Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Madeline On the Fire Escape, 1999



I used to work with a stupid girl who would drunkenly throw herself at all the guys after work when we would all go to the bar. She didn’t care if we had a girlfriend, or wife, or were gay – which we all did or were except for the one ugly one and no one ever thought of him that way anyway.


She had spent the night buying all of us shots of well-whiskey and going on and on about how much she loved Cheap Trick and stuffing as many dollars that should have been tips into the jukebox to play “I Want You To Want Me” over and over and over again, knocking over barstools with her flopping arms and breath, screaming the lyrics like they weren’t what we already knew all about her, and were already tired of the first time we heard it.


By 2 AM everyone had pretty much cleared out but me and her and the ugly one who was talking an awful lot about something to do with Richard Pryor. She was playing with her hair in a way she thought was sexy but was just causing knots to form and frizz. The ugly one got up to go to the bathroom or to buy another round or something.


All I know is he got up leaving me alone with her.


“Wanna come up? I got some beer up there,” she said, kind of burp-puking out the last part of it.


I didn’t want to really go home, but I wasn’t 21 yet and the bar we were at was the only place that let me in that I knew, so I figured I could at least squeeze in two or more beers. And they were free.


“Sure. Let’s go.”


***


She lived right above the bar we were at, so it wasn’t like it was out of the way or anything. She fumbled for her keys on the way up the stairs, dropping them down a flight. I ran back down to get them and she swooned and called me her hero, dropping them again, this time on purpose.


No, she threw them.


We both stood there on the 9th or 10th stair before her apartment, staring at each other until I coughed and sighed and walked down to get them again.


Once inside, she went right to the fridge to get us something to stuff in our mouths, but I couldn’t wait that long: I had lit a cigarette the minute the door had shut.


“Oh, you can’t smoke in here. But we can go out on the fire escape.”


“Oh, sorry,” I said, taking another drag.


“It’s okay. C’mon, let’s go out and have a cigarette!”


She tumbled over to the window, leaving two beers on the kitchen counter. She struggled with opening it, letting out a huge sigh and looking at me with a pout and what she probably thought were puppy dog eyes though they were more squinted, like mice mincing around some rotten cheese.


I opened the window with one arm, thinking that she’s really bad at faking it or she really needs to go to the gym more often. Or both.


Once outside, she leaned against the rail of the fire escape and I offered her a cigarette. I lit it for her and we stood there, taking our drags in what I thought was pretty uncomfortable silence.


“You know,” she started, “you’re like the nicest guy I know. Nobody else comes up when I ask if they want to.”


“That’s nice of you to say. But I really just came up because you said you had beer.”


“That’s okay,” she said, letting out a little breath. “You still came up.”


We stood out there for the rest of the night. She told me about her being an only child and growing up outside of town, but close enough to be able to come in when she wanted to. But her parents never wanted her to, so she’d have to sneak out on the Metra train, telling them that she was going to dance practice. It wasn’t until her parents read about a dance recital in the paper, and they showed up to place that had never heard of her, that they started keeping a closer eye on her. She told me that she could dance, so she never needed lessons, she could dance fine and sexy and guys loved watching her dance for them in the woods behind her high school. She told me about one time when she was doing a strip tease for one of the boys from her French class who had bad teeth but a nice smile, and how they went there to practice their "French" and how he ran away when they heard someone coming, leaving her there with her jeans and shirt and bra on a stump on top of some mushrooms.


And a look on her face like she was a looney.


She told me how she started drinking when she was 15 and her cousin brought over some bottles of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill in her backpack and they got drunk in her room when her parents were out to dinner and how she liked it and just kept drinking more things, different things, and liked those things too. And that it wasn’t a problem because she liked it and she would probably stop once she stopped liking it so much.


But I like it so much, don't you? I mean, really?


She told me about the first time a guy ate her out and then told her that she tasted like his lunch and said she should put a pickle down there.


She said she thought that was funny so she let him fuck her.


“What about you?” she asked. “What’s your story?”


“I dunno,” I said, lighting another cigarette. “Same sorta stuff I guess.”


I never asked her for the beer.


