was young.
Altman died in 2006.
It’s rare that you can say of someone, “They’re generous.”
Sleeping on the Q train, lady.
I want to love like a child.
Hate makes way.
Oh oh oh, the beautiful lie!
Perhaps you should read Thich Nath Hanh.
Perhaps you should try meditation.
Perhaps you should watch Downton Abbey.
Is there an answer in the sprawling networks?
“I asked Margaret if, when she was a kid, her Barbie dolls displayed complex social groupings; she said they did.”
You should really watch Downton Abbey.
I never got to meet him. Altman, that is. Chris Marker, either. I think Marker would have been nicer to meet.
Hurled a litany of abuse at
Had sex in an airplane with
Got food poisoning from
Watched Gosford Park with
No, really. Watch Downton Abbey. I would, but I just don’t care.
.
.
I want a man who can take care of me.
I’m tired of all the drama.
I’m tired of women being bitches, and going for assholes instead of nice guys like me.
I’m a friendly, outgoing
I’m just a player in a world of
I’m awesome.
I just do my thing.
I want a man who knows how to respect women.
I want to be treated like a princess.
I want the door held for me.
I love life.
I’m living my life.
I have a pretty active life.
My kids are my life.
My cats are my life.
Books are my life.
I work in
I play in
I go to school at
I eat at
I moved from
(Love me
even if
I don’t love you)
Always Missing 