Expect me to quote this show too much

"You’re like me, Jonathan. We enthrall and then we disappoint. It used to take me several years, now it’s a couple of weeks. If I’m with a woman longer than that, then there’s something wrong with her."
Bored to Death

April 19
by David Lehman

We have too much exhibitionism
and not enough voyeurism
in poetry we have plenty of bass
and not enough treble, more amber
beer than the frat boys can drink but
less red wine than meets the lip
in this beaker of the best Bordeaux,
too much thesis, too little antithesis
and way too much New York Times
in poetry we've had too much isolationism
and too few foreign entanglements
we need more Baudelaire on the quai
d'Anjou more olive trees and umbrella pines
fewer leafless branches on the rue Auguste Comte
too much sociology not enough Garcia Lorca
more colons and dashes fewer commas
less love based on narrow self-interest
more lust based on a feast of kisses
too many novels too few poems
too many poets not enough poetry

Women and elephants never forget.

I've decided to start my New Year's resolution now, since I fantastically failed in both being nicer and going to all those parks this year. May as well give myself a good head start for 2010.

Resolution: before every action and decision, ask myself "What would Dorothy Parker do?"
Then do it.

Interview
The ladies men admire, I've heard,
Would shudder at a wicked word.
Their candle gives a single light;
They'd rather stay at home at night.
They do not keep awake till three,
Nor read erotic poetry.
They never sanction the impure,
Nor recognize an overture.
They shrink from powders and from paints ...
So far, I've had no complaints.

Résumé
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

---Dorothy Parker

I like it very much, the object of the sentence

They've basically destroyed all of the graffiti along the High Line (thanks, Jesse, for enjoying seeing me in pain and sending along that link last month). Part of me dies with every piece of graffiti scrubbed from New York's fast-dying hidden places. Part of me hates taggers and therefore understands that public art is meant to be temporal and any attempt at preservation leads you directly to qualification of "art." And stuff like that always leads to me saying "wank, wank."

But really most of me wants to be Nathan Kensinger.

There's a book coming out, probably very far in the future (deal just released today), an edition of stories about Queens, and my heart friggin' jumped into my throat when I saw the listing, because how badly do I want to write the history of Queens? Badly enough to start now? Badly enough that I compose Ridgewood's section every day in my head, on the way to the subway. "Ridgewood didn't want to be Bushwick, and no longer wants to be Glendale, and is empty of most things but Catholics and therefore Children."

I hate Queens, because I cannot cannot just plain can't wrap my head around Queens, and I am Queensian more than any other ethnicity that I can claim and I just don't understand it. And part of my heart goes oh god, yes, someone please write something beautiful and anthologized about this borough that isn't even lame enough to be Staten Island-esque. And part of me says no no you can't no it's mine it's mine.

It's the only thing I've ever laid claim to. That's probably a thing.

Can I tell you how long it's been since I've written poetry on a regular basis? I've been trying to reclaim a bit of who I was five years ago, because that was the last time I wrote only for myself, and I felt I had to write or I'd die, and I think that's the depression I've been feeling with this whole haven't-finished-anything-in-so-long funk. The fact that I am now, for the first time since then, writing pretty much just for me, is hard to manage since NYU did such a great job of beating that out of me. So I've been allowing myself to read only fiction (outside of work-books), and tons of poetry (as I've been posting), and listening to terrible (and wonderful and so great) punk and metal music, and rereading all my old love letters. And I feel more selfish than I've felt in a long while. And it feels pretty much exactly right.

Oh, November! You're the only month I like.

Quality Time
Have you ever just wanted to kick the ever-living shit out of something?
I said yes.
He said let's.
We found some old milk cartons
and stomped them into the ground.

Home Again

I made some pumpkin cake, it's cold and rainy, our apartment seems huge after the cruise bunks. Huge and bright and autumnal, and Ridgewood looks like a street painting.

Um but yeah, coming home after vacation still sucks hard.

Margaret
Carl Sandburg

Many birds and the beating of wings
Make a flinging reckless hum
In the early morning at the rocks
Above the blue pool
Where the gray shadows swim lazy.

In your blue eyes, O reckless child,
I saw today many little wild wishes,
Eager as the great morning.

Unrelated but still Good. And not a poem.

people sneeze, f., that's all, don't make such a damn miracle out of it, it only depresses me, it's a depressing habit you have of loving to sneeze and of eating apples as if they were juicier for you and being the first one to exclaim how good the movie is. you depress people. we like apples too.

-Beautiful Losers
Leonard Cohen

Goodtime Jesus

Jesus got up one day a little later than usual. He had been dream-
ing so deep there was nothing left in his head. What was it?
A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes rolled
back, skin falling off. But he wasn't afraid of that. It was a beau-
tiful day. How 'bout some coffee? Don't mind if I do. Take a little
ride on my donkey, I love that donkey. Hell, I love everybody.

-James Tate

how it happened the first time it happened

First time I fell in love
I don't remember the first time JJ and I said I love you and he doesn't either. Or didn't, anyway. We pretty much skipped the whole dating thing and went straight to madly in teenage love. I know, but we did it for 4 years, give us points for endurance. The second time I said I love you for the first time, the person I said it to responded with "what can I say to make you feel better?"

First time I realized I should leave New York
Late winter 2006. Walking through Washington Square Park (which, even post-construction and over a year out, still feels weirdly homey) with some of the boys, someone commented on how excited they were for spring. The idea of flowers blooming in the park and sidewalk boxes literally made me feel nauseous. Saying goodbye and walking home, I didn't pass a single spot that I didn't already have a memory of, in, at, on. I was so angry.

First time I realized I might never leave New York
As of June, to get to my job I walk through the Union Square farmers market as the vendors are still settling in, and then 7 blocks up Broadway, all the while trying to talk myself into calling in sick, buying more produce than I can afford, and spending all day in my bright orange kitchen. Then I reach this, and go to work.

First time I finished a script that meant something to me
At the Coach and Horses Tavern, across from Kevin and Rick. I scribbled the last lines of "Subterranean" into the A4 yellow notebook that I still miss (should have them special ordered), then sat for a minute studying the chalkboard menu on the wall, thinking "I get to tell them I just finished it, and I'm so excited. But right now only I know how it ends."

First times are so much better than last times. Except for that first one.