***


About two weeks after that, she missed a shift at work. We tried calling but the phone just kept ringing. We spent our day bitching about her, really, more than covering for her. It was rude. Typical, but rude.


None of us cleaned the bathroom that day. We were all gonna wait for her to do it when she came back.


Some of the guys totally missed the bowl on purpose when they pissed, just to be dicks.


The next day our boss let us all know that she wouldn’t be coming into work anymore: She had fallen off her fire escape, her parents had said, not crying.


The funeral was going to be Wednesday if any of us wanted to go.


I don’t think any of us went. Not even the ugly one.


We never talk about her now. We hardly ever talk at all now.



Well To Cheap, To Potter: If A Weeny Fanatic Valued To Aberration


an anagram of Raw Slender Male


Not desperately marveled outdated mean greatness, alas, sob story of array heaven born beadiest oaf, glittery triumphal subserviency, queasily troubled culprit kernel fearlessly malinger. Avengers fart dishumor as savaged prattler goatishly, if disturbed, thwarter surlily lousy wave. Adore uneloquent childish truth shoddily huge price, better antic inhumane television brains. Void when became sleepiest of thump sharp-witted threatless deviance irefully disquiet cloud, white collar potent poet:


1. Swap polluted whale warmest colorful pest, brute, if cute, negation, less intrigue. Top end well tampon sane adventurer.


2. Foolish, red-faced, the mind-blowing rumor.


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4. Sleep with death ace tomorrow fix me up.


5. Nice stealth appeal export raw pube. Not muddiest disease peek of toothier thirteen toxic subhuman death beat.


6. Decadently shock heavyset creep, not senior seduction, ill-suited harm.


7. Independence gossip, perverts as healthy toadeater, favourite hallowed star obturate arty deafness.


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Mongrels lacerate prefixes rather huge quiet absurdum of sneer (Arc, I am sorry) oh cruel useful disquiet base pilferer, on extreme flavorless whimperer, cheap rat hollowest poet nimble pervert cops, in conquered sparkles to manic notation as in or as sunny amiably.


Seconds




Tuesday, June 28, 2011

I Am Engulfed And Counting



a Movie-Poem


















At Home With Barthes [A Lover's Discourse]




Waiting #4 - Winnicott



an anagram of abhorrent lads




Fine bright wit egomania relations. Bothersome streaker, filthy north fine, fat. Eradicate reticent are disfavor graven tormentor, attractive conformity, polygamy, grim of terminated Y-fronts. Cheers! Meet hot hero! Am a weighter win. Eh! Eh! Eh! Raw review! Ace dreamily hatred. Fine, hot hatred, see to condom. The unethical healthier, I am guiltier AIDS win.




Heathen genial poet; steamier itching, nutritive cheap cheers, well inhibited love bite knight I clownish gleam (stealth indulgence shambolic) fair tormented fellatio necrotize hot cheese vigor, I edge huge alienation, white hot pretentious halo fatuously arising to unimitated super-hero wife-like warm mummys honored. Neat chief, oh now noisy menace, master’s interchangeable benefit, puniest hero, flimsiest Puritan, cringe doze.




Threaten and flog moronity adores as alleluia, it heap the bike healthful gigantic Bonnie-halve video: toilets maim smiles, year in vexation, poets talents ace ill health, not win Neanderthal smoothie, I agonize in icier gem one voted evil choice: humiliate flawless mean poets ape-singing nihilism.





The Figure (901-950)






(Click to Images to enlarge)


Monday, June 27, 2011

The 100 Most Popular Boy Names [Cut Your Hair]






Cut your hair, James! Cut your hair, John! Cut your hair, Robert!


Cut your hair, Michael!


Cut your hair, William! Cut your hair, David!



Cut your hair, Joseph!


Cut your hair, Richard & Thomas & Charles & Christopher & Daniel!

& Matthew & Donald!

& George & Paul!


Cut your hair, Mark!


Steven & Anthony & Edward you can keep yours.


But Joshua, no.


And Kevin & Kenneth.


Brian & Ronald & Andrew & Jeffrey & Ryan & Jason & Gary, you have 3 more weeks, tops.


Nicholas, Eric, Frank, Justin, Jonathan, Brandon: I can’t even talk about it.


