1 I threw up on my copy of Josh Clover’s book—— it was on a bus around 1 a.m. that this happened. in the city I’d had a hundred whiskeys, all my friends were fighting as usual, and in Port Authority I threw up on my sweater, left it next to a toilet, and on the bus I threw up, very quietly I’m told, into my backpack, drowned all the books inside it, left it on the bus. in the afternoon I went to work and lost my grief over paperbacks in magazines. collection letters arrived from St. Paul and were sent back. people signed up for memberships to clubs they didn’t want to join. 2 let the constellation open up again! it really won’t get me anywhere. an unproductive friendship. do I talk about weddings too much? do I talk about rust in correct ways? I wish somebody I know would have a baby. 3 you know I didn’t set out to write lyrics—— my goal was to be mocked and reviled and mourned, to be a skeleton climbing the sculptures in the Greco-Roman wing at the Met. but, like David says, it gets hard to write, especially when you’re trying to be glib, when you don’t have the killing phrase as he says, when the constellation of disasters opens itself up to reveal nothing but coy gestures, like getting kicked in the head. I feel like a real true Dan Humphrey. did you take me for such a fool? alert my contacts among the Marxists: a career conscious divinity student, a bowl of crumby diner soup, a worm is living by the airport, striking poses, talking about Bolshevism and Gossip Girl in the same breath! but actually that would be disingenuous. I love the anguish of ridicule and hate writing treaties. a woman pulled her car over last night to ask me where she was. all I could say was this is my beautiful lakeside village! and I do not know how to get out. I used to have better friends——let’s just say I chased the best away with my stomach. it was her turn in the rotation of letters but I changed my address too many times—— that about sums it up, actually. 4 my grandmother used to keep a Salem 100 burning like incense in her condo down in that green bend of the state. now whenever the clouds descend I become a gunless Mark David Chapman writing new chapters for novels I read in high school. her son grew up a money raker, shaking fists at tattooed bank tellers, and I rushed up and down the hills of Arkansas, finding quotations from Kerouac everywhere, which is why I never went back to Arkansas. when you get to know me well enough you learn, with appropriate disappointment, that I’d much rather figure myself as an alcoholic B-movie actress heavy with makeup and dark sunglasses, or whatever, implications be damned. “though we live on the US dollar” you can’t take it with you, and I can’t spend it where I want, or else my credit falls to pieces. it’s okay, I guess, to dread silence, the same as dreading credit, but the horror vacui of sobriety is every bit as daunting, as perilous. 5 I’m worried I should have been a nurse, traveling by way of hospitals, smoking Pall Malls and inserting catheters at will. romance has never come easy to me. I light candles and think of a house in New Paltz or Woodstock, where the sky is gray, put on my grass crown and march my army up down the banks of the Hudson, then on to Albany, where we lose the war by all dying of the influenza in an abandoned shipping warehouse miles from the city center. they send my head down stream in a basket, chip the initials off my rifle. little do they realize I’ve drifted to the west side piers, and lunch is beer and Mallomars. boys in long coats stinking of menthol drape me in St. Jude green, and the leaves change. yeah, the truth is you don’t really want to seize any banks, you just want to live in one. all that soft monochromatic furniture and vaults for your comrades and fears. your battle hymn cries out for crude spectacle, wide windows on your dressing chamber, smashing 29 dollar ceramic ware on the sidewalk. despite all my rage I’m still just watering the plants, and so we are both wrong, and I don’t know where that leaves us.
Issue
7