“And perhaps the sexes are more closely related than we think, and the great renewal of the world will perhaps consist in man and woman, freed of all sense of error and disappointment, seeking one another out not as opposites but as brothers and sisters and neighbors, and they will join together as human beings, to share the heavy weight of sexuality that is laid upon them with simplicity, gravity and patience.” -Rilke, 1903 I’m preparing to moderate a panel on this beautiful new Penguin Classics addition with Sarah Manguso and Lewis Hyde, May 15: http://powerhousearena.com/events/powerhouse-arena-penguin-classics-present-letters-to-a-young-poet-with-lewis-hyde/
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“And perhaps the sexes are more closely related than we think, and the great renewal of the world will perhaps consist in man and woman, freed of all sense of error and disappointment, seeking one another out not as opposites but as brothers and sisters and neighbors, and they will join together as human beings, to share the heavy weight of sexuality that is laid upon them with simplicity, gravity and patience.” -Rilke, 1903

I’m preparing to moderate a panel on this beautiful new Penguin Classics addition with Sarah Manguso and Lewis Hyde, May 15:

http://powerhousearena.com/events/powerhouse-arena-penguin-classics-present-letters-to-a-young-poet-with-lewis-hyde/

CALIFORNIA HELP

For the nineties, my nostalgia’s like a synonym
for dirty secret: contraband and contrary to law,
I covet floral Doc Martens to carry me home.

Today Julia told me about a journalist
who interviewed a famous movie star
and was only able to remember
how the evening went by piecing
together her own Google searches.
CALIFORNIA HELP was one of these
fruitless searches. I say fruitless
because she still had to crawl
from his basement window
and escape into the cool California night
that young women and famous movie stars
are so susceptible to. As night falls here
in the east, I time travel to the basement
of my adolescence. The Backstreet Boys
arrive at the Internet radio station
I’ve curated to feel young again and oh my God.
Am I original? Am I the only one?

NaPoWriMo #8: The Waste Land

At Massachusetts General Hospital,  Dr. George Velmahos, chief of trauma surgery, said that doctors removed dozens of pellets, nails and other sharp objects from victims. Some of the items looked like “nails without heads,” he said. -LA Times, April 16, 2013

April is the cruellest month, breeding

bright bouquets for amateur altars, mixing

vengeance with bewilderment: how

ignorant I am of Russian geography

made apparent each time

I try to locate a native Chechen

on my interior map of the world.

And the hyacinths still grow.

And the forsythia? Resilient.

Add this

to the long list

of where were you

that afternoon.

The cowboy ties a tourniquet
in the middle of the unreal city,
where the nails without heads
have made limbs sever wetly
from the blossoms of their joints.

Hold on tight, Marie,

to this cup of Gatorade

I handed you as a child

at the finish line.

Though in photos they were running

sleeveless, our winter isn’t over.

Our horoscopes forecast

more hopes than we can

handle, especially

in cases of mistaken

identity. What new shadows

will these prostheses cast?

I shut the door now when I read,
to prevent the living world
from coming closer.

NaPoWriMo #7: Everything I Learned about Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu in 90 Minutes

O my enemy.
Do I terrify?
- Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus”

We begin with our toes turned out,

bow, and say a word that I am told

is just like goose without the g.

(Geese can be threatening, sure,

especially if you threaten their name.)

Then it’s like gym class

circa 1993: jumping jacks

and push-ups, no rope to climb

but O, a rather a theatrical moment

in which I learn to throw a grown man

to his knees. O and I learn how to injure

the rotator cuff of mine enemy.

Self-defense is an art.

Like anything else,

you straddle the man, use

your weight for leverage and twist

until it hurts too much,

until he taps out,

and then you rise

with your red hair.

NaPoWriMo #6: Take This Poem on a Date

It’s Saturday night somewhere
and the Lonely Hearts Club house band
is loosening their bolero ties or
maybe it’s the Bolero Ties who are loosening
their lonely hearts but nevertheless
this poem isn’t picky; she’ll drink boxed wine
in a pinch, even go picnicking
on a whim, then show up
at your neighbor’s doorstep
to protest the dubstep
with the words, Haven’t you
ever read “The Tell-Tale Heart”?
This poem knows all about punctuation;
disregards it with a sort of knowing panache.
It’s Saturday night somewhere
and by the rules of engagement
this poem’s got her feathers on,
plumage so you’ll recognize her body
across a bloody field.

NaPoWriMo #5: Dream Song

You’re wondering if I’m lonely:
OK then, yes, I’m lonely
- Adrienne Rich, “Song”

In my sex dream last night
I wasn’t sexy enough.

There were actually two of me:

my double and I were competing
over the same man until it felt futile

and I let her have him. Meanwhile,

on the other side of consciousness,
dawn was spreading buttery light

across Brooklyn, bringing spring

to our stoop steps. At no point
in the dream did my double

or I remember the man

we were dreaming about
was dead. With pale wintry optimism,

we’d accepted his resurrection.

NaPoWriMo #4: Epithalamium

If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. - Emily Dickinson

The top of my head comes off
at weddings now,

when the bride and groom dip
their fingers in honey

to seal in the sweetness, or
when the groom picks his mother

for a dance to a song
I’ve never cried to before.

Let’s face it:

there are few songs a DJ can play
that don’t remind me of someone

now lost to me in every way,
barring these burnished words.

The only songs without memories
are the new ones.

When you said you’d only dance
if I never let go of your hands,

I knew that was poetry.

When I visited Emily’s house
last spring and and there was

her single white dress
in a glass case like a ghost,

I knew that was poetry, too.

NaPoWriMo #3: I Only Write for Money

And for first kisses in fast cars
I drive stick through the Hollywood Hills,

shifting gears just to show off
my nail art to the palm trees.

I only write so I can afford Ryan Gosling’s
day rate and get to second base.

I write to hear the shhhh
of the hundred dollar bills

making love in my vegan alligator
hobo satchel. I write so I’ll be recognized

at airports, at Yankees games, at
all the places where the people

I’ve long hated congregate.
I write because it’s the fastest way

to get famous if you’ve already got swagger
and time to burn and lovers to leave and

songs to listen to on your way out of town
in your best imitation of a wastrel.