Jacob & Larry & Scott & Stephen, I’ve already made appointments for tomorrow!


Gregory, we’ll talk in private.


Cut your hair, Raymond! And Benjamin!

And Tyler! And Walter! And Dennis!


Harold (see Harry, below).


Zachary, Jerry, Henry, and Douglas, you cut your hair right now!


Alexander, Jack, Aaron, Arthur, and Kyle, you follow right after them (but clean the clippers first)!


Jeremy & Terry & Albert & Adam, you embarrass the mirror every morning! Cut your hair!


Harry, if you lose an ‘r’ and add an ‘i’, we’ll talk.


Willie & Austin: at least comb it once in awhile!


Cut your hair, Carl & Christian! Dylan & Samuel & Joe!


Ralph & Gerald & Roger & Fred & Eugene: you have it bad enough.


Ethan & Todd, just ask for a trim.


Jose & Bruce & Louis: I wouldn't even know what to tell them to do.


Jordan & Clarence: just look at Nathan & Roy!*


Howard & Randy: just give it up. You’re not 8 anymore.


Cut your hair, Noah & Patrick & Billy & Lawrence & Cody! Earl & Chad & Logan & Keith!


Francis, Shawn, Bobby: you’re safe - for now.


But don’t even get me started on Gabriel & Caleb & Wayne!



Oh Wayne!




















*They’re cutting their hair!

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Prideful Abstractions [2011]













Saturday, June 25, 2011

Ace In the Hole [french fuck]












I planned a pleasant enough trouble and managed to meet him at the appropriate time. I stood there, smoking two cigarettes, watching 2 or 3 cabs open their doors, their contents pouring out in the form of older couples or 3 slightly drunk girls I would later learn were on vacation from the South.

In my mind, I could count the reasons why I should not be standing there. I twirled the plastic in my ear and checked my messages.

No matter how hard it gets, you're not going to get very far by complaining.

He arrives with a hug and smells slightly of 9-1-1. We conclude, the weather being what it was, that outside would be best. We're looking to be public, this time, here.

We discussed at length opinions of wine and wagered on the most French white at a decidedly Spanish joint.

There are other conversations about kids and histories and our histories as kids and camping.

Then rain came around midnight.

We moved inside where he flirted the waitress to free glasses of wine. I had inadvertently bussed my own belongings (glases, plates) inside, seemingly comfortable enough to treat the place like my home.

We talked. We drank. He paid, in response to our last time where I paid.

I thanked him.

I asked if he would care to join me in a cab uptown. He accepted.

We made out for $12 in the back of the cab.

When we got to my neighborhood, I suggested we buy a six-pack of summer ale. I was disoriented, and walked us two blocks before realizing it was the wrong two blocks and walked us back two blocks and then two blocks further to buy some beer.

He stood outside while I bought it.

Inside my apartment, we talked more in that I'm-not-saying-anything-but-I-want-to-see-you-naked sort of way. We listened to some music, his tastes equaling exactly my own when I was 17.

He took off my pants and said I had a beautiful dick.

I said thank you, you do too.

We made out for a bit, listening to The Bends and then he said we should move to the bed.

I agreed.








We didn't talk again until the morning. He apologized for snoring and I said it was subtle and cute.

He smiled.

He wanted to lay in bed and watch something stupid and so we stayed in bed and watched something stupid. We did stupid things while watching.

He took a shower before he had to go to work and I stayed in bed and watched more stupid until I caught the view of his ass from my bathroom and that didn't seem so stupid and so I watched that for awhile while he brushed his teeth.

Gathering his things, he kissed me, thanking me for a great night, and that his schedule was rough this week but we'd see.

I opened the door for him, watched him flop down the stairs, and closed the door, clicking the lock shut like I knew.


Friday, June 24, 2011

The Public Archives of Him




SERIES DESCRIPTION:


Series I: Correspondence

Series I subseries A contains over 4 boxes of general correspondence.

Series I subseries B contains 7 folders of correspondence from family members.

Series I subseries C contains 2 folders of correspondence, fliers, permission forms, etc., regarding publications and street-side winks.

Series I subseries D contains 3 folders of miscellaneous correspondence including that of NA friends and sponsors, ex-lovers and numerous drivers of the M86.


Series II: Writing

Series II subseries A contains 7 folders of manuscripts, contracts and cover designs for mostly unidentified projects.

Series II subseries B contains approximately 1 box of poetry worksheets from 1985 to 2009.

Series II subseries C contains 1 folder of collaborations with Marcel Proust, Marcel Duchamp, Marcel Marceau, and others.

Series II subseries D contains 17 folders of book reviews by Him dating from 1990-1996.

Series II subseries E contains 3 folders of interviews with Susan Sontag, Pierre Guyotat and Carole King.

Series II subseries F contains 2 folders of essays [two of which are now rendered sabotaged].

Series II subseries G contains 7 folders of miscellaneous writing such as introductions and editor's notes.

Series II subseries H contains 1 folder of bullshit blurbs.


Series III: Publications

Series III subseries A contains Him's books that have all been removed to the Downtown Collection.

Series III subseries B contains anthologies including Him's poems, all but one of which have been removed to the Downtown Collection.

Series III subseries C contains magazines including Him's poems, many of which have been removed to the Downtown Collection.

Series III subseries D contains Him's poems translated into other languages, all but two of which have been removed to the Downtown Collection.


Series IV: Miscellaneous

Series IV subseries A contains 11 folders of reviews of Him's books, plus 4 folders containing interviews with, articles about, and polite mentions of Him.

Series IV subseries B contains articles and books in which Him is mentioned politely.

Series IV subseries C contains 1 folder of works dedicated to Him by Dolly Parton, Frank O’Hara, Ron Silliman, and others [missing: Jean-Luc Godard].

Series IV subseries D contains 1 folder of works in which Him appears, by Gilles Deleuze, Ken Kesey, Roland Barthes, and others.

Series IV subseries E contains 12 folders of notices for Him's readings from 1987 to 2001.

Series IV subseries F contains 26 folders of material related to Him's teaching work with Cabrini Green, Columbia University, the New School, and others.

Series IV subseries G contains 19 folders of miscellaneous materials such as resumes, college diplomas, local take-out menus, etc.

Series IV subseries H contains 15 notebooks covering September 1992 to June 1996.

Series IV subseries I contains Him's date books from 1989 to 2008 (incomplete).

Series IV subseries J contains 2 folders of slides and photographs, alleged.

Series IV subseries K contains 4 videocassettes (BETA), see above.

Series IV subseries L contains one LP which was removed to Oversize.

Series IV subseries M contains 7 folders of Him's childhood.

Series IV subseries N contains 2 boxes of flat, boring or over-sized material.

Papa (done) Flu


EL


Sunday, June 19, 2011

My Father





from M. (2006)

for M. (2011)

with love & understanding.



Once, as a child, I sat down next to my father, his face covered in stubble that I would one day be able to replicate with much greater density, to watch him build a fire in our basement. It was not a particularly cold day, as I recall, but the house’s heater was broken and my mother was complaining from what she perceived to be a chill. I sat there, sipping chocolate milk out of the container, and watched him, wide-eyed, as he arranged logs in the belly of our black iron stove. He was meticulous in his arrangement, telling me that there was a certain way to do it, so as each log would burn off each other, fall into one another, allowing for maximum warmth. I listened as he crumpled up the parts of the newspaper that none of us in the house ever read, or really had any reason to read. The crinkles were coupled with my slurping of milk, creating a cacophony that I found infinitely enjoyable. He tucked those balls of stock reports and indices deep into the hidden pockets between the logs, snug and nestled into their chambers of assured destruction. He smiled at me as he lit a long match and let it linger next to one ball then another and another until each caught fire and began to curl into itself. The wood, as I recall, was quite dry and did not take long to catch fire itself. Having finished my milk, I crawled into his lap and we watched together as each piece of wood caught fire, flames licking the top of the stove, and I could feel both the heat of the fire and my father’s breathing body. He held me, as we both became entranced by the flames, becoming near blinding bushes of light, reflected off my father’s glasses and onto my skin. My father closed the door to the stove as I fell deeper into the pockets of his arms, and heard the sound of the logs falling into each other which felt so distant, yet near, from the place that I was now.